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Song Of Praise
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Thursday, 09 February 2006 11:59 |
blues to elvin
born with ears, even now, packed with garbage. the stuff
of dead men. wax, & elbows. sewage, seaweed, debris
of forgotten oceans, or shells. or
the shells & shit they beat the indians with.
for us to shut up, what they can offer. pitiful. so
small, can it bend the ear. paper, & shells. to fill
our ears, to make us forget. to sing,
made some improbable proposition. to get thru,
some genius we wanted to cry, to the moon, like
weird wolves of illusion. insanity. the stoppage.
drained, & collapse, on the floor, thru, with love, & un-
settled ears. to begin to go, where the music goes, out, to you
detroit
1965
3.1.6125 |
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