Tony Williams/Mikal Gaines
Agitation
from Live at the Plugged Nickel – 1965
even then, he knew
enough
to swing hard,
full, and without
fear
carried enough intention
in his hands and feet
to bend the wood to
his will and tame the
metal’s madness
enough patience to move
the meter, to push, pull,
please, and punctuate
Miles’ punches and to
lend weight to Wayne’s
air. Tony, Ron, and
Herbie, they did it together,
became a pyramid we
could climb to the top
of so we could soar and
taunt the sun
There Comes a Time
build. in. layers. first the whirl then
the haunted hollows beneath hands;
add the wash of ancient alchemy and strings
pulled tightly as if for garroting; all of these swirling
above the throbbing darkness below. they said
that our sorcery was dead, that our divination did
not survive the slaughter. they could not
know that they had forced us to master time,
to learn how to pass and speed it along in the hull of the
ship or swaying low in the sun scorched cane, to slow
it down to a succession of frozen frames on the block so
we could remember each face, to etch the cheeks, eyes, noses,
mouths, and particular curvature of tear drops into memory before
they were disappeared from us; they could not know what we
know of infinity gleaned from inside the loops of coffle
cuffs and chains or the gravitational pull of black holes
that collapse when we sing in syncopation; they could not
know as we do that sound is time, is light, is breath, is life.
Skintight
(For Tony)
he shakes and bakes like a
shotgun, rolling,
time keeping soul pouring
out, seeping mean
thumping four-on-the-floor
golden suns shimmering, spinning
around the core
Man, he really talkin’ tonight ain’t he?
talking and tip top tightrope walking,
speaking high-toned and boldfaced to shame, signifyin’
right to its face, all breakneck beating
and maim creeping up like goose bumps,
like paper cuts, like some sweetly inevitable
infection, like some curious
infusion, some rightly rich reception, some killer
friction, manic static, fire fission, dream wood
discretion lesson, a deep tissue treatment for those
still scarred by their last redemption
clap/snap: earthquake rhythms and ghost
melodies (all fighting for
airtime) in his magical cacophony
sopping with rage on the staff,
smothering treble on the clef,
we say goddamn: this is some powerful shit
simmering, boiling up slow, exploding
splash, crash, and ride, ride, ride…
ride all the way to the land of milk
and honey, all the way down
through the blood, to the clay-colored
crimson arterial
spray flood
his tainted fever and delirium is threatening
to spill, threatening to
snitch: to tell all
but is he talking foolishness or saying something?
you can see him
pleading bastard prayers
in the spaces
between notes, begging:
please, talk to me lord, talk to me demons,
talk to me angels, speak up now Salem witches, shout out now
black charred, strung-up gentleman warlocks, sing
through my fingers, wrists, breath, bark
now hellhounds and bare your teeth
sing, sing like a shotgun rolling with
four-on-the-floor, like choking, like pepper spray tears, like fire hoses,
like a hard, cock-black nightstick across a disobedient forehead
the crowd is stunned
he wonders what kind of beating
it will take to pull them from their seats?
how battered and bruised he must leave
the skin to make them believe
he’ll bleed for them; tonight he will
leave it all on the line
this is the story he is telling