Today, in the timeless land of hyper-documentation, we can travel back and forth along the swing line time without missing a word. The collegiate white poet can hitch a ride on a vehicle of the past and hop off in 1998, with a constant momentum. A new text with old gas is better than an old text with new gas. Poetry starts from music. The music isn't what makes poetry sing.
Words sing when they swing.
The melodies are in the subtext. Consonants slap out the rhythm. Words snap into place, not because they sound good together, but because they mean what they mean in the swing of things textual. Like nature, swing perpetuates whether anyone pays attention or not. Unlike nature, it's a product of community.