the accretions of malaise
that reliably accompany any life lived without privilege
is a pitcher of aural nectar,
poured directly to the soul,
which, like oil to an engine,
needs the sweet sounds of pain and joy and remorse and hope
to function properly.
You claim you cannot hear what the artist is trying to say.
Locate your soul, Louis and Duke and Monk remind,
and your ears will grow,
like peppers in the sun and rain.