Doug Anderson: Trane

Gold snake muzzles down rat-eye alleys, pokes in hollows and hooch holes,

gathers up the Hell-hurt passed out on bad juice or junk,

noses out on the street, hubcup cymbal-ride for the funky mamas

out there under the crown-of-thorns neon of the bars and back room ruts,

blesses the back-slappy happy drunks on their way to kneel

at the porcelain prie dieus to puke up their hearts into mad God help

vortex down through the bottom-out bardos into restraint strap purgatories,

picks up some crazy wisdom Jesus-Buddha soft shoe shuffle-ball-change,

spot lights that horn in the smoke-thick rooms where Bird bit the reed

and Miles swirled the gold calligraphy all up your spine and out your eyes,

where Monk quoted the heart licks hid under the rug of our

get-through-the-day long stride pay-my-bills and keep that mask glued on tight,

taps Shelley on the shoulder in his man-hole so he grins elbow to snare lyric thump,

Paul Chambers’ heart-beat under you keeps you afloat in the red eyed magma,

and I say thank you, and thank you, sir, and could I rewind the tape you’d be happy.

—

Vox Populi