everyone’s taking a crack at Bird turning 100, so I will:
pubescent ill-fitting jeans of too-early fatherhood.
Out the Shed, gonged by Jo, return to shed.
Dig the drug and start a life spent scoring.
Scares the rest of Hootie’s boys and ripples out.
Dishwashing with a mind full of ecstatic lines. Meets the mob with simultaneous dreams-Diz, Monk…
The dream, sweeping up any musical minds not solely locked into self-preservation. Swamped in the wake of this enormous destroying juggernaut.
The buzz is all and is music and is drugs and the magnetism pulls in the village.
Bastard kind man, generous thief. Appetite’s a ponderous load that crashes wildly down 52nd St., sideswiping and enrapturing.
Wasted bright genius of focus and nod; all things to some and often nothing but tracks and trax. Cracking open the doors.
Satori and scab, locked in a fatal dance.
Still the purest deeply soiled magnetic field. Swept clean now. Burnished to notes.
