the soft contemplations
of a piano …
When I hear these sounds
I write out of tune,
out of rhyme,
out of Western time,
and I guess they'll call it trash.
… the lifting of a trumpet,
trailing away, never ceasing …
Won't consider putting my stuff in their journals
that no one ever read;
I guess they'll call me a snob.
I think I'll hire an airplane
and send my sweet words floating down.
I'll draw pictures of me
sitting on the toilet,
writing on the walls
… to lift the soul of the land
out of their cruel hands …
A barbarian engaged in
sacrilegious commentary,
but my admiration is true.
… the directness of a saxophone
calling out, telling a story
of struggle and strife
since way back when?
I lift your tune to my lips
and blow my sweet sacrilege.
