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