his name was John Coltrane, and when his long fingers,touched tenor saxophone keys, his notes slapped jaded, sullen attitudes, about jazz, including my own, musical notes ,leaped, bent, twisted, soaredin the air, as he played ,with eyes closed, as if lost in,a personal dream, the saxophone moaned, cried. whispered, told the good news, on the mountaintop, Coltrane was in the house, rocking it, he did it,simply, yet, unlike any other,ever heard before ,that moment, gone now, in the shadows of time, but his music, remains, still gathers new followers attention,pointing ,an indignant finger of cool, at those, who wish, they knew,coltrane, before he left, the station