The free spirit of jazz is in my head:
Thoughts fly off on a tangent like a blown
Up balloon with no knot in it; they’re red
Hot, like Paris; like ET phoning home;
Like tongues of flame licking all over Joan;
Like sweetened air, that special sort of rush
I get from labyrinthine saxophone
Or guitar solos, or the mighty brush
Of Bach’s fast-flying fingers. No, don’t crush
These flighty, flowering, quietly inbred
High towers of Eiffel and Gaudi, grown
Out of an abstract ground, fertile and lush.
From earthly bonds to heaven I am led;
In zeppelin and space shuttle I’ve flown.
Tue 28 May 2007
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