Sonata No. 11 – Op. 22

Come on. There’s a celebration at the house next-door & we’re invited. One flight up. There. See the guy at the piano. He writes this stuff. Yes. Right. That’s him. Of course you can. But not yet. Give him a chance. & while you’re at it pass the pipe. Never can tell. Never can be sure. One thing we’ve learned these startlingly antiseptic days. Can’t trust the fat-man all decked out in his in red-on-white-on-blue pretender-ware. Can’t abide those wielding baseball bats, iron pipe & Nazi Banners. No place for lies & subterfuge. At last count 110,000 dead & climbing. I wonder what B would have said about this ‘grand’ calamity. But. Back to music: Being lulled & lavished & lulled again -Then -Up the stairs. To the kitchen. They’re passing out eclairs & tastes of Fonseca Tawny 20. Still get off on good eats & good drink. Miss family though & friends. Wait. He’s about done &…