With the closing of the door, the co-mingling aromas of relaxed atmosphere and poetic recitation are resealed.  “No smoking” signs and exotic juices occupy glasses of geometric delight.  The angles of the room collect the soft aromas of votive candles as they climb toward the ceiling; a collection of requests for the presence of the muse.

The mildly dim glow of the café hazed in navy hues and autumn collages saturate the tapestries covering the nakedness of the walls.  Linen panels cascade downward, spreading out in ripples of incense toward the interior of the room.

Masks of moderate dimension hang with still expressions of discourse. Their attentions slightly distracted by a yet unnoticed figure near the microphone.

She stepped forward.

The theatrical backdrop consisted of a quartet, a semi-concealed DJ, rice paper, and polished woodcarvings.  She, hyped in a deluge of emotions, held her position, as she leaned forward on her toes to take the mic in hand.

Pursed lips spoke…

Just laid back and twisted on my mental
Twist a note and place it between my lips
Twisted into the shape of a paper horn…
Water bubbling
Radio transmissions sounding.

Turning my lips to the air
Succumbing to the seduction of the Sirens
I tumble down.
Laughing at my awkward stumble.

Playfully tip toeing around the sand with a grin on my face.
Shouting what seems to me a whisper.
Hallucinating on nothing but beats.
I’m trippin’

Nodding her head to the audience in acknowledgement, she ran her fingers across an imaginary brim. The obsidian catching the movement of the light in her cuff links.

Juice up some horn with just a smidgen of blurred eyesight.
Crane my hat forward to lend a listening ear
Leaning the plume out the south corner of the caddie’s window
My collar loose and my mood mellow.

Yeah, Navy best describes my mood…
Just laid back trippin’ off these vibes
Finding myself in a wilderness
Dancing alongside imbibed fairies and sprites.

An equal distribution of navy flavors the landscape.
Intensities vary with the mountains being the lightest.
Drunk off beats
I’m straight trippin’…

She shifted from one side to the other, gesturing with her hands.

A note resting in the corner of my lips
A musical pipe with the permeating aroma of sound
Inhaling sound
Breathing sound…
Now I know that I’m trippin’…

Just laid back and twisted on my mental
Straight trippin’

She waited for the applause to lessen before continuing with her next tome.  Looking at the corner booth where her girlfriends were seated, she panned her camera over the crowd.

A secondary story waiting to be told by the horn began.  The base melody, with extended hand, invited her to begin, while the rhythm of the track lazily lead the way. 

She inhaled the atmosphere of the room.  Leaning forward as she caressed the microphone with a misty eye reminiscent of many a Billy Holiday characterizations.

With her eyes closed and pursed lips, she spoke

“Blue blowing through the mind.
Being exhaled by formed lips-
Flowing through shadows within a brass tunnel.
A cloud of smoke swirling, eddying, and curling at the edges into a portrait of a sunrise setting.”

Working the camera, the many eyes of the audience, she gave soul through body language and lyric.  With the rhythm and pitch dictated by the bard, she paused as her words tightened their formation before the audience.

“A deep pull on Blue,
filling the lungs; into the bloodstream and to the brain.
Blue tints the eyes with relaxation and a shade of blue.
Angling from a lone occupant, across the room, to an isolated chair all bathed in Blue….

…Slumped posture, alpha waves, and tranquil emotions-grated streetlight showing through the blinds diffusing into a sea of Blue.  

With each exhale, concentric rings of Blue entrench the atmosphere of the room…

A steady rhythm of Blue drops disturbing the surface of a watercolor pond,

Beneath a thick haze of Blue fog- silhouetting objects in the room.  

Slowing pulse and sedated physique- Meditating on the calming effect of Blue- another person buried in Blue. 


by malakhai jones
© Copyright 2016


      1. That’s funny, because I usually reach this point where I feel that it’s completely finished. Then I never want to read it, because I may think it’s awful next week. Happy to hear about your process. 🙂

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