Saxophone is practiced by the unskilled.

Debris institutionalized
into a camel's callous
ground in and waiting
for an age-long purge.
Leaning forward.
Reaching up.
Grasping.
...at a clear mind.
Hoping.
...for a clear soul.
Accepting.
...it as not enough.
Furrowing.
A mind and a brow.
Sinking.
Into a darkness I can not escape.
Landing.
On a sand bed of hope.
Somewhere under the waters.

Still no surface or light.
But in a cave without intimidation
from the creatures of the deep.

It is not dismal, though.

Mr. Gatsby,
Her hands look look just like Barbie's.
If Barbie had a manicure.
So still.
Such peace.
Why can I not taste that?
Put me in the runabout
In a summer's day.
Let an incomplete word remain
Until the day
That swirling over swamp
And flying over sea
Have died.
And may that never come.
Although it must come.