Build a house of amaryllis petals, sail in a boat constructed of sonnets, swing on a branch of etymology, bathe in a pool the hue of persimmon, watch the sky light up at the gasp of dusk to deep blood orange, trundle through the amber of fallen leaves, float through clouds glowing golden, on a kite woven of the greenest grass, and land on the deep black sands next to a sapphire lagoon under a canopy of kiwi.
Sing in bird song, the rhythm of heart beats loudly keeping the tempo, the whisper of the wind a lullaby, a wake up call, an anthem. In this land, ride the back of an ostrich to the anarchist's croquet tournament, throw bananas at the contestants, spin around three times over the left shoulder and keep spinning and keep spinning and keep spinning until all vision is a vortex of prisms of colors, palettes of blue, red, yellow, gold, copper, verdigris and the ground underneath gives way and opens into a land under Ali Baba's cave, before the Arabian Nights, earlier than Grimm or Boccaccio or Chaucer or Aesop into a world of primary colors and syncopated sounds where all living creatures move in waltz time and all inanimate beings move in 5/7 with full rests every 37 1/2 weeks, and 1/16 rests every 37 1/2 hours.
Everybody has the Blues.
Everybody longs for meaning.
Everybody needs to clap hands and be happy.
Everybody longs for faith.
full text: Opening address to the 1964 Berlin Jazz festival
a Cheshire moon glowing low in the sky