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
