But The World was less than a mile from home, and there, in sets, I used to listen to the bands. So the keyboard player must have brought a Clavinet to perform near the ceiling where the stage was located. Could they not have brought that stage closer to earth? The floor? And who owned The World? A Coop? A Conglomerate? The Horns? And where in that crowd of motley disciples, upped and downed, dancing and freaked, went those years? Why the change? Never a blatant celebration. Never a drunken brawl (no alcohol!) And now? A blasted eardrum forgetting a note? A cell forgetting to duplicate perfectly? An airline ticket to someplace else? A degree? And where is the keyboard player? And what happened to his Clavinet? Decades pass, but the spirits hang near me. I imagine them as I drive by The World. My eyes see an empty warehouse, space without sound, dust. So I close my eyes, and a black blaring vortex sucks me through to the top, once more, with my buddies, I’m high.
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