The music continues.  The words of Wanda Coleman and Henry Miller remain imprinted on my mind.  I am high in emotion.  I just try to keep the passion roaring in this unholy evening.  The poetry and painting and dancing of soul are still extant.  It just keeps getting harder and harder anymore.  We don’t have the pure flow but the remains we get are still adequate.  We dig out these fossils of the soul and call them art.  And there are takers.  There are always takers in the poetry of the soul.  I listen.  I hear the guitars and bass as the darkness of night remains.  The songs and the poems are all that will remain in the morning.  All else will disappear.



View georgeschaefer's Full Portfolio