The
Green Mill
by
Howard Levy
In
the temple of jazz,
the
only smoke is that of cigarettes
and
incense the vapor of alcohol.
The
musician priests bless the cover-charge congregants
as
they blow their way to heaven on their horns.
Many
12 bar hallelujah choruses resound and filter
through the haze,
escaping
through doors and cracks out into the oblivious
world.
But
they ring within the souls of some still tuned
to truth,
whose
ears can hear what eyes can only guess.
May, 1993 I wrote this about a club where I often
play in Chicago. For lovers of music, a smokey
bar can be a temple.
