Y’all know me.
I cry like a baby
when I’ve heard a sweet sound.
Not the music.
I’m talking about the pure sounds
of words as they enter and exit
an unnamed space.
As they twist and shout
and compress and relax.
As they flow, one to another
to various ends of a mystical river.
Y’all have to really listen
to hear a sweet sound.
But y’all ain’t listening.
Maybe you’ve never hear a sweet sound,
a pure sound like a secret cry or a moan,
a grief that can’t be waylaid nor detained,
the tender uncertainly of a long voyage,
and the unutterable fear that remains undisclosed.
Have you ever seen a great musician
lay down his instrument in honor
and recognition of a sound he heard,
of a sweet sound, a pure sound
not contained by his instrument?
It’s a rarity but it happens.
And when it does, there’s a hip name for it –
It’s called the Jonah’s Gourd Vine Blues.
Great visual piece here. Really love this part:
"I’m talking about the pure sounds
of words as they enter and exit
an unnamed space."
very nice work here - thank you for sharing