Head full of sermons, mouth full of spiders.

Please, read this aloud to yourself and to anyone else who may be in the room (preferably with "Mr. P.C." from "Giant Steps" playing loudly in the background).












'John Coltrane'
Coltrane is a country boy come calling on the big city.
Aww but couldn't he croon a campground tune with ironclad candor?
But couldn't he caress a popular melody with cold-blooded compassion?
Couldn't he conjure up the ceremonial clamor of churchy Carolina congregations!

Coltrane is a country boy quite chilly in the cold coast city.
Aww but couldn't he construct a comprehensive course of study to conquer the
incompliant techniques of the tenor saxophone? But couldn't he call upon a colossal capacity to concentrate?
Couldn't he practice and practice and incessantly practice his craft
with uncompromising conviction?

Coltrane, country as cornbread, collard greens, fried chicken, cane, and even
chitlins, is celebrated in the big city as upcoming champion of scales, clefs, and cutting-edge concepts.
Aww but couldn't he capsize calcified conventions and challenge the contrarian campus critics?
But couldn't he create controversy amongst the condescending cognoscenti,
the (chatty) clever, the certified, and the (merely) competent?
Couldn't he just keep on cascading through closely clustered chord
changes, cartwheeling through complex, careening, chromatic calculations?

Coltrane is a comet, a constellation, a cherished citizen of the cosmos.
Aww but couldn't he cackle and cry and scream freedom up the chock-full core
of a volcanic cadenza?
But couldn't he hot-comb the creases out of a cheeky classic and
completely captivate a packed-to-capacity corner club?
Couldn't he coax and cajole common sense out of a corrupted
culture and crusade for our country's long-in-the-coming civil rights?

Coltrane was a country boy come to the big city 'come lost in the stars.
Aww but couldn't he cram a century of conflict and confusion into a
compelling catechism to convert charlatans?
But couldn't he corkscrew cacophonous currents of clearly
channeled consciousness through a cookie-cutter
community of too-cerebral concertgoers
seeking change or a cheap charge?

Couldn't he cook up a cauldron of convoluted callaloo to
confound the casual fan and curious recruit
alike with cosmic cubist counterpoint,
incomprehensible crescendoing of cymbals,
ceaseless chaos, crisscrossed columns of
sonic calculus, and a stormy sea of collective
concerns come crashing down to chase the crazy crowd away!

*****

From Wynton Marsalis' new children's book "Jazz ABZ." It's a collection of gorgeous stylized portraits of jazz greats (by Paul Rogers) and deliciously-alliterative poems. Though it's a children's book, it should be mandatory reading for anyone who fancies themself an American citizen.

Check out this over at NPR to read more, and hear a few poems read by Wynton and some kids.