Jazzy Beatnik Love
Riding across the slippery keys
There are no squares
in this jazz club in La Jolla,
where beatniks snap their fingers,
diggin’ the rhythm of the jive,
“Cut the Cake” in a funky style,
a trumpet player wiping his brow,
a scat singer with a silvery smooth voice,
singing a smoky alto sound.
There’s no home cooking
like the taste of a Miles Davis number
on a fragrant summer afternoon,
inside of a blue-note room,
a drummer’s spang-a-lang,
low-pitched baselines
strumming a groovy mood
between two jiggy palm trees.
There’s no whiskey I want to drink
than inside this swinging club —
where improvisation transforms,
where the drummer's snare sizzles
and the Zildjian cymbal clashes
and Mad Monk’s gentle fingers
ride across the slippery keys
into a bebop eternity.
© 2023 Mark Tulin
Here’s another poem by Mark Tulin:
