for Miles Davis

Seventy-eight revolutions
per minute
in that deep groove
of reason, giving an answer
to Dizzy, 'It's time to roll'

closer to heaven then you'll ever know.
Opening the gates for other angels
to float in, like dust gathering
in your corners, or running up hill
backwards. A strange mirror of what you wanted
to forget, moving to heights
of spirituality;
                  the voodoo man
with his rhetoric of no.  The mountain
that is almost unapproachable;
a thousand caves and overhangs, lost
in the shadows,
                blue or red hot,
burning cool from brass. A flame
will rage from the backstage
into the streets where the day silently sleeps.

Seeming to work itself out as easily
as not; the night train streaming
through a hustler's culture;
                             relaying
a message that is rooted deep in the Congo Basin,
dark as your dreams, the ghosts that reside
in the same bed when you're homeless
or slowly pulling yourself out
of a disaster
              to reveal the essence
of a good beat.  Strong enough to rearrange
every structure, impose your flow
on someone's only masterpiece
and scream; an original invisible
still scheming on the meaning
in each nuance
               of rhyme.
Forever driven, back turned,
walking off while band plays on.

Not a victim of circumstance, deflecting
as many hits as you're landing; a public enemy
with out fear of the past, oblivious
to your ever growing power,
                            being
what is happening.  The west coast thing
going to Paris then all the way
back around to Spain,
                      finding 
many canvases to sketch and another chance
to reinvent your name.

Some Other Kind Of Index