awash.
The rain beats steadily outside my window.
I'm trying to pick a starting hand,
while others pick through their rubble wondering how to start anew.
Trying to synthesize the thoughts
so I can lay them juxtaposed in a psychedelic fashion
for others to trip out on.
Yet they feel so far away.
The rain outside my window,
moved on from the Big Easy, when really I sat down, between hands to pay homage to the man, who like Eli Whitney, invented a device of liberation.
Just as the gin freed the slave through automation the synthesizer freed the beats from monotones.
I can't imagine the sound and fury of my life without the repercussions of Bob's device.
For the soundtrack of my life could never have been produced.
I know the world goes on, through tragedy and chance, and through it all we look to god to make sense of what was dealt. Yet I also know that sense is made through synthesis and death is just a part of the blend, and I can't help but think what better way for god to speak and be heard.
