Blue Sky Murder

BLUE SKY MURDER

it's a blue murder

kind of day

with the night

screaming in like

an airplane over

the long long spires

of the city

there's something

intangible

in the air

something

indefinable

ghosts rising

like steam

from the early morning
underbelly of the city

echoes of

laughing children

playing in the

fire hydrant

soaked streets

a shotgun blast

in an alley

a puerto rican

mother calling

out for a lost

child in the night

a rent party

in a tenement

building

a couple making

love in a cold

water flat

the city is alive

a living

thing

an artery

a pulse

but it's the people

who make it breathe

give it form

and soul

it's a pencil

sharpened

to a fine point

with a scratchy

record spinning

in slow

revolutions

it's Charlie Christian,

Dizzy and Monk at Minton's

with Ralph Ellison

scribbling in the wings

there's something

in the edges

in the marrow

the red moon

rises high

above the parched city

A writer - bespectacled

sits back in his

chair - shirtless

smoking in the darkness

staring at the crumpled

sheets of paper

on the floor

his typewriter

oiled like a

machine gun

awaits

he begins again

. . . it's seminal bop

in the dying hours

at Minton's

with Ralph Ellison scribbling

furiously

It's Charlie Parker

laughing at a juggler

It's Blue Miles

with a chip

on his shoulder

ten miles wide

It's dancing Monk

- a whirling dervish

in geometric ecstasy

(idiosyncratic

eccentricity)

It's Red Monk,

Yellow Monk

Green Monk

Go!

It's Pres with his

pork pie hat and

his contorted sax

catching the corner

of Billie's eye

It's Dexter Gordon

in a Paris café

It's Kerouac and Ginsberg

and Neal

writing to the beat

dancing to the beat

living

to the beat

It's Louis Armstrong

on the Voodoo Bayou

blowing Gabriel's

trumpet over

swirling bones

in the Mississippi

It's Huey with

his spear

in a wicker

back chair

It's Angela Davis's

hair

It's Sonny Rollins

on the Williamsburg

Bridge riffing on

a note

a note

a note

It's John Coltrane

calling out to

Krishna

Allah

Jehovah

Elohim

his spirit

flaps

in the wind

like Tibetan

prayer flags

strung along

mountain ridges

and peaks

high in the

Himalayas

he is everywhere

there is yearning

for God

John Coltrane -

walking along

the Via Dolorosa

in Jerusalem

John Coltrane -

on the Hajj

encircling

the Kaaba

with the throngs

of the faithful

John Coltrane -

bathing

in the Ganges

John Coltrane,

a whisper

of a breeze

in a

Buddhist

Temple

in Japan

John Coltrane,

a ripple

of sand

in a Zen garden

Eric Dolphy

Booker Little

Clifford Brown

John Coltrane

still shining

like light

from capsized

stars - still

burning

bright in the

darkness

darkness

dark

-ness

It's dark and quiet

at The Five Spot

none of the

usual rattling

of ice cubes

no tinkling glasses

or ringing cash

registers

On the bandstand

Don Cherry

Billy Higgins

Charlie Haden

Ornette Coleman

are poised

about to change

the face of Jazz

no recording

equipment

nothing to contain

the moment

Charlie Haden

closes his eyes

the music begins

it's pure

Jackson Pollock

splatter paint

abstract expressionism

it pulses

with freedom

freedom

free-dom

The bars slam shut

behind him

bedroll still in hand

he lays it down

grabs a pencil

and kneels down

on the corner wall

he begins to write

"this cell cannot

contain me -

these walls will

not break me"

over and over

until his cell

is covered

washed away, he begins

again

"this cell cannot

contain me -

these walls will

not break me"

In a jail cell

in Birmingham

a reverend picks

up that pencil

like a baton

and begins to write

a woman refuses

to give up

her seat on

a bus

In Arkansas

Faubus sits

like Cerberus

with all his

power and might

doomed to

be vanquished

by schoolchildren

on the Mystic River

Van Morrison sings

"And the love that loves

the love that loves the

love that loves the love

that loves to love the love

that loves to love the love

that loves. . ."

until he spirals

into ecstasy

and the poet

pulls the last

sheet of paper

from his

typewriter

stacks it

neatly on his

desk - lights

a cigarette

goes to the

window

and watches the first

light of day break

over the Hudson

as Kind of Blue

stops and begins again

on his record player

With Miles

and John Coltrane

and Cannonball

and Paul Chambers

and Bill Evans

and Jimmy Cobb

alive again

in that studio

on 30th street

and the music

plays

and refills

the empty cup 
once again

as the typewriter

awaits - and the blue

sky looms long 

above      

the spires of the city