Saw him at the Red Cat in L.A.
Got these phenomena inside me now
About skyscrapers built from sound
About his hand painting with air
The rolling of his shoulder sending
Messages as he grooves
His eyes shut tight, the clenching
Of his teeth or his smile to those musicians
Getting it right whose faces brighten
At the maestro’s approval
Conduction, 49 signals of his body
For those in wait. The madness of his hair
Like Einstein, only his theories the sculpting
Of notes released from his fingers, his eyes
And his baton, flung against walls that shatter
And break revealing open spaces in the mind
Where horns, drums, and an emperor's gong feed.
The harp’s song commissioned by his fingertips
Creating a mystical wave that fills the air
Taking me on a journey unknown
Here, my humble homage mystifying those
Who say what he is doing isn't being done
There are no words to explain or convey
How he makes a note round, spikes it like a ball
In play smashing against concrete, swooping
About the room, a specter in heat.
Butch Morris the sorcerer
His magic deep.
Aurora M. Lewis is retired and spends her time
writing poems and short stories. Her work has
appeared in The Hatchet, Dreamer's Reality,
Watchtower Monthly, Gemini Magazine, and
elsewhere. Her chapbook, Forget-Me-Knots can be
found at Erbacce Press.