He says, “I write songs without music, my head Is a libretto warehouse.” She says, “You string words like random beads, no two strands the same.” He says, “Symmetry is for those with linear minds who can’t see out of the tunnel.” She says, “Dysentery, verbal, is a disease to be avoided particularly by poets.” He says, “I’ll sing a song for you if I can only find the right notes.” She says, “Fine, but know it is the silent space between the notes were the music truly lives.”
You are driving through the Florida that once was, that is off the coast, and out of Orlando, the Florida of jalousie windows, run down once gas stations and the more than occasional double wide. Suddenly, you are in a Disney version of a semi-tropical New England, gated villages where cars have been supplanted by an endless stream of golf carts, where the Disney smile is a permanent fixture of most every face. In the community, as you walk into the town center, a town square imagined by Rodeo Drive, each night at five a wave of golf carts arrive , to plastic lawn chairs laid out in neat array soon to fill with those who so well remember when the songs to be played, and they, were young.
In a Jovian moment Luna paused her wanderings and sat patiently above the trees that stare down on the street. You know they are speaking, want very much to listen in on their conversation, but the birds are busy singing their evening songs, and pay neither moon nor planet the attention that they are due. Soon enough Luna recommences her nightly trek across the sky, while Jupiter stands still a moment longer, enjoying his starring role in this nights heavenly show.