(my mind's continuing verbal wars with itself)
I feel, it seems, that i am always on the cusp of writing a truly great poem but never do.
it’s like that sometimes: being depressed while being given an award. feeling homicidal on your birthday. hating the warmth of the sun. laughing at funerals. all this. the highest highs and the lowest lows lost in each other, inseperable, the same and unassailable.
My home town, Saint Louis, lost a Great Jazzman on Saturday,
Clark Terry, trumpeter, flugel horn player and teacher died on Saturday, February 21, 2015.
Here’s a great recording of Clark’s quartet with Thelonious Monk as sideman (!) on the Riverside label.
Rest in peace.
my coffee is a bitter wound in its cup