Jazz Stanzas The wolves may huff and puff but they still ain’t got nothing on Dizzy. Apple sized cheeks and a sound coming out just as sweet as the juice. Come with me and take a view of the lady from baltimore with the sanitizing stench of bleach on her from scrubbing those **** white steps. From lady’s maid to lady day from the whorehouse to covering the waterfront until finally it was heroin, not her man that had lady singing the blues. A trumpeter walks in front of a horse leading a perennial funeral procession for you. That’s the image that comes to mind when I think of you. Your smile derided. Your character declared a caricature but Ghana loved you. You were pops to the world. In a mining township a hundred miles from Johannesburg exposed to jazz and traditional music a horn player was growing up. In a mining township it seems like it would be impossible to graze in the grass but, somehow, he did. And now, it is said we don’t love the music. Our faces are not in the audiences of those who carry it on. Our dollars aren’t spent on it. We have allowed it to leave and because of that it no longer belongs to us. But this is simply not true.