No matter what kind of game you find yourself in, no matter how good or bad the luck, you can change your life completely with a single thought or a single act of love.— Gregory David Roberts, author of Shantaram, a novel.
The dope calling to me again, junk sick, dirty
money clutched tightly in my sweaty palm, I find
myself in the subterranean apartment of the Troll.
The shelves that lined the stone walls were filled
with bottles of blood, a name on every bottle. The
Troll takes a bottle down as I walk in and I ask
what is up with this. He answers,
“This shipment of heroin came in mixed
with the blood of dead junkies; nothing
gets wasted except for our lives.”
I hesitate as he fills an eye
dropper with blood and hands
it my way. Ask if they used
the blood of junkies who had died with AIDS.
“Of course,” said the Troll, “but it’s
only the blood of junkies who died
of overdose; we mixed it with lemon dope
but no lemon juice is necessary. The acidity
of the blood boosts the high.” The sickness
fed my urgency and I watch as the blood
from the dropper disappears
into a metal spike plugged into my vein,
wait for the rush, watch my name
appear on one of the bottles as the Troll
moves his old wooden wheelchair
to the next customer, eyes yellow
with desire, who walks in the door.
“You’re gonna like this,” is the last thing
I hear him say.
She sat across the table from me drinking her coffee. Her eyes kept blinking really fast like there was too much light going into them. It was her third cup of coffee and my second was just going down my throat. I got up to get another cupful.
“Get me another, okay,” she said.
“You could wait til you finish that one,” was what I said as I walked away. I knew she wouldn’t say anything. She just looked into her cup for a minute and then drank some more. I filled my cup again and walked back to the table.
It was early in the day and the school cafeteria was quiet. It was after breakfast but way before lunch and we had just woke up after drinking late into the night. Me and Sarah, we had fought about something around 3am right before we passed out. I didn’t remember anything about it except that she cried a little bit before she started sleep breathing. Then I rolled over and went to sleep too.
“What did we fight about last night,” I asked her as I sat down.
Her eyes flicked from mine to another part of the room. She stared away for a long second then turned back towards me. I kept staring to where I thought her eyes should be. She stuck her finger into her coffee and moved it like she was trying to pick something out of it. I looked at her coffee but there was nothing in it but her finger.
“What did you ask,” she asked.
“Never mind,” I answered.
People were starting to drift in to the cafe. We sat and watched one couple get coffee. They were talking really loud and the girl kept saying, “I can’t believe you said that,” but we never could hear the guy as well as we heard her. It was like his words were all jumbled together. They paid for their coffee and went outside.
“They looked like they were high on drugs,” Sarah said.
“You think everybody is, don’t you?”
“Well?” she answered.
I stared at her. Reached down and took a sip of my coffee but kept looking at her eyes until she looked away.
“I don’t like the way you treat me sometimes,” she said.
That really made me smile.
“What are you smiling about? That wasn’t funny.”
“You know, I really think I could do anything I want to you and you wouldn’t leave me.” was what I said to her.
“That’s not true,”she said. She stared into her coffee.
“Come on. You know it is.”
“I don’t know why you’re saying that,” she said.
I picked up my coffee cup and splashed the rest of my coffee all over her, in her face, on her sweater. She jumped up and tried to brush it off like it was bread crumbs or something and it stained her blouse and dripped off her hair.
She went to the rest room to wash it off and then came back and sat down.
“I don’t know why you did that,” she said. “Now I’m going to have to go back and change. Why did you do that?”
I looked at her and tapped my finger on the table.
“Just to prove a point,” was what I said.
“I can’t believe you did that.”
“Are you my girl or what?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “So what does that have to do with anything?”
“It has to do with everything,” I said. And I smiled at her.
Mary flies
over the Carpathian Mountains,
she is back home in the Ukraine.
She startles when the nurses
surround her in the hospital bed
ask her if
she is all right, they tell her
the heart monitors were going crazy
back at the nurses’ station.
Mary smiles and says
she wants her money back, the vacation
was over too quick
and they ask her “do you know
where you are?”
She says “of course I do, I’m at
the hospital now,” as one nurse checks
her blood pressure and the other
gives her medicine to stabilize
her heart beat. “Next time
don’t wake me.”
Mary shuts her eyes. She isn’t going anywhere
yet. She remembers
flying over the snow-covered
mountains, how warm
the wind felt, the sky was
a bright blue light. She was breathing,
falling into it when the nurses
woke her, shook her from the sky.
