When he gets down, and he doesn't always get down deep enough, he loses his sex, his race, his memory. He strips himself bare, takes everything off, till he's barely human. Then he brings himself back, out of this world. Back, from way. Getting there is painful. He has to get to the centre of a whirlwind, screwballing in musical circles till he is very nearly out of his mind. The journey is so whacky, so wild that he sometimes fear he'll never return sane. He licks his chops. He slaps and flips and flies. He goes down, swirling and whirling till he's right down at the very point of himself. A small black mark. The further he goes, the smaller he gets. That's the thing. It's so fast, he's speeding, crashing, his fingers going like the hammers, frenzied, blowing up a storm. His leather lips. His stachelmouth.And he is bending in the wind, scooping pitch, growling. Mugging heavy or light. Never lying. Telling it like it is. O-bop-she-bam. Running changes. Changes running faster, quicker, dangerous. A galloping piano behind him. Sweating like a horse. Break it down. Go on, break it down. It is all in the blood. Cooking. Back, from way. When he was something else. Somebody else. Her. That girl. The trumpet screams. He's hot. She's hot. He's hot. The whole room is hot. He plays his false fingers. Chokes his trumpet. He is naked. This is naked jazz. O-bop-she-bam. Never lying. Telling it like it is.
