Don’t say goodbye to the pork-pie hat that rolled along padded shoulders,
that swang be-bop phrases
in Minton’s jelly-roll dreams.
don’t say goodbye to hip hats tilted in the style of a soulful era,
the pork-pie hat that Lester dug,
swirling in the sound of sun saxes,
repeating phrase o phrase, repeating bluely
as hit-hat cymbals crash and trumpets scream while
musicians move in and out of this gloom, the pork-pie hat reigns supreme,
the elegance of style
gleaned from the city’s underbelly.
tonal memories
tonal memories
of salt-peanuts and hot house birds.
Holy the days of the old prune face junkie men.
Holy the scag filled arms.
Holy the harlem faces looking for space in the dead rock valleys of the city
Holy the flowers
Sing holy for the raped holidays and bessies guts spilling on the Mississippi road
Sing holy for all of the faces that inched toward freedom, followed the north star like harriet and douglass.
Sing holy for all our singers and sinners and all of the shapes and styles and forms of our liberation,
holy, holy, holy for the day we open our eyes, dig ourselves and raise in the sun of our own peace and place and space; y
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