In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

63 The Myth of Kora Kalimba was left between Gong and statuette; Jesus splayed on a rock. My brass is old, spoke Gong, wide chime full of sorrow. Reverberation is a myth. I tell lies to my children about a time that never existed, they ask me for a story and I recite limericks, infused with songs of the disparate. I was given a cushion once, and I sat, waiting foolishly, like an object with purpose. Kalimba chimed in; I feel your lament, Brother. Look at me, void of gut & bone. From a fallen baobab I was born, prodded with spike and nail, pluckedontheshoulderofaroad,insectspouredout,monsoonofsound— Hear my tines? Zimbabwe on a zephyr. None can touch the softness of thunder where cavernous awaits. It was a game, interrupted Jesus, a little thing called emptiness. See this ring of thorns? A garden becoming. One stick for the laughable horizon, the other toward the satellite’s heart. This rock? An idea of erosion’s pull. Between two mountains, the space where music is born. ...

Share