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Doorways and Music Lessons The pawnshop princess handing out gift certificates- ten bucks off anything in the store, looking for music there was as empty as those hollow stick people pushing in the wind where any wind going uphill was the right direction, on a day where sound was as crass as a cymbal striking tin. Found a man whose body had the music he wavered each note in candlelight he was the sound of the shadows, his instrument and him stepping over stark reality, unchaining doors he was the movement and the light wrapping mind for voyage. Blues on Whyte- took nothing of weakness or cobwebs hanging, a place to pause unfinished business a cube where death might stand anywhere outside the door but not come in; and the old man on the harmonica he had the power the band knew he knew the timing and the hour and they didn’t quibble with the direction given some know they know that going somewhere sometimes needs a map-maker. Blues on Whyte- where beer and shooters are the water where heat rides the mountain winds always whispering in slivers of realities lucid dreams and places where suspension of disbelief opens doors more readily than grind and gear and where the hoops we’re jumping through start to spiral up and out. The sounds of the music didn’t begin and didn’t end, it was a crystalline river blending into a sliver of some other dimension, a hand in helping movement blur the walls enough to reach through. |
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