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.