to be or not to bop

rider leapfroggin over Union Square El

atop bent trumpet

fresh from decimatin the competition,

this angel rainin visions

strolls in from Philadelphia packin a struggle rhythm,

blowin by the skins in lightnin 64th notes,

pickpocketin the soaked drummer

destroyin February midnight Broadway’s dashed lines,

headin north up the FDR

uptempo music forever movin

exaggeratin into the air of possibilities-

to be or not to bop,

absolutely no question

hushed snow fallin

white poppy round midnight winterwashed Harlem,

Dizzy never goin back,

he and Bird realizin long ago

the first time’s always perfect, man,

brother deuces trumpetin and blowin down the East River,

annihilatin the gates clean off 52^nd St,

mad fickle lovers flingin dark glasses

decipherin naked notes-

composin one more Mr. Jones, their generational copilot

and when Max’s and Monk’s uptempo drives them further,

14 melodies at once

burst out Dizzy’s parachuted cheeks

mergin into one silverthroated voice,

flatted fifths soarin

blown in whispers,

the exact Minton’s of harmony,

and those uptown streets

and those bebop bedsheets

roll way back downtown

to that place where unclothed cognac sunset waves

run crashin off Rockaway Beaches,

to a place where this maestro’s giant heart lives on

touched and embraced by his child’s artistry,

livin on laughin and blowin,

and forever dinin out on the Blues