The needle floats over and over
the end of Coltrane's "Alabama,"
channeling in the rush of feet,
of tires wearing down
into the asphalt and the browning air
the static that backs the horn
when I start it up again.
Tyner almost sweats
what he keeps just out of time,
what Jimmy's talking from the strings
like something's coiled up there,
a static even Elvin never shakes.
Or maybe what the needle thinks,
some Old South air trapped in ladled steel,
a space that quotes the ridges
and their empty veins, old Sloss
filling up with fire
or Cherry's heat opening 16th Street
into the space Coltrane fills
when he feeds his tenor,
what Sun Ra kept opening out
for anything more
than George Wallace's crossroads deal,
the static in Clifford Gibson singing
Keep your windows pinned
as storm winds thrill Sloss's tunnels
and flush its ghosts out over the city
where Vulcan's torch goes red,
Coltrane raining down his "Alabama"
like white-hot iron, like stars
that draw from the dark as they spin
Maubilla and Horseshoe Bend
the way Elvin works the cymbals
into distant crowds.
And when it ends again
I step out and through the blocks
where you can hear
the quartets warming up
through the nightclub chatter
and hope tonight,
in one of these joints
some DJ breaks all his needles,
some combo plays harder
than they've ever played,
that someone, that anyone
will work just hard enough
to shut the city down
and groove the night again.
Published in Murder Ballads (2005).
Text may vary slightly from the video reading.
Published: 1 April 2008
© 2008 Jake Adam York and Southern Spaces