Mass

The mouth of the saxophone is the belly of the player the bones of the player the veins of the player the feet feeling the earth revert the vibrations like an oscillator you should see the waves in the air, in the drinks when Mass plays his bass it's like the birth of a star, a galaxy, the black hole of a dying star being sucked into nothing it's the streets of summer the naked children running under the shower of fire plugs opened screeching with pleasure the mothers upstairs in the rooms like furnaces-the nights under covers of cotton with men, husbands that make it all right for a while no thoughts of loss, of those missing too soon the rhythm is right and wild like someone flying from the roof to surrender