My words are not mine and yours are not yours
And neither were Shakespeare’s so don’t worry
Echos
Or reverberations
My organ receiving/transforming/transmitting

Who does that beautiful sound belong to?
Me?
Was it the string, or the wooden body of the violin?
Does it belong to Shostakovich?
Or to Jay Haide?
Or mother nature who gave him the wood?
Or was it the worker at the store?
Or Lila?
Or Shostakovich’s mother?

There is a note being played
Very loud and very high
Too high for the modern ear.
If you leave the city and the suburb and the farms,
To find that you have just been in a very finely tuned sound-proof room
Which permits only some sounds to penetrate,
See mother nature’s logic spread across the land
Look closely and broadly you may hear it.
It passes through my organ and out comes sadness today.

But tomorrow something else
And 100,000 years from now this little eddy of sound and fury will have dispersed entirely.
The composition of an idiotic genius
Signifying nothing but itself.