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Criss Cross
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Thursday, 15 December 2005 11:05 |
humphf
for big red
they say monk
couldn't play the music. they say,
monk, he limited
by his own vision
& just can't play right. monk,
he too weird. his music
don't sound right, and he gets up
& dances
while he's playing,
like a jackleg preacher
at a revival meeting
in an old tent in north carolina.
they say monk sound too much
like a whorehouse piano player
from some pre-harlem ghetto
stuffed with back-woods renegades
& sporting women & gamblers,
street-level intellectuals. they say
monk, what is that shit
you trying to play, you just can't
do it that way,
you too way out baby,
that stuff ain't you. & monk
in his infinite knowledge
& wisdom, shoots a grin
from behind the piano,
wiggles his ass on the stool,
lays down another few bars
of utter genius,
turns it over to the tenor player
& rises to dance beside the piano,
some more of that old north carolina boogaloo
oak park, michigan
may 30, 1984 |
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