The dark of him formed their light.
Music absorbed idle words, pushing
out angels, as jazz claimed willing souls.
Parting curtains release night’s energy
as a salve for pain.
Fingers pointed. Horns lifted. High heels
walk to the sex of appeal.
Perfume mixes with smoke, covering
a day past, while anointing evening
disciples and the parting of waves.
Lifting sounds banged into heavens
A call of jazz opened doors.
A flood of colors mixed for life.
The father of his hands
works the horn, squeezing sweet into sound,
knocking bitter skin out of
Georgia red dust;
sweat stained suspenders
shield the man and his jazz.
He lives grand in the tomorrow of his today.
Never looking back.
Never comparing scars or the weight of his
He slaps his thigh, producing a picket fence smile.
No sense waiting for a breeze he says; you
might as well dig for a rainbow with
a pot of gold.
The years blessed his horn and the man
on the other end blowing jazz.