Portrait of Thelonious Monk as a Puritan in a Haptic Capotain

Portrait of Thelonious Monk as a Puritan in a Haptic Capotain

Now you tell me something I need to know where am I
supposed to find a rhythm section at this late
date in this second rate burg that reads
standards as if they were a floating bridge
when your standup bass stand you up and cymbals
snare another gig that pay beyond
union wage for a rising standup
such as Flip Wilson or Red Foxx
especially when you need a hit
any kind of hit will do pink
sea salt a record
amount of Thorazine
a hit rock record please
mister explain how something so simple
as lacking seasoning make me sweat this much while I stride
like Turkish taffy to the distaff side
would carrot juice rebalance chemicals
Vitamin Doc injects them in my veins
but tone deaf neighbor in 4F ban the buzz of Nelli’s juicer
crunch of a mere celery stalk
out thump Monk’s stringy Kimball upright
why threaten
to confiscate my cabaret card
for mumbling while I tinkle

and why you want to make me sweat
when I already bear the burdens of a family man
searching half my whole adult life for a quarter
note between notes I scored way back
when forming long fingers imperfectly informed
for a mere three Gauloises or a button
not as your redeemer
and certainly not as a visitor rather than a refugee
seeking asylum at this late date
because like the storm of history blowing
wreckage in my face
jazz is never getting any better never
can ever get any better never ever
so why not allow me this shuffle beside a nostalgic melancholic
who claims to be the replacement bassist in turtle shell shades
searching through my suitcase for scales
while all I ever really wanted to score is a room
service mess of liver and onions and mashed potatoes and gravy while I enjoy
The Price is Right in bed and play dead in pressed pinstripe
contemplating removing every single one of my legendary chapeaus
apart from a haptic capotain to signify
I lay me down as if I were a church of one.