The Texas Jazz. I do need.

I need the Jazz bars, the jazzy people and the storytellers. Pretty women with darks hearts. Never lie. They don't have to. I need a year in Austin, Texas. I would drink myself to death. Maybe?

“Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault. Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty. There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.”
― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.”
― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

“Some things are more precious because they don't last long.”
― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

The Texas jazz. I do need.

Now the oldest man on the block. He drink his whiskey at eight pm and he listen to the crying jazz alone. Life had become so damn heavy and he is dreaming of Austin, Texas. He had worked and worked for 50 years and he told the night. Once he was brave, once he was wild. Now the sleeping man is waiting for the death kiss.

He wrote down a name into a journal. Abigail, Abigail, dear Abigail. Where are you now? In the Spring of 1992, he was drinking and drinking. Writing and writing and he wasn't seeking anything kind or sweet. He loved the Austin city Jazz clubs. The people were cool. Not rushing and they would talk. Best storytellers are the old jazz men. They can make you smile or they can make you cry with their song.

He remembered when Abigail found him. She was a auburn hair beauty with the prettiest Texas accent. She was long and robust Texas gal. Her brown eyes could look into his soul. She asked him on a Friday night. The Dark poet of the sixth street drinking and dancing alone. Do you remember me? You and me, we dance at midnight. You sleep in my bed and I feed you breakfast at noon? Then you escape.

He told her. Beautiful Abigail, honey, darling. I dream of you every night of the week. I believe you are myth and tale kind lady. We talk and we dance. You ask for nothing and I don't want to weight you down. A broke down man, just dirt on the grave of hope. She laughed at his words and she told him.

Sin, whiskey and jazz. We love. I hate men, who won't leave. Always trying to steal more. You lay with me in the bed of cotton sheets. You don't take or steal. We fall together with the soft jazz and sometimes we make love. I like you honest face, your sad eyes. You don't cry, you don't moan. Only in your poetry. You show your true face.

He caressed her face and he told her. Abigail, Abigail. Please tell me, what you need. I am 10 whiskeys deep into the night and George the jazz man is playing the saddest Jazz. She took his hands and she took him to the dance floor. She brought him close and they danced alone on the empty dance floor. Her body felt so good and she smelled like the Spring wildflowers. She told him.

I love you, baby. I love you, baby sweet. You make me smile and I loved our three days in New Orleans. The old jazz men told us. We were Romeo and Juliet. They told us. We were pretty together. I remember the Gypsy gal in New Orleans told us. Darkness awake darkness. If you seek only darkness. One night, you won't find the light no-more. Do you need me Johnnie? Am I just a place to borrow and loan. Do you love me?

He told her. Baby sweet, baby so kind. I have loved you for a 1000 days. I didn't want words to make you believe you owe me anything dear Abigail. Sometime, the damn love. Just excuses to hold on to a dream. She smiled and she whispered in his ear. Tonight we drive to New Orleans. We are going to the sea and we are going to make love by the angry sea. No more whiskey tonight Johnnie. We are going to dance of a ledge of hopelessness and I will make you smile.

The Michigan poet wrote again to his journal. Abigail, Abigail and my lovely Abigail. Thank you for your kindness and I pray you find something to love.

Coyote dancing.

Author's Note

Thank you for reading.

Reviews

[Lisasview]

Wow..wee Coyote... This is definitely not a poem but rather a short story...right..
I love the whole notion of the drinking jazz man and Abigail.
Your writing is unusual..not at all typical and I think that is what I really like about this.
He jump around with your tenses...but I still understood the story...We lived in Georgetown, Texas about 30 minutes or so from Austin, for 10 years...
Music is such an important part of life...
Lisa, now in Spain

[Coyote Poetry]

Thank you dear Lisa. I will fix the tenses. I would love to spend a year in Austin. Write by the river. Roam the sixth street at night.

[Lisasview]

You should do it...
Being right by the river...
Lisa

[AYVID N]

Love by the sea is the ultimate intoxicant...no whiskey needed...
I loved this story and the lovely Abigail.
She left you with such smiles and joy. She made you forget....
A very beautiful poem, dear Coyote.

[Coyote Poetry]

Thank you dear Divya. I agree. The sea and love. A utopia for the lovers.

[AYVID N]

You are most welcome!

[keith]

there has not been a music scene like the days of the armadillo world headquarters
todays venue is commercial with glitzy and chic t shirts
sixth street is the nightmare of real music real musicians real efforts
austin texas is as fake and phony as abbott & spaceboy musk
the last reality? who knows who gives a damn?

[Coyote Poetry]

In 1990. It was cool. Only bars and dancehalls. I lived in Ann Arbor in the eighties. Had music. Today is silence. The world does change. Not for the better Keith.

[keith]

the old days and old ways were different for better or worse
we always hold them ... some of us do