Speaking In Tongues 

Elvin Jones told Trane

“That thing sounds like an oboe

When you play it”

The more I listen to John Coltrane

Play soprano saxophone

The more I realize Elvin was right

Drums sounded like thunder lighting
And truth clashing against prevarications
When Elvin played 
He smoked on black and white film
Steam escaped his body 
As if he was on fire inside
Had it not been recorded so long ago
I would fear spontaneous combustion 

After a gig Elvin’s pants and socks
Were soaked – sweat prevented him being 
Engulfed in flames 
Everything is not copacetic
Perfect sense has not been made 
Coltrane himself said, “I start in the middle 
Of a sentence and move 
Both directions at once” 
Wringing meaning out of music
When Trane played 
With Jimmy McCoy  Elvin 
Eric
And Pharoah 
All wringing and ringing and making the world
A new place  
World bigger because music
Sounded different when they played 
I heard "a Cat" say John sounded 
Like a man running 
Down a dark alley 
Knocking over garbage cans as he went 
Caterwauling 

Wailing like ancestors singing through him

Inarticulate mournful cries 
High-pitched aspirations 
Suffering from unexplained pain
Grief 
Agony 
Sorrow songs 
Glossolalia 
Those who remember court madness
Others who forget live in denial 
Phobia 
Claiming ignorance as privilege 
That’s why they screamed 

Thundered

Thumped and banged 
Articulating lost audio
So we lament and apprehend 
Probing wilderness / wanderlust 
Questioning light-weight conclusions 
Looking for newness 
Like someone in love
Longing and lusting 
For something 
Out of this world 
The answer is no when 
The question is moot
Trane and em’ swam 
In rivers of sound 
Searching for solace 
From a reality too simple 
Too brutal 
Too cruel 
Coltrane practiced like a man 
Without talent 
To blow every note 
He ever heard 
To render every sound 
That haunted him