the ghost of buddy bolden
fire in his eyes
floats over the rooftops
of bronzeville june nights
swing a gate open
and follow a line
from the bayou
to chicago's stockyard miles
the second line drop step
of buddy bolden's gone storyville blues
blows a highwire signal
into chase scenes around the el lines
henry threadgill passes easily
into otherworldly states
his songs bloom and push forward
into the fragrant skies
like bumble bees in flight
very very curious
the dreams that grow
as diamonds in washington park
fish ponds
the future is already written
in sky lightning
for those ready to discern
pure sound and power
in breath, each note
must teeter on the tightrope
for the flute to entice forward,
the cello to draw downward to earth
magnetic poles battle
in the balance
heard it all
i heard it all
in the one-bedroom
overlooking the lilac tree
in bloom, the drug deals
on the corner and out
the tiny black speakers
too much sugar for a dime ---
was it poured into porcelain cups
in late-night edward hopper contemplation
or drunk with the dogon—
people of the dog star
who navigate all that celestial space
from red clay earth of malian midnights
eons of heat
burnt into score sheets
each note a dare to eternity
to throw down its gold key
cuz you'll hitch your circus wagon
to her and rise over
the limestone walls
of the hudson ---
east above the atlantic ---
to find a flute glimpsed years ago
in dreamtime
of chicago twilight
the alto sax line
and two tubas cannonball crush
twin guitars
sprung like jet turbines
backbeat breaks down to reveal
the cabinet of many doors:
start with jelly roll reborn
to an orchestra of windmills
whinin’ boy blues of winged antelope
hovers over the land
where the buffalo roam
the sides of nickels found
by junkstore troubadors
iconoclast? eyes the tall grass
for signs of the forbidden theatre
rolling into town
try dancing to this number
we’ll choreograph the eight petals
of lotus light that only appear
on bud billigan parade day
in lily pad revival
it’s showtime on the south side
too soon to know
if this seed will rise
into oak or baobab
let the bass be plural
and play tag with the crash cymbals
the circus wagons are on fire
so much rising up
release elements
to regain old kingdoms
of thrill magic
of the still active
kingdom of birds
risen to harmonize and ignite
what was lost on rolled scrolls
call them down now
with flute and arched bow
between major and minor
we beam in dreamtime
This poem first appeared Brilliant Corners: A Journal of Jazz and Literature
