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[05] Consequences > Blues To You E-mail
Song Of Praise
Saturday, 14 January 2006 07:59
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Consequences 


The music moves inside my self,
I mean I feel saxophones in-
side my meat, a force in-
spiring that meat
to sing pure electricity. Flashes. Scream,

Move out from the wall
of your self. Out from there,
Now, or you stay there. What you thought
that man was screaming, that he wanted
to get inside you. You,  again, like some stupid
broken record.

The music moves inside,
& stays there. A part of what you are. & NOT
from.  But the song of meat energy
burning to come through you. In charge. & that energy
makes its way. Yes, shapes it, & is in charge. In,
goddamnit, IN the meat,
and of it. Yes,

yes, yes. A
firming it. And where you can go
to find that one place, I mean
it is the meat. And the song
that moves that self,
& shapes it, ah, ah,

well yes it does



detroit
december 20, 1966





"blues to you"

for danny spencer


we wanted them to love us,
as a first term. to know that we knew,
& would tell them with our eyes,
& our pumping feet. would sit & stare

at the bandstand
or at each other, & grin. or get up from the chair
& walk smack into a pole
after 45 minutes of elvin jones. john coltrane

was a hero beyond legend, i mean
he was right there in front of us, right there
where we could see him, & know for ever
the whole thing was real.

or sit for days, literally days,
& play the records through our meat, & dream
of touching them, the musicians,
as they walked off the stand, & moved past us,

smiling, toward some secret place
we would never go. & loved them always
for a simple nod, as if we were really real.
we needed them to speak to us

of pure revolution. to put down their saxophones
& spout pure poetry, or our lives
weren't shit. were gobs of dream
splattered against the world.

oh we were young
& made of america. it made us
what we were. & are. &, if we are lucky,
we will live through it all. yes, & the music

will ring in our ears. & we will hear it,
& it will bring us through. we will wake up
singing
of a world of our own. a world

where they will love us, just as if
(& only if)
we are as real
as they are



detroit
january 3, 1967/
new orleans
december 22, 1993



from Song of Praise: Homage to John Coltrane


3.1.695
 
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