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The Sax Player
Harriet's head floats above the saxofone - it's one more key in the alluvium.
The sax player doesn't notice her.
The sax player shakes the colors off like a soaked dog.
Slits of ripped smoke in the sky the band.
The band undertakes an arch.
The band falls and it's captured by the doors and windows of sleep.
The fingers rip
The forever-blue of the sky.
Blue splinters.
Fall like tired parakeets and are left behind.
The dancers ripen and are reaped.
They are sold by dozens in misty streets.
The dancers are in a hurry.
What they don't have is weight,
Hence they don't suffer the action of gravity.
They know that somewhere in this immense country
There's a train crossing the plains,
And with it travel their hopes.
The dancers shake like coins,
The dancers are happy coins
In the pockets of a beggar touched by wine.
They're 50-cents ghosts of the Savoy, of Minton's.
Towers collapse with a swing of the hips
Serpents are crushed under heels.
The country's purpose is to grow.
The marquees smile in the middle of democracy,
State of glory all over the nation!
The sax player sleeps in the Autumn.
We know that he sleeps as we know of a garden that's just there.
In the Spring he wakes up, melliferous,
And drags Ganesha in a dance.
(How bellows the sax player!)
And the dance spreads as an ancient wave
In a photography of a beach,
Well-behaved inside the compact picture.
And each obstacle
Dances uncontrollably,
And each obstacle laughs and is demolished.
The notes are electrical wolfpacks, nervous
They take the highways all of a sudden!
The ghosts at the Savoy bounce in the walls as if receiving shocks.
It´s the signal for the old ballrooms
To start vomiting ghosts in a convulsion like a shriek.
We can't even know for sure
Where the dance ends and where the tracheotomy begins.
The sax player is not responsible for his acts.
He is the conduit man, he's just a subway map.
The sax player has sub-levels and access routes.
He is the between-the-three-and-the-four,
He is a piston, or a row of them,
Or a wheel, or a collision,
Or maybe just the possibility, for now.
The sax player inhabits the Pneumatic Machine.
He is a rip in the tissue,
An hemorrhage vibrating in the Universe's trachea.
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