The Noir américain Back at Birdland
He’s sitting there, blowing hot and cold:
To quit or not to quit. He feels like Hamlet.
These cats wouldn’t know an autodidact
From a car mechanic. Pres died today.
He’s wetting his reed, waiting out the time
In a shoe box dressing room, wallpaper
Foxed as an old Bible. Well, shit happens.
He still hears from his pretty French chick –
That horny little existentialist –
But the whole Paris scene’s six months away.
Right now he’s back and bad as ever was
And playing ‘Birdland’. Plus, he’s free of both
Old ladies, too. Imagine that, Horatio.
Then why this sudden suicidal itch?
Old ghosts; these junkies make him paranoid.
So what, he can’t just blow and stash the gelt?
But a prince is not a fucking pick-up, man.
He’s unreliable, his agent says –
They wanted Dex before they wanted him –
He has a reputation to live down.
Kiss ass? That’s not his style. He lights a Gauloise.
It freaks the hell out of the management.
French reefers, they call them. He has a hatful
Of the real thing; joints for a joint like this.
Drinking cold coffee from a paper cup
His fingers could circumnavigate twice.
Now that’s a ten dollar word, ‘circumnavigate’.
A hooker of a word – right at home amongst
These gilded cages. He should just turn up and blow.
But ego, man! And then again: Pres died today.
Had his own language, his own style. He called
The cops Bob Crosbys, old girlfriends Waybacks.
Had his own way of doing things. Savvy?
A man that fortune’s buffets and rewards...
He’d crack you up, would Pres. That midget mc –
That irritating little shit – the nasal one
With the falsetto – Pee Wee? Pres once called him
Half a motherfucker… And another thing:
He wants it tattooed right across his ass
He will not play ‘The Way You Look Tonight’
Again tonight. He’s playing with morticians,
Gravediggers who bury what they don’t embalm.
Il ne faut pas fatiguer le public, she’d say.
Well, Paris was sprinkled with fairy dust;
They couldn’t get enough of him back there.
He had it all: respect, that sweet French chick.
He balls the empty pack; rolls it; crushes it.
He should go back. What was he thinking of?
Well, there’s a divinity that shapes our ends…
Besides, it begins with ‘More Than You Know’
With chicks. Then before you know it you get
‘How Long Has This Been Going On’. Besides
He’s healing now; making bread; blowing well.
What more is there to want – a little ass aside?
Things have happened since he’s been away.
Before he jumps he needs to make himself au fait.
Au frais, he’ll call on Miles; sit in on Trane.
With the Pres dead, he’s stepping to the podium:
Mister Tenor Sax… Mister Procrastinator.
Half Danish prince, half motherfucker.
Page(s) 16
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