YESTERDAY

By Peter Rabbit


I wanna talk--you don't hafta listen.
I wanna tell you about the rabbit & jazz.
Oul ya coo Oul ya coo


A long time ago I lived in Harlem,
120th Street & 5th Avenue,
a bourgoise brownstone
across the street from Bell Tower Park.
The Balmoral Tavern was on the corner.
Bumpy Johnson lived upstairs.
On pleasant nights the park was full of music,
do wop groups & conga drummers.


I was a white boy
in the middle of a million blacks
& it felt so good, so good.
Hey--what make yo dick so hard?
Somehow I knew
that the music was the message
& these black men
& a few black women
had answers to questions
we'd never even asked.
They called me Grey Boy
when they saw I knew
all pussy is pink or purple,
& red, white & blue
are just photons
bouncing around the universe.


I met Julian, he played bass
with the Mal Waldron trio.
I've always had a friend
who could play the bass.
If you're gonna make music
there's gotta be a bottom.
Julian had a wheel on the bottom
of his bass case & he
rolled her from gig to gig,
down to subway, up to street
with one arm around her
like an attentive lover.
Uptown to Connie's, The Red Rooster
or Small's Paradise.
Downtown to the Five Spot,
Half Note or Village Vanguard.


I was in love with Gioia
& we lived on
Calvados & Danish pastry.
Sometimes on Monday--
Musicians night off--
they let me sing my poems
while they noodled around behind me.
& once I heard Lou Donaldson say,
Sometimes that Grey Boy
gits onto somethin.'


& were at the Five Spot
that Monday night
when Billie Holiday sang,
the doors closed & locked
cause The Lady had been busted,
didn't get a Cabaret License
& was not allowed to sing in bars.
It's hard to imagine
telling Billie Holiday
she's not allowed to sing.
It's like telling flowers
they can't grow.
Frank O'Hara leaned on the wall
by the men's room door.
Billie's eyes never focused.
They floated in a sea of music
bounced off the mirror behind the bar--
Gone into the Babel
of another City nite.

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