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Kurt Olson

grew up in Clarkston, but the river
And falls, the whispers and glances, the side-
Walk life, the upright’s strings aquiver
Beneath his touch, made him decide
To chance it north, to break his language
In two or three, to speak the garbage
Out, out, to dumpster dive
His soul and come back out alive
With music that was lost on fathers
(Ungiven, unforgiven, lost)
And words beneath forgotten crust
Cast out in alleys where no one bothers
With berries from Kurt’s favorite pie,
The filling filling up his sky.

Comments

  1. A cool folk-jazz riff on Spoon River.

    That’s what these beaut’s remind me of – what Edgar Lee Masters would have done if he listened to Brubeck and Dylan.

    this part really jumps out for some reason – the sound and sense work, I wish I could explain why:

    the upright’s strings aquiver
    Beneath his touch, made him decide
    To chance it north,

    JOB

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