An atonal free jazz trio
That captures the flux in its nakedness
And fractures the voices as they
Break on their way to relevance,
In textures impasto'ed one on another
In imitation of how it feels to be
Run over by what will never make sense.
Where are my friends? Where have they gone?
The echoes in place of my shoes
Who've been somewhere, thought things,
Waved hats as if they were kings,
Had encounters in alleys with history,
Got shanghai'ed by family,
Tried to let the city be
As they walked it with Horus eye.
There were many fine gradations --
Pale ales, slow curves, prog guitars --
And even finer degradations ...
I don't know where you are.
Was it only some common laughter?
Were we always so far away?
We had to disperse to these borders,
Uncertain if the country ahead is even real.
