The Interstitial strives to curate intelligent, insightful, and thought-provoking pieces about what it means to be human. We bring our readers a distilled view of the complexities, contradictions, and edges of humanity across all genres.
I should write a poem to Ornette Coleman. We all should, though it would probably spread between us, unpredictably, all the guard rails blown through! Lines would travel across verses words would travel across lines syllables across words iambs across syllables rhythms confounding meanings optional. Everything works ‘til you try to count it.
Don’t try to count it! Let it under your skin.
Ornette got out of Fort Worth on a bus or train, landing, eventually, in New York with a plastic sax. He iconoclasted with a pocket trumpeter, a huge bass and drums that ran from here to tomorrow to a long gig at the Five Spot that divided everyone worth dividing, a schismatical blessing. The city was riven by Lonely Woman.
The Interstitial strives to curate intelligent, insightful, and thought-provoking pieces about what it means to be human. We bring our readers a distilled view of the complexities, contradictions, and edges of humanity across all genres.
Poet. Humorist. Storyteller. MuddyUm editor. I write. I have always written. I play accordion. I have an extraordinary ability to be fascinated by things.
