Jazz was probably the last time a black man could express himself. Every instrument a virtuoso in his nimble hands.
Hands that find chaos otherwise. Hands that hammered out their own destruction. Hands lost to madness. Hands that could teach if not so fumble-fingered. Hands that have forgotten how to play. Hands of a has been, Hands of a never was, Hands of a fraud.
But in his music, he is the master. He is able to teach and be taught.
Hands of the singular artist. Hands that house ever busy fingers. Hands of the legends. Hands that hold the world ever securely in grasp. Hands that make mighty melodies.
With his love he is prone to extremes. Never able to find just the right way ...
Hands that are too prone to too tight of a squeeze. Hands that are absent when she reaches out. Hands that can solve a rubix cube but couldn't hold her right. Hands umble to help him hold himself. Hands that miss her fully in the end.
He grasps at air ...
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