Controlling the Silver

I Buy My Son A Reed

96 I Buy My Son a Reed All day, John Coltrane invoking a Love Supreme, woke up with him. In the slumber days before the why of the reed’s insistence shook me I’d play H. Mann’s Battle Hymn, soft beginning, Shams of Tabriz asking Rumi sly trick questions, near the end all the entire reed bed is keening. I buy my son a reed instrument, for Shams, in thanks for the days I woke in charnel house unconscious, yet here I am, relating this tale. He does not touch the reed, wanting to postpone the must and bound day when said instrument will function as straight extension of his breath. Let’s say now he will not. Leave it, I too slept late. Today here’s John Coltrane, who desired to become a saint; his giant steps shook down sheets of sound to wrap and seal off heart’s core. I was twelve when I heard someone say his lungs contained air enough to move large rooms. May my son’s. ...