monk never said a word

Work

a poem by John Sinclair

monk once was busted along with bud powell sitting in a car with a packet of heroin on the seat between them.

they say the dope was bud's, but monk wouldn't say one way or the other when the police wanted to know.

so "new york's finest" took new york's finest pianists to court, & monk's wife nellie tried to reason with thelonious from her own understanding.

"every day i would plead with him," nellie told marc crawford, "'thelonious, get yourself out of this trouble. you didn't do anything.'

but he'd just say, 'nellie, i have to walk the streets when i get out. i can't talk.'"

monk never said a word & the judge popped him in the cooler for sixty long days & nights, which wasn't the half of it because the police took his cabaret card (& bud's too), & he couldn't work in the nightclubs for six more years.

"everybody was saying thelonious was weird or locked up," nellie remembered, "but they just talked that way because they'd never see him. he hated to be asked why he wasn't working, & he didn't want to see anybody unless he could buy them a drink at least. besides, it hurts less to be passed over for jobs if you aren't around to hear the others' names called.

it was a bad time. he even had to pay to get into birdland."

harmonie park, detroit
november 25, 1988