Harlem, a temple, the choir, one boy steps out, his voice shudders up the walls. A second joins, another and another till all construct one song which rings up sacred pillars to the ceiling. 

A flock of Pigeons roost above that hear all the calls that now coo. Chambers of the soul above it all, those separate parts of you.

Fifty wings beat the air, chopping through the wind, sound out all the places that they’ve been. An orchestra above the street.

Made from their feet and beaks, click the plumage of another, together we migrate the way, Vegas bound, carry that sound, trumpets bleat the notes of open hope out loud. 


Flapping in connected pieces, all those leaves fall from the trees as the sparks light up the evening lights of Harlem.

Flock and flutter. Glide, open up and glide, turn towards a feeling, see with news eyes, Vegas shines.

One dives on his own, lands on the roof of the Bellagio. His feet tap the top of the sign beneath. A show tonight. The sign lights up his feathers. Made up all those desperate parts, for who we are and love for that speckled dove. Each spot grows through, a thought, a feeling, that impression made by a hopeful hand from the group, till many parts of us push up through, a single song.


The spotlight glows a cylinder of hope in the dusty dark illuminessence. A stream of smoke rising in the theatre of our dreams, the rustle of hopeful Families. But none can see.

His face hiding, tucked under a bowlers hat, suit and tap shoes, before revealed, mysteries behind every shade of personality. 

Suddenly a crack in the collective anticipation. The saxophone lifts off the kick stand in the corner of the former dusty doorway where spiders used to sit. The chord, the chorus, it carries this Summer song, I sing for you, each note humming with the blues. Lone saxophone tell us a story of distant lovers, mellow and undeveloped stereo.

Now we know, it’s Mr Show. Silence, reveal what happens. Sammy speaks, what will he say. Who are you? Who is it I’m speaking to?


The vessel, of a feeling riddled with meaning, symbols swim the mind in time many beings, all eyes watch the site of the man, trapped in a cell of his own making, they watch, how will he be. The other colors of my friends clicks in the check which makes him speak.

The piano tunes sound out the keys tapping beneath busy fingers. But that tapping of one foot is that me. Is that where I am? I wish to only consider, the spirit of jazz in my fingers.

Don’t we all speak the language of each other? Learn from lovers to speak in our own voice. The performer like the chorus rings out about the bonfire of commune.

Whisper in my ear secrets of the corridors within, I’ll tap each one out, call it out loud through a feeling pelted like a vessel of all the proud and happy hearts I feel around wailing to the crowd, one man, one day, touched. The crowd flows in and out, within I hear all the bustling bins.

Shape shifter absorb above all, never stick the one place which clamps down its tap shoes to the floor, here’s one and only voice that smoky haze.


I had to go make a destiny of myself with the adulation of the crowd, all is appearances with until a turn of my hat, a double back on that tap. Journey out along the river, that flows in and out of my bones, there’s hundreds of us speaking through the vessel of myself. 

For all these disperate parts make up the whole the endowments of the soul, spread out through all my nerves to the tips of my five fingers as they hit the keys and chords mark out all the bars of my heart. The many pleasures of us together on a strange strangers walk, jazz assimilates me.

The vessel, like a chamber that ruptured up the walls of this sacred place, a man with something to say, not the subject but the way, he’ll say with that big beating heart what you could not in the dark.

He’ll say with courage, what faced silent mirrors in the corridors of Carthage, the path he walks without remorse for the feeling he wishes to express repressed in all of us, the vessel, speckled dove, a little piece of all of us.