the seduction of coltrane, the sun peering
through skylight, humbly,
his horn bends reality into something pleasant.
notes flirt and grope, the mood of sex
sans push and shove, the skylight
is an opening to heaven above.
a love supreme, as mere mortals dream.
that soothing black pain
makes human struggle into perfection.
i serve coltrane with lukewarm brandy,
let his notes knock on overlooked doors
allow his genetically-coded invitations
to turn my dull parlor
into a tabernacle.
when leroi was baraka, he liked to say
that bird took up the sax to avoid killing white men.
his sound spells out rage in giant capital letters,
the unbridled rage of watt’s riots, lunch-counter rejections,
unleashed dobermans, unbeknownst syphilis infections,
the rage of a million and one
muted humiliations.
i serve bird with ice-cold whiskey,
let his burdens confront myopic fantasies
permit his prenatal complaints
to tear down the walls of my gated community.
i use jazz to feel better or worse, to embrace both
the cradle and the hearse, to make stresses disperse
and let new tensions gather.
