Artwork courtesy Texas Fontanella and John M Bennet

Riffing On Miles Davis

I don’t know if he ever practiced

until his fingers and lips grew numb–

a way, when he began to hurt, he knew style

and soul ran along the same line.

Call it nerve, which is what it took when he turned

his back on the audience

usually near a diminuendo, and why he did this

some call arrogance, but I think concentration, no

distractions. Some fans loved it and knew

he’d step back around–those long

slender fingers tapping as fast as rain on a tin roof shack,

one of many near Memphis Miles drove past

toward a gig. Imagine him picturing a woman

listening to the blues on a battered radio–

a baby crawling on the floor toward a slice

of fried baloney furled like a pig’s ear.

Picture it or not, Miles grew up, son of a dentist

I don’t know if he thought he had it too good,

especially after men in black leather ushered him in

a club’s back door in Chicago, though he and “Bird”

were the show. I don’t know when Miles

took his first hit of heroin.

But either way, between the highs and lows,

the shit and the beauty, here’s my favorite story,

about him: He stood in a hotel closet,

door open, his eyes and mouth closed.

Instead of Boo, I think he said, “Is this dark enough for you?”

Someone across the room flinched

and laughed at the same time, as Miles lifted

his trumpet and began to play.