but a voice blowing away the dust
on our daily lives same songs forced
into surrender well beyond
all spirituals and minstrel tunes
sounding itinerant syncopations
in an age of decadence no rue nor gumbo
simple as that what pains us must be
turned into gospel swing
the angel and the devil separate but equal
underground where the voices are
for if a trumpet can why a trombone can too
no name at dawn but ragtime’s birthed
amalgam on American soil
sounding its big noise credit due
where lips to ecstatic blows
had gotten their lilt as a moan went through
you high church smoking
on a hotbed till the night wore all of us
out the missed gigs flat notes
going flatter in the filtered light
where folklore colossi were playing for whores
on scandal sheets spindled pages
of dime-store novels wafting in
the perfume of his life his legendary
voice in which no recordings survived