In his book of photographs
The Jazz People of New Orleans,
Lee Friedlander is working in
the silvery almost-heaven
of black-and-white, setting
earthly things aglow:
a crucifix on the wall behind Cie Frazier,
the chewed-up cheap cigar
in Roosevelt Sykes’s hand,
an old-school can of Schlitz
clutched by Chester Zardis,
two cigarettes on the lips
of a skinny kid in a pimp hat,
and let us not forget
Sunny Henry’s slide trombone,
Punch Miller’s trumpet,
Big Head Eddie Johnson’s sax.
The players are looking back
on the world of blood and bone,
of slaughterhouses, brothels,
Tipitina’s, Congo Square,
their eyes as filmy as
the corrupted Mississippi,
hungry as the camera,
spirit seeking flesh.