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.
by Aurora M. Lewis