DIS ERE BY BOBBY TIMMONS

CATEGORY

life

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Dis 'ere..." Cannonball announces, E flat sax of his all lit up In the smoke-filled club, "... is a jazz waltz." Brother Nat' s horn Plays a foreign fanfare, Proclaiming the second coming, Like a thousand tongues of Prostrated Pentecostals. This here's a whole congregation, Of foot-tapping listeners who, In the Spirit, are slain. As they pray for life in 3/4. 3 counts and no rests. Jazz. Period. No Bach Chorales, No laboured grace notes No European overthinking. A primeval urge to survive Set our ancestors, Like driven jazz drummers, Hurtling towards This promised land: thuggish, smug in its all-knowing 'un-reality'. This double-edged sword Of knowledge: Science and Faith. Which one's the gloopy black Murderous residue? Product of neuroses, Our glib hypotheses? PAIN. Is an entire people, Destined for syncopation, Like a band on the brink of combustion, Yearning for open fifths And blues scales, Imperfect cadences like Suffering unanswered. Raw chords, as diminished as our unsatisfaction. Yet the calculated cold Rhythm of scientific 'cures' Will never revive our human race. From the dead we're raised, each one of us a Lazarus, Energised by our Art; A reflection of our condition. Chanting 'survival' like the final movement Our clapping, hollering, agony... Acknowledged by a jazz quintet . Now we're finally seen. Like the bayou embraced by the hot rain. See the clowns, all Devoid of elation? Blacked up in their white cake stick 'A jinglin' and janglin' to powerful Scarecrows of idols? A hate's Only born out of thinking. All races and colours of skin with their Genderisation and fluids and sub-groups Lock us down; Tying us up with a dandelion stalk. Binary Bi-Curiosity Can't mend humankind. This was not our agenda. To flail. To wail. We yearn For the simplest of pasts. Past simple; one verb and it's done. Auxiliary verbs, future perfects and such Over-complicate life like A priest's proud Indifference towards all the nuns. The heart's a waltz. With no fourth beat. No coda. No stodgy prescriptions No tweaking. No factions No bombings No blunders. No blame. No political Quest for revenge And no need to amend. Just a rapture on beat number two! A gospel-jazz waltz, Like a preacher's charisma, Ties our life neatly To its right tense. Like every beginning joyfully Finding its end.