John Carter 1978 | Photo: Mark Weber
SOAKED ON JAZZ
Stormy jazz soaks the soul
like water rising over rivers edge,
bringing the cool flush of smooth
to your door.
A slapping bass and talking horn
capture your thoughts like candy
pressed into greedy hands,
opening the eyes to taste.
Piano fingers pull notes
like apples picked red and round
as the jazz worms a path to home,
jumping in your head.
Julius Hemphill 1977 | Photo: Mark Weber
He is a gathering man, like wind
pulling at leaves, or dry ground
praying for rain. He is the cents of a
dollar, changing for no one.
He spits in places shoes fail to go.
Music knows him; his style is the air
escaping from the stage.
The aroma of a carnation boutonnière
is the dessert of his clothes;
innocence and darkness form the
creases of his long sleek line.
His lips lift words into ears
of the wants of women; they wait
for his walk to them.
He is the jazz. The man with a message,
wrapped in a sound of him.
Oliver Lake 1977 | Photo: Mark Weber
I got the warm
in my snapping fingers
cracks the ice
in my glass
soaked up in the flow
of the man
and his brass
talking to me
pulling at the
the seat under me
working the song
into my ears
while cutting a shadow
of my feet
on the floor
slide come alive