The horn sections
of big bands
of the 20s and 30s
still scream
and etch their
tensions
through five dollar speakers
in dives across
this great expanse.
Through some old
dust covered
Philco radio
Harry James’
whimpering trumpet still
needles through the
veins
of indifferent patrons
with a cobwebbed
sentimentality.
Those old songs.
“The Glory Days”.
Marilyn Monroe
shaking her dumb ass
all over mankind.
Harry James’
on his break at the Flamingo
with Marilyn in his dressing room,
he loses himself
inside Marilyn’s
commercially invaluable body
and his trumpet is miles away.
derailed freight train aka overturned big rig aka damian c. cohn's blog-like thing
Monday, November 2, 1998
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