I was walking out into the rain from a gig
As a gentleman, in a sharp suit and a long tail,
Asked me a question I'd not heard for years.
After he complemented my virtuoso
And acrobatics of my key,
He laid out out this simple question to me.

My good fellow, he smiled and said,
I've never quite understood
Why you musicians have chosen the path you have
And chose jazz over classical, not like I would.

It's been a perplexing act, for quite a long while,
That you prefer this raw choice, rhythm, and style
Over the charm, refine, and sophistication
Of the classical and organized appreciation.

I looked onward oddly as he continued to speak,
Taken back as he continued his obviously superior
Knowledge of jazz's inferiority in culture and meaning.
I couldn't start to compare the beauty of jazz to this
Masterpiece of the controlled and tamed wild,
Given, that I had played on my sax as a child.

I'm sorry, he chuckled, I'm being much too harsh
For my forwardness is leaving you sparse
Of words to reply and help me better relate
To this foreign style of music  which I do not appreciate.

I just cannot seem to grasp or understand,
So if you'll excuse my reprimand,
How does it sound?
How does it feel?
What makes it so tempting with its appeal?
For if you can just help me to see
What it is you all celebrate with such jubilee.
I'll take it up myself just as soon as
You competently explain, what is Jazz?

I looked off in space in a stunned still stupor
As his grin kept cutting with his innocently
Off-setting malice of ignorance into my hands
Still holding my pen of sounds.
So I did as I always did when it came my turn
To let my sax wail, screech, and burn.

Jazz is when you want to scream in a library
Because you finally found your favorite color.
Jazz is when you want to dance on the tables
Of the restaurant as a lady walks away charmed.

Jazz is the name of the soup your mother
Gave you when you were ill and
Jazz is the name of your first romance
Who died two years in in a car crash.

Jazz is that craving to burst out in spontaneity,
With complete mastery of your outburst but nonetheless
Jazz is sweet and satisfying with a touch of insanity.
It waits for a door big enough for it to explode through.

When you warm up your hands, when you grease your valves,
As you wet that reed, take that breath, or smile to that
Special someone you've dedicated this song to,
Or the person you would've dedicated it to.

Jazz is boundless and eternal with a start and no end
As you climb into the stratospheres of three registers
On twelve instruments harmoniously dissonant and
Each lick shatters right through the limits of your reality
Until you are left in the cold wake of brilliance.
Every time you smile or cry, Jazz is somewhere.

He stared at me with a grave gaze gripped in something
Unable to be fully fathomed.  Finally, he tipped his hat and
Proceeded out into the rain, pattering its tune.  Suited up for
The torrent I would be drenched in, I walked gaily as
I savored each drop's patter on pavement or person.
Humming my song, I looked up to the bolts

And I screamed.