Home is where the floor is

Threw a mess of Monk in the changer and let it spin, just like him, come to think of it. Will be hearing Charlie Rouse in my sleep. OK with me. But getting ready to write a book review and I needed to soak my head in Monk, since he’s in the book, everywhere, weird and brilliant and spinning and not talking and grunting and maybe high a little too much. Being Monk, just Monk, pure Monk, monkishly Monk. Monk.

Green Chimneys was it, the last tune, and after Green Chimneys all was silent except the water trickling through the aquarium filter–the fish are moving but silent–and the sounds of these words coming out the keys, tap tap tappity tap. Tap. In the middle of the big bad city and all you can here is the tap of words, letter by letter, tap tap tap.


Then, from somewhere, this other song appeared. Though you couldn’t hear it, even if you were here standing beside me. You would have heard Green Chimneys and then you’d hear these letters tapping out and the trickling water and silent fish and not hear anything else. But this song was booming through my head. Booming, pounding, juicing me up, wide awake, ready for action, for anything, for a tinge of something I’d regret later, a broken bottle maybe, a screamed fuck you people out on there in the quiet houses, fuck you, you people. Wake up. Fuck you. Un-Monk. Or way Monk. Monk tearing a chandelier out of the ceiling. Monk throwing things off the desk. Monk popping a cop and being laid out by a blackjack, sapped, just like that. That Monk. Bad ass Monk. Crazy Monk. Big giant scary genius Monk.

My kinda of Monk. Well, sometimes my kinda Monk. Not always, just sometimes. Dangerous Monk. Intimidating Monk. Looming, lurching, startling Monk. The jazz was dangerous once Monk.

Maybe no more Monk for tonite. Maybe no more Charlie Rouse. Maybe no more nothing. Maybe home is where the floor is.

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