Uncle Joe’s Spirit House

The jazz organ
makes a face — rather,
a lot of faces.  A twisted smile
followed by an upraised chin,
closed eyes with movement
under the lids,

and then the saxophone, the poking finger
demanding entrance into the reverie —

time to break one stride, find a new one.
Eveyone sprinting together down a road,
perhaps in North Carolina late at night,
toward a dilapidated church that hides
a still.  Party in the sacred space —

bass and drums,
sidekicks, strong and soft-spoken,
peek out from beyond
the circle of light from the fire.
Drift over there, see what their take is
on the goings-on.

This music has a face.
Eyes open, calm intelligence.
A darkness that resists
the incursion of obvious message —
says,
it is what it is.  Sit down
and listen, don’t speak to it
unless it speaks to you.

— for William Parker and Cooper-Moore