Aug 30, 2016


Written by D. Nurkse

Read by Nomi Stone

Shattered by heroin, Mal Waldron
listens to his own records
so he can remember his style.
The horns are lucid, Coltrane
in the bitterness of Don’t Explain,
Idries Suleiman noodling in dorian.
But the piano: who can understand it:
as if there were a template
it almost fits. He teaches
his elegant right hand to stumble.
He’ll play another forty years
to the same crowd of champagne flutes
and sardonic plainclothes, applause
will deafen him at the end,
the keys will grow old,
the idea will state itself,
the eviscerating joy will never return.