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In Concert
Earl grins and flicks ash from his shoulder.
he scans the scene, ears tuned for sirens,
says less gunpowder might blow just
the door off next time.
from our safe distance, we stare at the yacht’s cabin;
it flips, hits water, disappears like a penny in used motor oil.
one narrow smoke column mixes with moist air.
this guy counts on next times the way a wet thumb
snaps hundreds off a roll, lives for
on-the-job practice like a rookie surgeon
who never says oops.
I clamp the top buckle on my McIntosh,
push pant legs deep into gum boots. it’s cold,
the boat’s bowels are water-logged, sinking.
my jaw is tight thinking how Earl
slings explosives the way he slaps
an upright; all feeling, no control.
it’s the reason they have so few gigs,
why gaps are filled clutching
black bags and looking around corners.
it’s been difficult explaining how discipline
and popularity are related but that’s what got
them interested in my proposal in the first place.
four men and Cynthia follow
me down the pier dragging heels,
scraping meaning
from all this. match heads
crackle, smoke blows through lips
like dead whistles.
I knew the woman could use a gun
the first time I saw her lips part
to loose a somber note. she was not to be messed
with. the only one allowed to pack heat. if she had to,
she could even do bullheaded Cedric, the drummer,
holding that sledgehammer to knock away
what Earl’s excess hadn’t already.
Charles, the gloved pianist, refused anyone’s hand,
distrustful of others and the manly art of handshaking.
his fingers spin combo dials. Kevin, wheel man,
player of anything needing wind, thought being smart
made him next in command. No one fought him on it,
knowing he never shut-up when he thought he was right.
he was not.
when riffing, they meshed like gear-teeth
but out here, someone is always to blame
for one misstep or another.
I thought it’d be easy to teach
a bunch of musicians
how to play off each other like the call
and response of alternating solos, but
this is the fourth time.
they should have it down by now.
my last two gangs, formed from scratch
and good liquor, did better, sooner.
but they weren’t as well-traveled
and they weren’t as young.
perhaps I’ve aged beyond this avocation,
the thrill of rousing people past abilities.
these pieces can’t be played alone.
I suppose, in a moment’s clarity, I’ll cool.
my head will settle. I’ll accept
for this quintet, doing scores
is harder than sight-reading Mingus.
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Brandon D. Johnson is author of Love’s Skin, Man Burns Ant, The Strangers Between, and co-author of The Black Rooster Social Inn: This Is The Place. He is published in several print and online journals and anthologies. Brandon is also a photographer. Born in Gary, Indiana, he received a BA from Wabash College and his JD from Antioch School of Law. He lives with his wife and children in Washington, DC.
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Charles Mingus record cover. Design and painting by S. Neil Fujita, 1959.
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Author: Terence Winch
