Painting by the wondrous Bruni Sablan
Miles Davis lived around the block from me
deep in the upper west side of Manhattan island.
He played like one man could be an island
living for his horn that paid his daily bread
living in this house made of gingerbread, on
West 77th Street while I lived on West 76th.
I would see him every now and again going
into that brownstone that his horn built.
— I got to meet Miles.
Walked round the block, walked round
the clock where Miles stood outside his
homestead just proud as peacock.
He told me how much he liked San Francisco women
because their bottoms were so round not flat
from riding subways all days, he said with smile.
Nudging me, guy hood joke “You know what I mean.”
We went inside past the New York façade
into his musical domain —
headquarters for lonely horn players.
The purity of Miles’ trumpet leans into me
he sings it blue. My eyes tear uncontrollably.
He has touched melodies that riff with magic,
I escape ego with this horn. It is evolution of life
in notes counterpoint. My fingers feel broken,
wanting to make the same sounds with words
— that staccato lip thing that merges horn with man.
— Miles showed me his trumpet
in this house of sugar coated dreams.
When I was a kid I dreamed of playing trumpet
but I wore braces on my teeth… they said I would
cut my lips to ribbons and bleed on my horn.
I looked up with tears and thought Miles,
Miles always bleeds on his horn
© 2013 LGjaffe