I am going to Chicago this week, to listen to the best
free jazz on our tiny planet, and have just discovered that
Fred Anderson has been dead there for 5 years,
his sax eaten by claustrophobic mice and bacteria.
I, a country bumpkin, was going to see skyscrapers,
but my friend who has already been there told me
just yesterday that they’re not skyscrapers at all,
just a bunch of ugly architectural inventions
built by renegade aliens from the outskirts of the Galaxy,
and the residents of those inventions sacrifice the mushrooms
that proliferate in the utility rooms and garages and the fish
that frolic in their bathtubs and toilet tanks to lazy Jesus,
and the city itself was named after the Bolshevist Cheka.
No way, but they say on the Web that Fred Anderson has been dead there for 5 years,
and his sax has been eaten by claustrophobic mice and bacteria.
For now, I guess, he is growing wings and looking for a half-decent trumpet.