The White Horse
greenwich village is where we
met in the white horse
metaphorically (of course)
a dylan thomas shrine
mine and ed's that is
in the discourse of music
and poetry a matrix of
black and white or green
and blue the rich grained
grey toned tune of our
modal affections fixed in
cemented reality on the
planes of a new mexico
plateau. the musical mood
a model born out of
the fusion between a father
and a son a generational
thing to bring together
the sword and crown of
academia in glorious
adrenalin enriching
revolution - building the
ivory tower higher and
higher mandated in classical
chords block by block
stimulating vibrating strings
and ringing bells singing
in their worship. we met
ed and me in an ancient
sea of desert frosts lost
to the pulse of noisy city
distractions and lured by the
lilting voice of spring both
water and literal bounding
leaps across time and history.
now he is singing with his
lucy on the other side - los
otros - in his heavenly vaulted
chambers with wagnerian tuba
orchestral sounds lifting up
the spirits of angels
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