Another beautiful love song. Catherine came over late on Sunday, and I heard this melody dancing somewhere.
"What do you think?" I asked her.
"I like it," she said.
I played it for a while. We sang the bits, until the jewels turned to words and we had a semblance of a lyric.
That was when I figured Catherine could take over. I love her lyrics. She makes things so effortless.
Tomorrow's a new day, she said. Told you yesterday. It won't hurt. It won't hurt.
I smiled. Beautiful. She is flawless.
We spent the rest of rehearsal with her on the bass guitar. I told her she was a natural. It's the truth. She also looks pretty cool playing the bass. It was like the instument for her.
"It fits you," I said.
"Yeah," she agreed.
Here is the song we recorded. I hope you enjoy it.
The art I create is about allowing the accidents and the imperfections within myself to be honored and celebrated. Here is Slipshod's rendition, of a happy accident, when two musicians held space among the infinite, and talked to loved ones like they talk to themselves.
Kisses to you all,
Pirooz, the Infinite
[for JP who likes poe A tree: The tender shaft blooms for no one in particular. It's hues placed in accordance with a time honered tradition, sits in a semi-circle by our feet. The master, upon the rug, blows from the pipe his truth like bits of orange peeled back from a mental kaliedoscope. It is in this periphery that one begins to ache for the Friend, and understand what hurts is not as heavy as an axe when it is shaped by a feather.]
[That is one of the prettiest poems I have written in 7 seconds.]
[Time is now irrelevant.]
3 comments:
always beautiful my friend. wish i was with you to celebrate my imperections! still haven't bought your cd's. perhaps doing so will state my triumph over feelings of poverty.
is poverty infinite? i hope so. so is everything else.
joy to you and me and the damn shebang.
hugs
life's tumultous (lfstml)
md
oops. should have said 'my imperfections' though i like the mistake. kind of sexy. kind of eyeronik.
md
Imperections or Imperfections? How purrfect!
Poverty and time are relative quadratics like 'Einstein was a Guinea Pig' or 'Renoir was a beast!' It doesn't have to make cents for you to be a tycoon.
Racoons, on the otherhand, have cornucopias of waste at their disposal. They grow big and fat, and walk on front porches, with heir eyes flashing like diamonds made famous by Mr. Fitzgerald.
His mountain, yours, or mine will blow its top with atomic equivocation when a tear and destiny can filter through the eye's needle and show how sandpaper makes the ego rough and a quill is a feathered tool.
Don't you agree?
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