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

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

Women’s work better watched with sweat attached

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He satisfied watched in silent darkness until

Over-stepped over crack-creaked boards with underfoot moaned

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

Four blind eyes met shocked

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

She warmed to upstaged apologetics until she approached comfortable

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Oh play later tonight now back to work stacked and unpacked

It’s already later tonight time to play laughed

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Offers of help initial rejections became acceptable mutual decision

Two as one unclothed bare bulb swung above tattooed four arms

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

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

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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

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Crime of passionate blues hits not coming sometimes forced

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

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From broken hearts authenticity crafts

Fake years of false hurts become first real blues

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We’ve much to write you and I something said

Half-appeared bullet-holed Muse sat full-lapped

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Interlocked ten fingers loved a trapped pen

He and she dragged across paper made sounds

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First bars pour from colorful tempestuous glass

The Flatted Fifth buzzed neon-flickered to afterlife

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Open for business with sirens and laughter

Colorful tempestuous glass-breaking laughter

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