saxophone blues.

Muted wails pierce the waning hours of a Saturday's demise offering someone else's misery in stereo, drawn from a needle stuck between grooves that blunt my own woes. Staring out through a dusty pane in a two room walk-up near a mountain of past dues wallpapering my night stands. Spent way too long practicing safe sax, loneliness is the only real bedbug, and it's bugging me tonight. That street corner's calling me to make my old felt hat gluttonous with dead presidents. Blow a horn amidst the endless foot traffic, slow the staccato of the well heeled into petulant pauses. Front some of my blues for others empathetic greenbacks, curb some enthusiasm with a question mark of tarnished brass hanging upside down from my lips to punctuate the night air, with some melancholy moods. But there's a couple of cheap Blatz left in my reefer, with enough grub to sustain me till tomorrow's rush hour crowd. Plus I'm far to downhearted for anything uptown, so I'll just settle back in my less than easy chair, content to just blow smoke rings at the ceiling stains that mar my somewhat hazy view.