Monday, February 27, 2006


Dexter Gordon birthday.

Dexter, King of the Turf.

To suspect som Defect either in the Intellects or Integrity of those that oppose one. Found guilty of Chance-medley. Thus by opprobry unsung. My beforementioned.

Finding oneself thinking (bluely) of the third of Harry Partch’s Eleven Intrusions, the one call’d The Rose, words by the visionary Ella Young, out of Marzilian and Other Poems (Harbison & Harbison, Oceano, California, 1938):
The rose that blooms in Paradise
Burns with an ecstasy too sweet
For mortal eyes
But sometimes down the jasper walls
A petal falls
Toward earth and night
To lose it is to lose delight beyond compare
To have it is to have despair
Or, all sundry goes one’s pulse, Pallidula, rigida, nudula, as the Pound didn’t say.