an evening with miles.

You forget the lyrics to “The Alphabet Song”. You know it starts with “A”, but where it continues, you just can’t recall. You dip your fingers in grease left in a pan from last night’s supper in order to count the rings of your identity. You keep hearing the voice of your childhood haunt your brainstem, so you press music into your speakers and call it Miles Davis. You are live at Cafe Bohemia with blackbirds and piano as you unravel the poetics clung beneath your skin like thought clots.