rider leapfroggin over the 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 February 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 removin dark glasses

decipherin naked notes-

composin one more Mr. Jones, their generational copilot

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

14 melodies at once

burst out Dizzy’s parachuted cheeks

mergin into one silverthroated voice,

flatted fifths soar

speakin in whispers

the exact Minton’s of harmony,

and those uptown streets

and those bedsheets go

rollin way back downtown,

to a place where unclothed cognac sunset waves

run crashin off Rockaway Beaches,

to a place where this giant heart lives on

forever touched by a child’s artistry,

lives on laughin and blowin

forever dinin out on the Blues

SF, 1974