Serpentinarium

wheels within wheels, is not what I see the truth? rashoman asks. things in the new market, the old market, commerce thrives and contours (to steal a word I'd have never used that way before) civilization with its writhing life over (never)yonder. thoughts flying through my head: a writer with a gift for words, a filmmaker with a gift for vision, musicians with exquisite touch. breathing notes into, out of, an instrument that vibrates the air with sympatico delight, sensed by ears on heads, heads in a crowd, smokey blue air hanging over those heads while the sound flies across the bar tickling them all with bliss: heads leaned back or down, eyes closed. they get it.