I put words to a well known Lennie Tristano solo. From Pink Floyd I took the idea that all the different people we might have been finally shake down into a clown. Can you guess the solo? The poem is from a self-published book called The Birds On Doty, pssst press, 1988.
"Mistakes are merely the correct choices of the clever kids you played with as a child before you moved away whose doubles you keep running into.
Alternate selves reaching out through the finger misdailing the phone swinging out wildly gasping for air before with age they pass from inner view.
They leave while you're asleep when you're least aware they pack their bags and leave and that's when you have your circus dream.
From the roof of a tent a spot pokes a hole through the gloom like the star of Bethlehem on a foggy night and flattens against the ice cream base of its cone a man with a whip in his hand and a frog in his throat who seems the only person in the world who knows what's coming next.
Certainty. That's the illusion. That's what we wrap around while we're unwinding. That's why we roll the bigboy in the sack trying to get some feedback from a quack that the dwarf hasn't pulled a prank. And when we request for the final act of the show to please welcome now the Rajah's elephants, that the dwarf won't appear in woolen underwear with a stovepipe hat on his head sitting astride a wooden horse on wheels drawn by a goat.
I love mistakes. Because what they leave when they go is all too true."
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