Which lifetime was it when
we first met? Did we sit,
stunned by each other, the look
in our eyes, in a country glen
with the sound of our horses
jingling the reins, snorting
as they broke into full
gallop on a Sunday afternoon,
all the farmwork done, or was
it another time, chariots, pyramids
the two of us watching the finishing
touches put on a half-beast, half-man
called the Sphinx, you turned to me,
pressed your hand into mine and
said, “they will remember us long
after we are gone, the creature will
stand when our names are forgotten”,
or was that us, on a hillside sitting
writing poetry to each other, you
beautiful, older, the morphine coursing
through your system, me, a bit younger
dazzled by your darkness, I was Robert
Browning then, you Elizabeth, our
love not forgotten nor our names
this time. There are two
young peasant children passing
flowers together after church, eyes
locked in hypnotic embrace, the church
is empty now. We are still sitting
in the love seat, it is this lifetime and both
of your cats are watching us, my arm
is wrapped round your body,
and I say, “this will be one of
many lifetimes,” and you laugh,
tell me you don’t remember anything
from the past, yet there is something. Then we kiss,
I will take care of you, said the man
to the butterfly. I love you like magic,
he said, and all I want is a small
bit of the powder from your wings and then
I shall provide
all the things you should have in this
life. Only a bit, said the butterfly, of my
powder for such rewards, and the butterfly
was flattered, as the man touched
a bit of dust from each wing and the butterfly
soared that night. All was well and the man took
her in when she touched down and showed
her a mighty metal home. Here, he said, when
you are tired, is where you may rest. No
one, nothing can get to you here, with
the exception of me, and I love you so
all will be well. Tonight, before you sleep,
I would take a bit of your powder between
my fingers. This is all I ask and I will always
be there to protect you. The butterfly bowed
her head and she had misgivings deep in her
heart but put them aside and said, take,
take of my powder,
and he did.
That next day she did fly yet she could not soar as
high and she tired more easily than other
days. She was happy to have a fine metal
box to rest in with her good man beside her
yet her heart felt that something
was missing. There were many days and times,
and he brought her
many fine things, always taking, always
taking a bit more dust from her wings. A voice
cried out within her and she whispered
to the voice, Quiet, he loves me, I must give
my share.
Flying became hard, she was in
the box more and more, she had many things
but there were times she was lonely
in the box. The man had his own life
still, and was not always there. The day came when
flying had become very difficult, and she
asked him for a bit of her dust
back because she could not clear the
lip of the box. This I will
not do, said the man. But I can not make
it out of the box, the butterfly said, won’t
you help me out, after all, you love me, do
you not? Yes, I love you , said the man, you
will be safe, no one can get
to you now. Suddenly the butterfly
was frightened, the small voice
inside was screaming and she tried
to rise. The man smiled as he
In Gloucester, the angels come together
in hospitals, churches, kitchens, they laugh and cry
in each other’s arms. Once they were dirt
whores, carried by the winds of bad chance
into dark hallways, virus-strewn streets,
offered themselves to wasted men and other
cracked demons to buy death on hard-time payments.
Their spirits forgot the words to the ancient
sister songs and their children were ripped
from them. Cramped and alone, these women
cowered in dark basements, fell to their knees before
lesser gods in hell’s hotels, died and were
burned, their ashes swept away with a bitter tide. Everything
changes. They become sisters, walk an ancient path now, join hands
at signs of trouble, hug each other’s children, knit
their families into hot strong blankets with threads
The Jeff Robinson Trio features Professor Blake Newman on acoustic bass, King Dwight Hart on drums and Minister Jeff Robinson on vocals and sax.
Produced by Jeff Robinson. Recorded at PBS in Westwood, MA. Engineered by Peter Kontrimas. Mixed by David Westner at Wooly Mammoth Sound in Boston, MA. Mastered by Henk Koistra at 9thWest Mastering in Marlborough, MA. Cover art by Amy Brecker. Photo by John Cohan.
All words written by Marc Goldfinger. All music written by Jeff Robinson, Dwight Hart and Blake Newman except Crusin’ & Trials and Tribulations written by Jeff Robinson. All songs published by Purple Moon Music ASCAP copyright 1998. All rights Reserved.
