The world incomparably richer than anything I had been taught.
Africa does not exist — only poverty, only dignity, only abandonment, only endurance.
The malaria mosquito decided history. The desert teaches humility.
Independence brought responsibility.
Colonialism left behind borders, habits of thought, fear that travels faster than wind.
A crowd is a separate being.
The traveler discovers himself only when he loses his way.
Time has a different density.
The problem is not only poverty, but the absence of choice.
The reporter must be quiet enough to hear what is not being said.
The world is not a rational place.
The greater the poverty, the greater the need for dignity.
Patience is a form of intelligence.
I came. I saw. I was conquered.
These words and phrases were gathered from the Polish writer and journalist Kapuściński’s The Shadow of the Sun, a collection of journalistic accounts and essays during his travels in Africa.
Rhythm moved to the center and stayed there, low and circular, like a thought that won’t resolve.
Texture replaced harmonic motion.
Improvisation was collective — no one stepping out front, just currents crossing currents.
Electric sound opened new space.
Tape hiss.
A razor blade lifting silence and laying it somewhere else.
The music mirrors its historical moment — voltage in the air, streets unsettled, nothing wanting to close.
Davis was always listening forward.
Jazz did not end here.
It changed.
And in the change pulse overtook certainty, groove kept widening, and the lights in the control room burned past midnight while the future assembled itself from fragments.
And listening changed too — no more waiting for the solo to arrive like a clean answer.
You had to lean in, stay inside the weather, let repetition become hypnosis, let ambiguity breathe.
The listener became part of the mix, not solving the music but entering it — finding meaning in the mystery of the world, holding the pulse until it began to reveal what it never intended to explain.
This is a found poem composed from words and ideas from Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew by George Grella Jr. Feel free to share your experiences with this masterpiece of modern music.
I’ve never trusted the loud surface of things, the noise beyond the headlines hijacking my attention.
I turn instead toward the weather inside the weather, light breaking out of its own shadow, a chord held longer than it should be, almost refusing to resolve.
I wait for the hush after the ferry horn when the harbor keeps breathing anyway. Kapuśińki walking through Accra dust — not filing copy, listening.
Noir light slipping through blinds, everybody marked, nobody simple. Deep thinking feels like this palm at night — fronds flaring out of blackness,
structure rising from dark without announcement. At this age I resist the easy answer.
It was the night after Depth Charge Challenge— left him on his knees, riding the porcelain chariot, begging for mercy. Tonight he was taking it easy.
His crew was copacetic— Mingo’s facial wounds, another casualty of the Challenge, were healing fine, superficial, leaving no scars. And Toons was stringing together three weeks of medicated calm, staying straight with Diet Pepsi and maraschino cherries, working the Karaoke machine like a gearhead in overdrive. That gave Benny the freedom to shift his attention to Savannah.
Available again, and sadly celibate, Benny had a crush brewing on the new waitress at the Mumbling Walrus.
He’d never known a Southern gal— that’s how she described herself— and was captivated by Savannah: the slow syrup of her Georgia roots, the country twang in her hello, the way she put herself together— just enough makeup to suggest she was from somewhere else— red cowboy boots with tooled eagle wings, a perky denim blouse, a pleated skirt that skimmed her dimpled, almost-zaftig knees, the tattooed snake coiled around her inoculation scar, her proper manners and flirtatious ways. Damn, what’s not to like?
Savannah made Benny feel like he was the most important guy at the bar, that his order carried the weight of global significance.
Benny was smitten. He couldn’t take his eyes off her— tracked her as she waited tables, taking trips to the sandbox (her word for the ladies’ room),
Benny was smitten. He couldn’t take his eyes off her— tracked her as she waited tables, taking trips to the sandbox (her word for the ladies’ room), while he rehearsed the courage to say anything besides Pabst Blue Ribbon.
When he lost sight of her, he drank faster— hoping she’d circle back, talk sweet, and bring him another beer.
It never crossed Benny’s mind that her warmth was the job, not the girl, that she was working for tips.
But Toons knew— hell, everybody in the place knew— and feeling sorry for his buddy, he climbed on stage to make a point, dedicating the next song to Benny.
He shook that wild red mane, face twisted in the blues of unrequited love, and spat out the lyrics:
Oh what’s love got to do, got to do with it What’s love but a second-hand emotion What’s love got to do, got to do with it Who needs a heart When a heart can be broken.
The chorus hit again, and Benny felt his name inside the words. He knew then he was snakebit— made a hasty exit, leaving a handful of crumpled bills on the table.
Out in the parking lot, he could still hear Toons howling through the chorus— a voice cracked but faithful to the last note.
Benny stood under the buzzing light, a gentle shower blurring the neon sign, thinking maybe love was just another song someone else had to sing.
The door pushes back with a soft groan, and the air is sugared brine, half bakery, half tidepool. Glass lamps shaped like jellyfish hang above, their glow steady, not quite natural. The menu glints in chalk dust, part joke, part warning, a dare scrawled in sugar.
I like to think of them finishing up their shift, punching out of whatever clock the sun keeps in the sky, maybe gossiping a little about the new patch of clover down by the fence post.
Then, without ceremony, they curl themselves into the purple like a guest slipping under a heavy quilt in an unfamiliar house, the air full of quiet and whatever dream bees dream.
Meanwhile, I’m here at the window, pretending to work, watching the day close shop—
It was a peaceful neighborhood until the signs started speaking— first they warned us, then they laughed.
Now a child runs forever— a small joke from the underworld.
But even the joke feels holy when the light hits right— when the mind forgets itself and floats like clouds through the blue dome of a sticker someone placed with quiet mischief.
The sign says SLOW. The sign says CHILDREN.
But it’s the skull that knows. Knows the world slows down only after. Knows how warning is a privilege disguised as concern.
Is it still running— that figure on the sign, some version of us, once wind-stung, barefoot, unafraid?
We wave, as if it matters.
I saw him once— third-grade me, maybe, invisible cape, skinned knees, halfway to Mars and all the way lost in joy.
He’s still out there, dodging traffic and dreaming about outer space, or cotton candy, or something better.
The sign still holds the shape of a child leaning into the forever no one meant to promise.
We keep walking. We obey. We forget.
But the child, skull full of clouds, keeps running into the deep, unspoken now.
Boho Dreams of Space and Time 