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King Curtis at the Apollo
King Curtis
waiting at the Apollo,
for his solo
to wail and moan.
Red lights showering rays of heat,
making beads of sweat form,
to roll down his forehead.
The time has arrived
and the soft sounds emanate
from the end of
his sax,
structured and premeditated.
Flash,
a recollection.
Red light this evenings muse,
improvisational spirit.
Remembering
Harlem
his friends
giggling
with the cheap perfume
wine soaked floozies
in the
shameless red light district.
Reflection
focus
the thoughts consume
and
off on the tangent he flies recklessly .
His fingers make an abrupt change
carrying the sounds
of that intoxicated
sensual
dark
deep
night.
"Wail, wail Curt
blow like never before!!"
Damn.
Those red
red
red
lights are hot.
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King Curtis at the Apollo |
I happened to be at a Photo exhibit in Balboa Park.
For some reason I can not remember the photographer's name,
but nevertheless most of the photos were amazing with a more
Third World slant. The Curtis photo caught my eye the moment I
entered the room. A story began to formulate in my mind, and this
poem is the enventual result.
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