Tracklist: 1. A True Story: Where’s my Cigarette? [8:55] 2. The Great Equalizer [4:36] 3. Crusin’ [2:27] 4. Ask Any Junkie [5:15] 5. My Head [6:08] 6. The Man Wants to Go, The Man Wants to Stay [5:14] 7. Trials and Tribulations [5:12] 8. The Voices [9:18]
This is also featured in a self published book of short stories written by Marc Goldfinger entitled “Wheels Out of True.” Marc Goldfinger was born on December 8th, 1945 in Hackensack, New Jersey. He died in Livingston, New Jersey in 1962 of complications attributed to heroin addiction and was resurrected in The Peoples Republic of Cambridge in March 1994. He is a recovering poet. Marc has written and published three books of poetry and is finishing a novel entitled “Tales of the Troll,” that should be out by the time you finish listening to this CD. He has been published in street publications around the world. For more information on Marc Goldfinger write to: Marc Goldfinger, 76 Unity Avenue, Belmont MA 02478
Blake gives many thanks for love and support to: Florence, Julius, Victor, Marilu, Pia, Drew, Tor, Sheree, Maryann, Ulysses, Dick, Martha, Ben, Leisa, and most especially Anya. Blake gives big ups to: Luna, Indigo, Lily, Olivea, and Orion, Marc Goldfinger, the entire Lizard crew (including: Sue, Ash, Alex, Amy, Misty, Jackson and Billy), Afrocentrics, Cypherspace, Michael Holley, all the Lounge poets, Skeggy Kendall, Peter Kontrimas, Sylvia Morrison, Chuck Archard, Chris Madsen, Michael Deak, Joe King, Elisa Bolton and Co., Bob Toabe, Kevin Ball, Patricia Smith, Al Curtis, Josette Lamotte, Mamadou Diop and all my friends in Dakar, Prita Manganiello, Madhavadeva Reardon (WHMB), Elizabeth Rose, Rose Lane, Paul newman, Carol Tenneriello and Co, Tommy Hannigan and Co., and Mr. Stockbizzy. Special thanks to the other rats (waddy & zig) for some great moments and always lots of laughs.
Dwight: I’d like to thank my parents Roger and Marlene for believing and supporting me and my Artistry and being my best friend. I love you. My sister Rogie for her unflinching love and always seeing the best in me (my #1 fan) I love you. I thank my daughters Shar-dei and Shay-la for being my Hartbeat. I am a proud father Daddy loves you. You can be anything you want to be. Continue to make positive decisions of positive textures. To the special lady in my life, Alesia. Thanks for your love, support and understanding, because I hear it’s hard to love a musician (smile)! I’m always encouraged by: Tony Williams, Stanley Turrentine and Richard “Grooves” Holmes. Thank you Tootsie and Shelton Bean, my mentors in music. My family friends and the people of Bermuda. Thank you Ashanti for being the sweetest neice in the world, the entire Lizard crew (including: Sue, Ash, Alex, Amy, Misty, Jackson and Billy), Special Thanks to: Butch and Brent Burgess, Patricia Smith, L. Davidson, J. Anderson, A. Packwood, D. Gorman, Vernon Hart, Randy Skinner, Al Smith, Gandy Burgess, M. Robinson, J. Marshall, Jughead, Lizard Loungers. Thanks to The Minister and The Professor.
Jeff Thanks: Jane, Rebecca, Miles, Clara and Storey Robinson and Patricia, Reginald, Mark and their families, Bernice and Nathaniel Taylor and their families, Marc Goldfinger, Yum & Yummer, The Lizard Lounge (Amy, Misty, Sue & Asbley especially), Charles and Holly Christopher, Billy Beard, Jackson Cannon, Abiodun Oyewole, The Last Poets, Afrocentrics, Michael Holley, Margo Lynch, Gil Scott Heron, Greg Kendall, Amphibian, Shy Five, Arula Records, Karen Michalson, Amiri Baraka, Ben Caldwell, Jon Cohan, Frank Morgan, Jackie McLean, Ben Tisdale, Dan Calin, Buddah, Alex Liousas, Eric Weitner, Christian McNeil, Kevin Crocket, Chris Madsen, Omoizele & lyeoka Okoawa, Sam Libby, Eve Stern, Diane Saenz, C.D. Collins, Kevin Ball, Syd Smart, Timo Shanko, Jon Robinson, Greg Polvere, Ann Braithwaite, Max Roach, The Overby Brothers, VAP, Martha Glinski, Branford Marsalis, Danny Moore, Thomas Grimes, Greg Osby, Sacsha Shawky, Pepper Adams, Bill Pierce, Cypherspace, Adrian Alleyne, One Thin Dime, Al Caldwell, Barry Jones, Ellery King, The Blue Truck, Wes Taylor, John and Susan Schroedor, Patricia Smith, Jamarhl Crawford, Mike Curry, Scott Cann & Superdups, all the poets at the Lizard on Sunday nights, God (May she bless us all), Charlie Parker, Doris Parker (Charlie Parker’s Widow) for giving me the following quote in reference to my one man show entitled “LIVE BIRD” about Charlie “Bird” Parker: “Jeff Robinson’s ‘LIVE BIRD’ captured Charlie Parker’s essence and his sense of humor, his incredible intellect and his presence. Mr. Robinson did a better job than Forrest Whitaker in Clint Eastwood’s ‘Bird.'”
