He’s a mild gentleman sharply dressed introduces himself with a series of classic sound poems his whispers peaking through the texts like mice at a grand European ball the third by Russian futurist Klebhnikov has its grand sonorities and balloon buzzes large melancholy implications help me bell ringer I’m tired as the lion gargles with salt water start ringing the bells of the spirits bell and rope are here fat eating zombie that’s the great tolling of the spirit’s bell
It’s like square jazz by a white guy very proper and poised off the wall and out to lunch he stomps like he’s sneezing a body sneeze a poem by Kurt Schwitters counts his numbers like a kid Ur Sonata in Primal Sounds now he opines like university lecturer searching the class with eyes way over their heads the heavy tenor rising with bold enthusiasm pausing getting gruff eccentric as noble elements ionized and drinking the air which he discovers in its grandeur like a mad scientist at the local fair he’s in his own world now chasing the planets in orbit in his brain and he’s racing like an engine in a Bengal tiger’s belly speaking a broken language this can’t be serious yet it’s solemn as Supreme Court defendant telling his side of the story with the fury of a child’s tall tale
Now it’s the gamelans of Java so glorious lovely and peaceful quite erotic indeed as his whispers creak and rock like a ship on Indian Ocean on a moonlit night he spurts and spits lyrical cries practically crooning like Bing Crosby inhabiting the intensity of his song as the gongs ting like grandfather clocks and he’s grandfather reading Beatrix Potter to his child before bed it’s very calm happy and peaceful now chimes from a church on Sunday morning as the morning glories bloom on the picket fence the song in seed and dripping in the grass like water from a faucet holy fool of beaten bronze Dutch as van Ruysdael
More Dutch is the cheek synthesizer face between two microphones like Boston Whaler propellers or jet engines echoing this way and that or a father blowing on a baby’s belly waxing symphonic and sonorous as fingernails on a chalkboard
With BOLT (Junko Fujiwara – b, Jorrit Dijkstra -s, Eric Rosenthal – d, Eric Hofbauer – g)
Junko swanky on electric cello dressed in basic black a string attack fizzing and popping and bubbling Dijkstra dreamy electric sax Hofbauer tremulous treble Eric with stick in his mouth like a dog playing fetch it’s raining wild bleeps and blips from Blonk’s handheld device and he dishes his disciplined gargles as the music rises Junko dancing to her own drum a world apart from the ensemble Rosenthal tippling a cymbal on a skin mode of mirth and calm excitement Jorrit waxing jazzy on alto sax happy as Charlie Parker at the Camarillo smoking a Cameroon or a Tiparillo and Jaap Blonk growls sucking in smoky air Junko very low now on the strings she veritably sings a pause and a rasp on sax waves of faint light flash on a slow horizon it’s a traffic jam spread on white toast melange of melee Christlike chaos evening aerodynamics as the rubies shine in the chamber in the tower I’m a jazz musician in the crazy crucial court spilling my seed on the sacred ground as the sounds abound it’s a tectonic Ferris wheel eel grass elegance whipped up like a lemon soufflé
Now it’s a grand Salvation Army marching band over the cracked tar roads tripping and stumbling to knees under buzzing bees alive for the nectar a hive of holiness in a rolling meadow afire with purple flame there’s a unity to the band that fits in your hand
THE FLASH BOSTON 
the only prescription I need is more Khlebnikov