the game of all games

as far as the eye can see

there's not much of a difference...













... between one game and the other. where steadfastness is required, not as lack of change or mobility, rather as resolution and determination. Firm in belief.
Jazz and bball.
And Ducati. It's a one-person team and has a damn good game. I can do my thing and be resolute.
And be firm in belief.

(a firm butt would be nice too)

Pellucid

"New Orleans: A Creole mass, NO" - copyright Herman Leonard

Pellucid: admitting maximum passage of light without diffusion or distortion
Zona pellucida: the transparent more or less elastic outer layer or envelope of a mammalian embryo.

There. I AM a zona pellucida.

I admit the maximum passage of light. Light in all the conjugations of human feeling.
I am a more or less elastic envelope, I stretch, I crack, I am resilient, I am not.

And remember, in order to implant in the human endometrium, every embryo has to hatch from its zona pellucida and expose its inner surface, sticky with adhesion proteins.
The pellucida is that through which life is created. And gets lost in the process.

So is that it? Do I have to lose myself to regain the ultimate gift of life, creation, creativity?

Why can't I write? What am I waiting for? To get lost?
Get lost Ducati. No, really. What the fuck are you waiting for?

To be peeled off,
like the prints in Herman Leonard's New Orleans home.
The archive of so much Art of the Crescent City
lost without a sound to the tide
of the Mississippi.

Never ebb, just flow.

when?

e.e.cummings - a man who could write poetry as a musician would improvise in jazz, punctuation being his chord changes and his instrument (I always think of him holding a bass).

The following poem of his was once dedicated to me. Funny how only recently I came to unlock its message. And to wonder when it will happen again, the dedication, the magic, the tending, love and care.

When?

Let me cater to you:

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands