Tarantism

When I reached the ticketeer , With a camera strapped on my left shoulder, She pointed in Turrentine’s direction and said: "This would be a nice shot." Stanley hunched on a bench, Legs spread, a black tenor sax resting On his thighs. A mood enveloped his posture, A statement of how He and his instrument were going to blow The night into sub-particles.

We spoke briefly Before I followed him Through the double-glass doors Where hands clapped to thunder joy. A mic at the horn’s center rim, He began blowing They Can't Take That Away From Me. Sculpting Jazz with cotton tongues, And despite the clinking of Ice against double gin glasses, He forged scales into an enduring pantheon.

Breath notes filtering through ears Forming layers of chords That held elegant bridges And bopped toccatas Where Coleman Hawkins And Charlie Parker traveled. Stanley took us to places, Graceful and rumbling blues, Sounds bouillabaissed Into the realm of the senses. We clung to each other, Hanging on the edge.

His hurricane sounds bellowing in the night, My tapping feet were electrified for a dance. The music creating jolts of lightning, A tarantism buzz. Turrentine kept blowing, I zoomed in to frame his bulging neck veins And inch-deep dimples That held and pulsated Molasses notes, Sticky warm blues.   His sound was pure brown sugar, Bonding agents of melismatic Harmonics brothing in creamy Strings of chromatic melody. Soulful, cooked in a tradition, Of immaculate blues Giving his notes a signatory breath As personal as his fingerprints.