JaZ in O positive:

Murder in the Cathedral of Love

“The music business will kill ya’!” said Jack.

“And how!” Said I.

In the Cathedral of jazz the cacophony of sounds rolled into the void. A shiftless dreaming F minor flat, boozy, flabby with cirrhosis and sclerotic eyes, peering down the long tunnel where sounds disappeared into a melodic introspection, was lying in a nest of music manuscripts tossed out from the publisher.

It was strange, she said, that the scale disappeared into an alley that was marked with the blood handprint of a C flat minor on a white basement wall next to the Cathedral of love.

Footstep echoed like lilac fragranced notes faltering in an arpeggio. It is always the top of the note that contains the essence of the fragrance, in the middle is the melody, and along the river by the muddy shores is the bass walking line. Bones ossified peer upwards, dreaming of the memory of their lives.

Along the river banks in the thick estuaries that lead from the Thames towards Kent are the bones of the martyrs who dream of redemption.

Marlow was on the case, a private dick on a public recollection.

Fragments of lies littered the sidewalk and when the janitor sprayed them with the hose, the small particles of blood tenaciously clung to the calcified particulate exoskeletons. How many corpses of bivalves make up a city block?

Ghosts permeate every pore of memory? said Mister Jones bojangle jingling a jig of jonesed blues.

What ya gonna do when the well runs dry?

Hey, hey Sambo?

What ya gonna do when the well runs dry?

Hey, hey Sambo?

He took a swig from the corn liquor jug and with the sun burning across the sky in an orange vengeance he drew up a glass syringe and spiked himself.

What ya gonna do when the well runs dry?

Hey, hey Sambo?

Christ that old offay boy died only once, I die every day for you! Said Jones as the blood rolled down his arm and coagulated every so slowly. It looked like a map of the Upper Nile.

Jack wiped off the trumpet and declared, jazz in a key of O positive. Jazz is a universal donor. Ain’t it? Or is it huffing and puffing, flaunting itself in drag, willing to provide fellatio to the string section while the jealous cuckold is simmering in the bar trolling for young beauties. It is j A Z after all. Inflagrante! Heroin addicts, pimps, whores, and saints of the mortal coil.

Yes, you wouldn’t expect knowing redemption from a satyr posing as a monk. That is why there is Murder in the Cathedral of Love. I said

Mister Jones nodded off and drooled while humming on his Jew’s harp.

A fat sax man in a dipsomaniac roll kept spinning b flat minor rifts up the tube of the drainpipe and fell on the ear of the widow Rosalita, an old prostitute whose eyes were devoured by syphilis. She sat by the window with her rosary beads and prayed for the souls of her lovers while serenaded by the bourbon-soaked blues.

Sonnets are weavings of time, fourteen lines of ecstasy cut with vitamin K, strands of indigo woven into the coarse lilac of memory as the song of a grey thrush on a June morning in Vermont thrills to the instigation of love. A window to the meadow is thrown wide open. Each memory of love, sex, indiscretion, and redemption cherished.

How many memories does a syphilitic spirochete devour before it explodes? How many memories are stored in its cells and fibers before it explodes in a rapturous orgasm?

To be quaint: Is there a price for love?

The quick running steps of memory disappear into the vault of time, as seconds vanish in a fugue of notes, violet burning into indigo, a flame-tinged incandescent thrilling blue that inspires love to simply burn and devour itself.

With the quick white glove, Marlow whipped the counter faintly and smelled the arsenic, but couldn’t find a reason for Murder in the Cathedral of Love. Four blocks down on St.Vincent’s, a quick jog down an alley where the filtering blues flittered and fluttered with a moaning effervescences of unrequited desire, and goddess Desdemona played the harmonica in a baroque D minor that hummed.

Mister Jone’s did the St.Vitus dance for the homies, a premonition of desire, and the angels on 12th Avenue sauntered down to the waterfront waiting for the Argonauts to return

“And is love enough?” she asked.

Ibbbidy bibby I bop dice Salve Minore of an E Flat Minor Opus by the punk poet Namaya.

Him? Mad as two melted brain cells under a Sahara sun, said his ex, Philomena.

What he think he be? Like Alfred appearing in his movies?

To the Narrative Again:

She was an improvisation artist, willing to do anything for the purity of Art. An arabesque, burlesque where the words dropped to the floor, long winding Isadora Duncan scarves that sailed behind her and threatened to decapitate her. In the final proceeding, the hand-painted scarves contained ideograms from lovers, sonnets from sentries who guarded her virginity with the zealotry of Sappho, and the pleasing teasing love by the Satyr in the guise of a Nubian eunuch.

Not a tortuous trail, not a cosmic comic adventure, nor a salutation to the mind-bending Master Calvino, but a love missive to memory and murder, which was the original journey.

J a Z in O positive where the ovulation of vowels makes for the undulations and utterances poets seem intelligible, but the dah dah dah of darhma ohm ovations defies the resistance of imagination.

Then there is finally murder in the Cathedral of love. While the widow may be seduced by the fat man’s blues, the window may look out to the meadow, in the night club there was a murder.

A saxophonist, pianist, and bassist, upright at their posts, bound to their instrument. Redemption in the Cathedral of love.

Ghosts permeate every pore of memory. Said Mister Jones Bojangles jingling a jig of jonesed blues.

What ya gonna do when the well runs dry?

Hey, hey Sambo?

What ya gonna do when the well runs dry?

Hey, hey Sambo?

Jazz in O Positive spiked for transfusion.
Murder in the Cathedral of Love an F minor ovation to the round, resonant G descending to O positive in a minor diatonic scale of desire.