Song of the Andoumboulou: 21
Next a Brazilian cut came on Sophia picked. Paulinho's voice lit our way for what seemed eternity, minha primeira vez the one phrase we caught or could understand, no matter it ended soon as it'd begun. Endless beginning. Endless goodbye. Always there if not ever all there, staggered collapse, an accordion choir serenaded us, loquat groves hurried by outside. . . It was a train in southern Spain we were on, notwithstanding Paulinho's "first" put one place atop another, brought Brazil in, air as much of it as earth, even more, an ear we'd have called inner unexpectedly out. . . Neither all in our heads nor was the world an array less random than we'd have thought. . . It was a train outside São Paulo on our way to Algeciras we were on. . . Djbai came aboard. Bittabai followed. . . A train less of thought than of quantum solace, quantum locale. "Quantum strick, bend our way," we begged, borne on by reflex, a train gotten on in Miami, long since gone . Lag was our true monument. It was an apse we strode under, made of air. There inasmuch as we exacted it, aliquant amble, crowds milling around on corners began to move, the great arrival day we'd heard so much about begun, sown even if only dug up again. Call it loco, lock-kneed samba. . . Multi-track train. Disenchanted feet. . . It was the book of it sometimes going the wrong way we now read and wrote. . . Split script. Polyrhythmic remit
From Whatsaid Serif by Nathaniel Mackey. Copyright © 1998 by Nathaniel Mackey. Reprinted by permission of City Lights Books. All rights reserved.