Master Takes

Black angel bops,
Trane rides sax,
and Dolphy calls
responds in churchy deeps
while McCoy winds time,
rhythm beat from pew to the bar.

Jazz is my religion,
Papa Jo says.
We don't have time
to explain our references.
We just play blowin like wind.

I'm altered by that state.
Improv me baby. Wail out
your love honks supreme.
Swing didn't die
but turned boppy handstands,
notes splanky rilled,
all funked up like chicken,
yardbird dancin in a pot.