Night Tripper

Doctor John croons gris gris
in urban bourbon growls,
in gumbo yaya yowls.

He knows Mama Roo
is queen of the little red wagon.
He conjures her. His voice calls
her out from old St. Louis 1,
and she rises past the crypts
in steamy air that creeps
up your back, grips you
till she holds you
in her foggy bones.

Some old haints came
Nawlins way, riding west
in the smoke of burning candles,
riding Papa Legba
into coffee-scented Congo Square.

Ghosts beat rhythm into dust
forever, making mojo there.

The gift of blues
comes wrapped in tears
birthed in pain, aches beauty.

Art and magic mix, remain
in New World griot voices,
ancient tales reclaimed.

Buddy, Bunk, Bechet,
Oliver and Louie, too.
You know what I mean,
specka bean?

Such a long and raucous night.
The beads, the feathers,
oh heat, crawdaddy spirit offering.