My soul joyrides
on audio fingers,
swooping across the keys,
I'm swept up,
like a feather in a sax solo,
batted all the way to heaven,
via wings,
of soothing mother trumpet.
Perspective is magnificently
deep-breath up here.
The dirty world below
blurs, dissolves,
shrinks, sombers,
into a punk Monet painting,
hanging like a cross
on an ancient, cracked wall,
impossible to tear down.
