Certain things there were
to which our Charlie
clung with ferocity unrefined.
Coaxed and coached
was he in the ways
of discernment and disdain.
To deeper truths swore he himself
and forsook the middler path wherein
the making of friends might more
prominently have figured.
Having cast himself an outcast
in the plastic environ
which was his adolescent imagination,
enjoyed he (somewhat)
swimming against the tide,
a picnic at the cliffs
where lemmings ran to die.
It amused him, but comfort little gave.
A long, slow while was it,
during the which was much read
in fields spiritual mystical,
awakening the primitive intuition
gone for so long ignored, unheard,
drowned out with ratiocinations
most vigorously exercised.
Something unschooled in him,
tightly strung, began to make
almost musical sounds-
sometimes a bagpipe like drone,
a Bill Evans ostenato
a sitar, a zither, a hurdy gurdy...
over which
the first timid words
were spoken,
spoken again,
rearranged,
then written.
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