a
start to river’s edge. All cloudings
are
full of sky breathing out of
its
prisms. Laughter and spilled
wine
imbued with one another.
Hieroglyphs
awaken the cliffs
until
a spark ignites the water
again.
And drowns silent musings
of
Monk at Birdland when Coltrane
was
expanding. What made us
come
into this knowledge? What
happens
to music when it fades
into
eternity? Surf, dreamlike, but
reflective
somehow agitated red
&
green by love by effort &
by
chance.
John
Olson
Roberta
Olson
&
Paul Nelson
6:52PM
– 9.13.05