When it’s real, and not in a speeding car

I can write about Coltrane
Oh yeah
I can write about his flames of music.
About how we jazz musicians will make sacrifices
to have John Coltrane. 


Here we were; literally in a spot called “Hole in the wall”. 
A cinder-block palace of horny cowboys, boots and all; and prostitutes - 
bleached, gaudy , authentic. 
We preach to them about Coltrane.
We conjure. We in-can-tate. We call on
him to rise up in the middle of the stage 
and 
address them as Gods!

The week before some guy had stabbed his father. They were sitting together at the bar.


There are two doors to get in. 
The outer door with a buzzer to get you to the inside door. 
In-between, a bucket for washing up blood.

Some guy pushes my keyboard over into my lap, bears down 
and says something threatening about the music. 
They hate us, and John Coltrane just keeps on coming.

They hate that they are missing out on that country dance – the twang of sleeze – 
the trip to the moment of importance.

In the belly of this awful place,
we drown in Coltrane.