The Green Mill

The Green Mill
by Howard Levy

In the temple of jazz,

the only smoke is that of cigarettes

and incense the vapor of alcohol.

The musician priests bless the cover-charge congregants

as they blow their way to heaven on their horns.

Many 12 bar hallelujah choruses resound and filter through the haze,

escaping through doors and cracks out into the oblivious world.

But they ring within the souls of some still tuned to truth,

whose ears can hear what eyes can only guess.

May, 1993 I wrote this about a club where I often play in Chicago. For lovers of music, a smokey bar can be a temple.