Epektasis

He doesn’t lean in doorways.
He folds into Studio A—
West Grand, pine floor cupped by years
of boots, cables, spit,
beer rings bitten into varnish.

The clock jitters.
RECORD opens
its small red mouth.

One finger. The Hook.
Index thickened into tool—
skin split, nail chipped—
steel pulled until wood ribs answer.

Low E isn’t romance.
It’s tension:
wire over magnets,
current turned weight.

He enters late—
not error—
late like gravity,
after the heel commits,
after the body agrees to fall.

Outside: Detroit, winter ’66.
Presses hammer steel.
Stacks cough smoke.
Inside: Marvin floats silk
over oil, coffee, sweat,
hands that won’t unclench.

They call him invisible.
They print other names.

He lays the floor anyway.

Eight hours on a crooked stool.
Knee burning. Back locked.
No charts—
just numbers through glass:
Top. Again. Top.

Groove isn’t glitter.
It’s labor.

Salt down the spine.
Thumb blistered from muting.
Blood rusting flats
no camera frames.

Listen—
the line sways, rights itself,
stumbles forward and catches:
a body refusing ground.

That wobble feeds rooms.
Feeds rent.

After midnight:
the lot hollow,
engine ticking metal quiet,
radio feeding him back to himself.

At home the bass case waits—
open on the floor,
felt sour, strap bent,
three loose strings coiled
like tired wire.

He steps around it.
Does not close it.

Fame passes like weather.
Money slides sideways.
The bass stays.

Later: a narrow room,
amp buzzing low,
he plays for ghosts—
four strings, one finger,
the body thinning.

When the hand stops—
no lights—
just muscle quitting,
just breath misfiring—

nothing spectacular happens.

Fans spin.
Neon holds.
A singer stretches a vowel
over his line.

And underneath—
unnamed,
unfinished—

that low E
keeps circling the room,
never settling,
never gone.

-

On the 90th anniversary of James Jamerson's birth.