The metre fails. The melody, absented, goes unheard.
What should be, went somewhere, and words are
Stumbling clods of thought.
Stumbling blocks that fizzle into dirt, making mole-hills out of
Mountains, tick-tocking their way down the dark side.
Rocks that tip and settle like a bad throw of the dice;
The bet is swept; you thought it hidden, but everyone knew,
If shapes could hold, be fast, and stop, so senses, shrivelling
In lightest air, might know an instant’s knowing....
But on and on we are carried by the dull haul of dreams,
To waken, and hear
|the tickling, cold jacuzzi|
And then, some happy moments ensued. Some pictures:
|at the rehearsal; garden|
|a rooftop sunset pic i took|
|me, sam peeking past drums, and carlos|
|steve goldberg, trumpet and me, pointer|
|beautiful statues in the garden; this and one below|
|the ocean visible past the garden|
|just so tickled|