And so in these times, cher Percusso

enter the house of rhythm

and bear down with the sureness

of those for whom even language was a chore,

but song effortless, and dance the same as laughter.


And so, artist Percassio, pick sticks from palette

and beat color into motion on the taught canvas

that wills the color into life and love, even

into the pixellated pointillist patterns of the air,

say, above the Seine in Paris in a pastel spring.


And so, even you too, Plato in your cave of dreams--

resonate until you explode with riot of the real,

sending the shadows dancing up the flickered walls

out among those who will and must boundingly step

to the ecstatic, the lush and loving, the rhythm.


Thoughts of a nightwing heartbeat drummer, dramatic.


Drumlove, drumstruck alive.