12: 18 p.m.
Sitting at Buddy Stubbs, listening to a band of renown,
totally being absorbed by their rhythmical energy.
Following beats around the grounds, writing them carefully
into intrepid prose, catching, grasping and placing them
all into a cache of fortune that they will one day shine
from through literature.
Sounding beautifully, whispering into the atmosphere with
coded messages, believing in spirits of nature as they
timidly enter realms of imagination.
Voicing the totality of life, bringing it to heights of
being, allowing tremors of quiet solitude to become words
that are being written.
Hoping to touch minds of other people here, enjoying them-
selves, catching rhythms on a piano in mind, fingers
rapidly tracing their patterns into inner catacombs of a
brain.
(12: 20 p.m. - 3/29/14)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem