The studied nonchalance
of their groove;
.                                 bright,
.                                                  blooming,
hyper-tonic funk, breaking down to reinvent itself:
blinding and perfect on the bayou
crescent, home to Indians,
freemen, and thieves
who talk about hallowed ground;
a place for the homeless and seeking
to rest outside
the thunder that dances
on the horizon.
.                                  While heaven waits
every strand of DNA unravels
beneath the stars that are
in session;
.                      anonymous,
.                                                  brilliant,
in the calm echoing off these soft walls,
a monster of bass that eclipses the hot evening.

They played all the hits,
tore open our flesh and left a wound
blessed with true religion,
some deliverance in smoke and dreams
that are on the verge of a life
of their own and laugh,
at ease when the moon rushes
toward morning.
.                                      The surge
into Cissy Strut was flawless,
charging Tipitinas like the Midnight
Express, all stomp and pomp
in this tribal blood ritual;

Gangster Zen,
.                              the Tao of the Metermen,
heard in the whistle of a riverboat coming
to put the city that never sleeps to bed.

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