some friends went to east st. louis to find the home of a famous jazz musician. when they got there, the house was gone. in its place was an abandoned parking lot.

nobody parked there.

there was grass growing up between the cracks in the blacktop. my friends just stood around, occupying space.

the abandoned parking lot was the exact dimension of that moment of time between songs when all of the musicians go on break and the lights are suddenly too bright and everything is stark and skinny and the stage is just a few tired boards beneath the spindly, naked microphone stand and a half-empty waterbottle lying on its side. it was a great relief when they were all back in the bee-bop of traffic

and the long windy riffs blowing through the open windows, tugging at their cheekbones and mussing up their hair...