Thinking.

Pushing my lungs, hard and fast like a machine.

The audience in awe or dismay.

All dependant on the next note,

And the next rhythm.

Then, time slows, as if I’m on drugs.

Only to think

Of more rhythms,

More dynamics,

How to change the rhythm from swing to even eighths,

Concealing the rhythm change,

And countless notes, frequently.

Then time speeds up again without notice like rainfall.

I quickly more my fingers, pushing down the valves to create the notes,

Pushing myself to reach the notes,

Gradually creating the solo into a forte!

The notes are as loud as a horrified scream,

I make my mind move my fingers,

But my fingers are moving faster than my mind.

I know what I’m doing.

My tongue moves fast, keeping in pace.

Expressing details in every note,

Using dynamics,

Fades, pitch, and stalls.

In haste, I think to show a sudden burst of emotion.

And force my tongue to cut notes at random times,

My trumpet like a stuttering man.

I find a way to calm the improvised solo.

So I bring it down to mezzo forte,

Connect the notes and stall each note,

into a soothing melody.

Then in the end

Faster than a runaway train,

I create the most aberrant thing.

Some how it works.

And I am paralyzed.

When I’m improvising.