[Frank]

I played this here guitar for years, and never did I ever have me a lesson
I could remember the long, rectangular, gift wrapped box - leaning up against a stack of presents.
The wrapping paper had been thrashed in seconds. It piled, piling into ceramic heaven
"What's all that bantering and yellin" My grandma said from upstairs- snapping to the rackets snazzy rhythm
Nat had a knack for expression. He'd play until the wee hours of the night: wooing to clapping reception.
In the smoke lit, moonlight - he'd strum notes through the fog of cancerous drafts through the dimensions.
He'd pluck passionately with perfection as if playing for the Gods, basking in his resonance.
The sound was trapped inside his head and it played out to the masses in attendance -
Infectious melodies grabbing at your senses, and holding on to you, like a gravity projection
The candle flickering at the night club, to the guitar licks - lash of it is deafening
The spotlight casted shadows across his black complexion in erratic flashing, seconds of mastery detected..
The audience could be heard packing their cigarette, like drums in the back up section.
Nat would tap his toes and tap the mic, and the bartender would fill the glass with what was on tap for the event and
His acoustic guitar had to be electric, on the night he blew the roof off the joint of the jam session.
Nylon notes - fanatically fretting, the love of music in the air, and the ash of deception -
The cigars glow while the guitars soul falls apart slow, out of whack with the essence.
Death dips you out on the dance floor, while Nat holds the guitar by the back of the neck and
The chord chokes you up, while you gasp -
Grasp your neck and manipulate the instrument until your craft is your profession.
Practice until your movement comes natural, and you've adapted to your dependence
My mother would smoke packs when she was pregnant, while the room was packed, I had their attention
Inhale the second hand smoke as it passes through my septum, my fingers straddling with tension
Creating a killer sound for the jazz club, as smoke attacks acting like a weapon
Your circulation is trapped and redirected. Your blood is squeezing through the slack in the compression.
You played 30 years in an unventilated sold out show.
You're Nat King Cole and you've left an ever lasting impression
You're missing half your fingers, and that's only half of the legend
You Amputated your history from your destiny, because that is redemption.



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