Big Band Theory
With the loudest possible cymbal crash, the universe
springs forth from the tiniest womb, a primordial
black hole, the mother of god
and criminals. Yin & yang are there from the start,
being formed in the sour crack between lonely half-steps
tinkled on an ol’ blues piano.
After banjos get created in the guts of supernovas,
the brasses wah-wah, walls quake & shake, dancers
fall on their knees. Praise the lord, halleluia!
Doc Gravity and his Einstein Wonders a-sweatin’
and jumpin’ for three minutes of magic tune, the good doc
pumpin’ the rhythm, drivin’ folks out the door
for air. An atmosphere of rapture fills the room,
fills the lungs; division of the saxes take place
right there on the bandstand, as we twirl and sashay
amidst bear, eagle & elk, flood-waters & porpoises,
slippin’ & slidin’ with the funereal dixie ‘bones,
cuttin’ the ragtime residue of an ever-expanding universe.