Like a guitarist, who in his old age acquires severe arthritis and is reborn a poet, pecking at computer keys with curled up digits -- a cross between ash twigs and maple sausage links forgotten since morning -- and the same knowing grin slapped onto his face, the one he donned during his finest solo in the coliseum back in '83.
"Change is an illusion," he declares to no one in particular, or perhaps to everyone, particularly.
The guitar can't play without the strings, fingers, frets and the space between bended wood and malleable mind. The poem, already there, can't reveal itself from behind the misty curtain without the help of those dead fingers and tired eyes, an old soul and a broken heart to one day massage those that are suffering back to zestful reality, to align with the memory of tomorrow.
