Street Music

(After “Blues Concerto” by William Russo,  recorded by Seiji Ozawa, The San Francisco Orchestra, and Corky Siegel on Harmonica)

You can't quite hum it   or whistle it   or strum it.
It sends forth
            wails and whispers,    
moans and shouts.

            It is not quite jazz and not a symphony either.
It is its own,
            a music that digs deep down:
that curses, wails, 
is directly drawn from the streets.

You can hear the flow of gutters   
smell the stink of drains
                        rise up with each crescendo  
and sink again
            to occasionally an easy song
            then blues again      
            a down-and-dirty song.

The record pops,
then full chords whump and a thump
                        a thump-a- thump.  

Then stops again,
goes back to serious wailing mouth organ sound.

Piano slides into a blues,
the echo of a hollowed out city,

                        then a dancing song,
                        never a sweetly chorus
                        no sing-a-longs.

Now angry!   Now glad!   Now sad!

It's rocking now     harmonica and strings
            a died-and-gone-to-heaven sort of theme.

It rocks!  It rocks!  It rocks!  

My eyes are shut
and I am rocking wildly in my chair.

            Alive!  Alive!   Alive!  

No thought is here!  
There's nothing but the rocking!

Hammering bass and mouth organ gently talking.  
It chews the truth  
of  sidewalks streets and heaven     

            of love and  hate
            of  debt    and never payment   
 much left to grace.

And back again to harmonica     breath in   breath out
           now rocking hard  and stomping.

The chords push out   complaints both large and breathy
Still joy remains!  
                                    Full orchestra now   
                                    notes crowded   up in the air   

The city is swinging its weight
                                                  deep
                                                  rash as hell
                                                  no tips  
                                                  and certainly no profits

I hear the call!
of sidewalks         and curbs      and traffic
of blowing horns  loud curses   and laughs.

I am finding it hard to breath:
the streets so crowded
            with prostitutes and pimps     
not one head crowned.

After all, this is America!   We're moving on.  
We're cruising our way   on the blues
the blues we own  
our own tough tragic  music,
so harsh   so sweet.