This CD is dedicated to the memory of Herbert and Brian Gordon and Uncle Leroy Butterfield and Elision Butterfield (The One String Bass Man)
The Jeff Robinson Trio is a very refreshing sound of ‘real’ acoustic Jazz and genuine creativity. The interplay between the words and the music flows very naturally. There are musical and lyrical moments that remind me of the Great Rahsaan Roland Kirk. The poetry (mostly prose) is heavily laden with the experience of a heroin addict. It actually has the main ingredient for a sound track to a movie. Even though there have been many recordings about the abuse of drugs, the culture, the highs and the lows, i.e., Superfly, The Last Poets, Marvin Gaye’s ‘What’s Goin’ On’, I can’t recall an entire album in this case a CD solely devoted to the addict and his addiction.
This is by no means a commercial hit nor is it a typical CD of music and poetry. This is an extremely unique blend of words and feelings and sounds that recreate the entire world of a Junkie. While listening to this CD you can smell the Junk Funk, you can feel the cigarette burning down to your fingers, you can taste the stale death of a Junkie’s breath, you can see his gray days and the darker nights. This is an Opera, a Junkie Jazz Opera that should be presented in film, on stage as well as discussed and dissected in the class room and the living room.
When I first met Jeff, The Last Poets had just finished a gig at a college upstate. After the gig we went to this quaint little cafe to get something to eat. The Jeff Robinson Trio was playing there. They were positioned right in front as soon as you walk in the door. Our eyes met and we all acknowledged each other. We were escorted to our seats while the trio continued to play. After a while I imagined that I was hearing one of our Last Poet’s poems, Jones Comin’ Down, being recited on stage. I wasn’t imagining. It was Jones Comin’ Down being performed by the Jeff Robinson Trio. I was impressed, and somewhat amazed to realized how relevant that poem still is today. After the food and the set we spoke, exchanged numbers and knew we’d meet again. I loved his approach to the poem and his passion for the music. He and it were organic. I feel very honored to now have this opportunity to share my thoughts and feelings about this new work and some of his original compositions. I am certain that anyone who lends a patient ear to this CD will be enriched, informed and inspired. — Abiodun Oyewole, Member of “The Last Poets”
listen to the Jeff Robinson Trio | Where’s my Cigarette? (4 minute excerpt)
listen to the Jeff Robinson Trio | The Great Equalizer
listen to the Jeff Robinson Trio | Crusin’
listen to the Jeff Robinson Trio | Ask Any Junkie(4 minute excerpt)
listen to the Jeff Robinson Trio | My Head(4 minute excerpt)
listen to the Jeff Robinson Trio | The Man Wants to Go, The Man Wants to stay(4 minute excerpt)
listen to the Jeff Robinson Trio | Trials and Tribulations(4 minute excerpt)
listen to the Jeff Robinson Trio | The Voices(4 minute excerpt)
The entire CD is available in MP3 format (192kbps, 44100hz, Stereo) inclusive the cover art, and leaflet via my partner page Metropolis by clicking here…50 percent of the 10 EURO download price will go to Spare Change. Spare Change is an endeavor of the Homeless Empowerment Project. (HEP)
Spare Change News, founded in 1992, is the progressive voice of Cambridge and the Greater Boston Area. Published bi-weekly, it tells the stories that others don’t, both about homelessness and other progressive causes. 75 cents of each dollar you spend on an issue goes towards the homeless or at-risk vendor you buy it from.
The dope calling to me again, junk sick, dirty
for Mary Esther
I will take care of you, said the man
many fine things, always taking, always
In Gloucester, the angels come together
At the needle exchange she came
