Listening to Roscoe Mitchell's Sound
From a street riot at high noon to a prowler with the tiniest pen light in a dark house at midnight. A few little squeaks and tremors and footfalls, then a moment of silence that precedes eruption, shelves coming down, pots and pans tumbling down the stairs. A fiddle sawing in the furnace room, rising in the floor vents. The rattle of collar tags on a stray dog going down the back alley in the fog. Whatever the day's ingredients, jazz always seems to come out of the oven at the end. A blessing after a day of nothing but words, rolling at me like fastballs pumped out of a pitching machine, one right after the other, blowing right over me, my head roaring like a garbage disposal, just shredding these words and pushing them down into the darkness of forever gone.
4:11:25 PM 
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