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Jazz Poetry

Trane's Blues @ Nagasaki

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in a world where calls to prayer

are interrupted by the hot wail

of breaking bones and the rhythm

of blood spilling.

i have learned to question.

what is this way of seeing, viewing

the world through a ring of brass?

what is the sound that follows sight

whole notes blown

to be a force for good...

a drone calls me at the hour of God;

the sound is like that first hit.

the high that begins the search

more inward, than interstellar

i have found that the warm space

under sheets of sound

is my sanctuary, the calm center of a whirlwind

trapped in fire-shaped brass; every whole

note is a prison for all

the suffering I have ever seen

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