And he did it

and he did it

and he did it—

reamed out the sorry sewers

of the sun spinning

in his head, cryin', slippin', an' dippin',

rippin', scattin' and trippin'

the insistent bam, bam, a-bammin',

drumsticks a-slammin' of Buddy

the master's amber armed

pass key—catapulting

across those skin heads a-thrummin'

like drums a-drummin'

'till all the shingles be comin' off the roof

of my mind like shot guns a-flyin'

through the powder-burned winds

of colorblind grins—

until those fossil fueled heart beats

totter in the surplus slaughter

of by Goddess we got'er

up there above the windy streets,

there where talent and chance

collide to dance like catfish swimmin'

between the sheets

until cool's become a trance—

in search of perfection

that living things never find,

where Parker and Dizzy

take the baton from Buddy

and the Big Muddy goes on

tripplin' and ripplin'

through Kilimanjaro highs

and hooka filled nights

'till those river boat dawns

an' French Quarter songs

take their time outs to

stretch and yawn

then shimmy-shammy on down

to grunt and hunt

the waterfront

for a chicory laced French roast

and a powder sugared

beignet just in time

to start another levy skirted day.