A pause & then he must, you know, begin another
beautiful sheet of passion so thick you almost see the blood
man, the blood in sound, blood of the aboriginal wail
is almost visible, is palpable as the dark of night.
Sleeping, reenact the state similar, dreamtime
under influence of antepasados, remember the charge
a reiteration of the mission you undertook before birth.
Pine needles release their musky scent beyond the alder
tree & near collards, kale & corn beyond the   lone   dog's   moan.

Gentle fire standing up propelled into & beyond a tenor by
hands created to stir, remind & genuflect, these songs
are prayer or perhaps salvation
wrapped loose
around a blue mantra named Ascension  or  Violets For Your Furs.
A moment to forget time & reinvigorate    taste the
golden moment time stop, eternity as mediated by John's golden tenor
saxophone wind shaped & created for your ears alone it seems.

Sunlight streams in a similar way.    He
plays, you feel energy centers whir. The distance
across centuries collapses into a not so solid blur
his mission manifesting in a thousand shimmering notes
quiet enhancing the rise of kundalini you try to grab but
knuckles lose their function. The name rings out:

COLTRANE!     in    a    slow-motion   time warp  as   if    underwater, you say: "What?"

COLTRANE!      the answer remains & as you turn again & squint     the dream stops.

8.12.01 w/ lines from
Monk's Dream Dave Etter,
The Second Set: The Jazz Poetry Anthology Volume 2
pg 54