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Saturday, June 29, 2013


Jan Fabre


Somehow the music found itself
In Cuba, beyond Son and the rhythm

Brilliantly feathered birds
Devour the afternoon.
A clacking of beaks.

Ramon says, “They sound
Like they are driving nails
Into the sunset.” just as
The guitars come up and
play some instrumental music.

“What is this supposed to be?”
“You are under arrest."

The clouds announce our names
Without stumbling on a single syllable.

The air catches inside a 
Clay pot and we hear a whistle.
You ask if it also sounds like your name?

We begin to understand music,
Pay attention to where the notes have been
And where they are going,
What they intend to do next.

You pour me a beverage
It is blue

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