Monday, April 16, 2007

For Oriental Space

Embedded in this as there was that
Sound sucked out seemingly from itself
Aware of where world ceases that ground

For hearing instruments products
Sifting products that single note's insistence
Probably from your trumpet immediate
Humming through its thresholds here

To our uncertain tunelessness *I* refuses
To become music in this air so open
We went there vacuous and this was that

The drums tuning to a windtunnel those
Marbles roll turning over what nearer
Ear was never place enough but the body
Makes a voice recalled someone sucked

In to what *with* breathing with us again
Music was first a wreck of voices where
Instruments disappear so sound can live.

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