Kenny Burrell 1981 | Photo: Mark Weber
WALKING THE DIRT
The dust of towns, flat, lifeless.
Cold winds and red neon’s fill the need
of his searching as he walks the dirt.
A song with flavor branded in his head
and on his arm marches his feet to travel;
all places look the same.
His guitar breathes with sound; a crooked
smile slides from his face.
The jazz releases, calling listeners
to his side.
The next town ain’t that far,
for feet walking the dirt.
John Lee Hooker 1976 | Photo: Mark Weber
Angels flutter in the heads of
his fingers; voices in the strings wrap
the air with the beat of him.
He is constant in jazz.
The wine of his youth reddens the blood
of years spilled in clubs, shed onto crowds
and dusted over cities who love his name.
He absorbs the eyes fixed into the soul of
his speaking. An ocean of faces wave with
a tide of approval.
He reaches into, pulling out a gift;
the greater part of him unwrapped.
Johnny Turner 1977 | Photo: Mark Weber
THAT BRASSY THING
voiced a noise,
circling, surfacing, beating his
insides until busting out with the
then rising, filling the air
with his lightening,
into highs and making the lows
cry tears of songs
from wells where he sleeps,
thinking strong with
clouds in darkness
as he wakes in a sweat
of his thoughts
with that thing and the brass
of life away to the core of