„…I had great visions but never could bring them together with reality. I used it all up. It’s all gone. Don Allen is to be my literary executor…“
Palm trees are tall and friendly. The sun is hard, but not threatening. The buildings are on my side. They are not road signs as I expected, but they provide some shelter from the noon heat.
Coltrane has this power to lift your soul above your body as your body remains frozen in the moment, and yet not bored even for a second. The priests would say similar things about the religions that they preach. The heart of the voodoo and I live on the same island. Coltrane will not allow that I am turned into a doll. The sun is harsher than I thought.
I understand my boiling thoughts less and less, but I am closer and closer to poetry. We have grown distant lately. I am not its favourite as I used to be. I have forgotten to offer a sacrifice. I have neglected the modesty of the proper writing.
Albert Saijo died in the Volcano before sending me off. John Coltrane, the saxophonist, when he was not on stage, when he was just a plane tenor man, managed to remain modest and decent. My poetry adores him for this.