Find the Music

Find the music. On the street.
In the subway.
Out of the tinkering technology that renders the trombone an anachronism.
Find the music on fourth street in a city that isn't jaded,
Inside of a body that lives
Even when it rains on Saturday.
Find a body that validates,
That sees the truth of this present.

Now ride back and meditate.
Sit on, whistle and, write on the low (low) timber of that which has yet to happen.
Live on the lie that you can fix the past,
And ride, ride inside of the music that you do not own.
Ride.
Ride for the truth you do not know.