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.