Life's Cosmic Jazz
*************
The Streets pulse with their own life, composing small symphonies of car horns, detached voices, and the distant, muddled Laughter of A Lonesome Crowd.
He leans against the crooked lamppost,..stale cigarette dangling from his frowning lips, eyes tracing the neon signs that flicker like memories through a fog of Last Nights Booze.
He's been The Wanderer,..The Misfit,.. A Modern Beatnik Vagabond chasing his Wildest Dreams across The Concrete Jungle of An Ideal America born in Countless Desperate Alleys 1000 Restless Yesterdays ago.
Now?,
he's just a *Man, ..lost in the Broken Rhythms of His Discordant Existence, seeking as always His Own
Philosopher's Stone.
"Life,"
(he muses),
"it's like jazz."
"improvised and unpredictable."
"It's asphalt holds the dirty Secrets that All Lovers' Love to whisper. (and the many broken promises made in Moments of Their Lust's Unseasoned Haste. )
He wonders (briefly) if the stars whisper too? Or hold any useful answers?
*
But For the moment
(in The Screaming Silence of His Wanton Heart) he lets the Indifference of Another Night embrace him,.. as lone saxophones wail in a far-off distance.
(Cautiously improvising The Solitary Notes of Life's Odd Cosmic Jazz.)
