Here’s a story told in an abstract poetic form. The Flatted Fifth is the best place to experience authentic blues – at least in my mind. In person, maybe not so much.

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The Flatted Fifth

She wiped bar-closed Flatted Fifth scarred bar under a buzzing light-bare bulb

Feeling alone unpacked stacked bottles clear to colored in tempestuous glass

Dark fed dark stage centered under unlit spot he liking the view

Women’s work better watched with sweat attached

He satisfied watched in silent darkness until

Over-stepped over crack-creaked boards with underfoot moaned

She jerk-startled tattooed forearm slammed against flood switch of lights

Four blind eyes met shocked

Hello with band Glancing Head Blow oh I know them all except you

She warmed to upstaged apologetics until she approached comfortable

Oh play later tonight now back to work stacked and unpacked

It’s already later tonight time to play laughed

Offers of help initial rejections became acceptable mutual decision

Two as one unclothed bare bulb swung above tattooed four arms

Stage present figure fully loaded well-lit under center spot aimed

Cross-haired moving beast waited for final eye contact she understanding nodded

Do it now pulled one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve

Thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen click click click click click

Crime of passionate blues hits not coming sometimes forced

On bar stool await behind-bar retirement plan with no glancing head blow

From broken hearts authenticity crafts

Fake years of false hurts become first real blues


We’ve much to write you and I something said

Half-appeared bullet-holed Muse sat full-lapped

Interlocked ten fingers loved a trapped pen

He and she dragged across paper made sounds

First bars pour from colorful tempestuous glass

The Flatted Fifth buzzed neon-flickered to afterlife

Open for business with sirens and laughter

Colorful tempestuous glass-breaking laughter

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