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Chuckberry Streets Forever
Music & Ghosts in Harlem
When the clouds burst like this at night the city streets get distorted, almost transparent from all the layers of reflected light. That hiss—as sheet after sheet of raindrops roll across the pavement—and the tumbling away of thunder into the distance.
This is the kind of weather that conjures up ghosts, makes them visible—the driver says through the window towards me in the back seat.
Look at ’em, like synchronized dancers — sliding down the windsheild.
The meter was off. I was counting out my cash and trying to see through the blur of running colors.
Poetic way of looking at it—I said.
Through the pounding rain on the roof of the cab I hear the radio playing:
“Salesman talkin’ to me — tryin’ to run me up a creek.
Says you can buy it, go on try it — you can pay me next week,
Ahh!
Too much monkey business. Too much monkey business.
Too much monkey business for me to be involved in.”
Not being mystical, y’now. I think ghosts are just special memories that break loose and decide to run outside, barefoot and shirtless, wanting to play in the deluge. You can catch ’em if you’re…
