a poem for today, 3 November 2012
[a letter sorted sonnet of eight sentences and its image]
It is a bet.
It is indifferent in motive, originating in no psychology nor in dramatic intentions, nor in literary or pictorial purposes.
It is not addictive and tolerance usually does not develop.
It is as much a body thing, a presence thing, as conscious intellection.
It is a logical set of creative practices.
It is explosively euphoric, but can also be the source of potentially fatal infections.
It won't be too cerebral or annoying or weird.
It can be either a whole musical piece or part of a larger musical arrangement.
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