Henry Threadgill

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