The origin of this composition begins as a dream fragment and then fades away, and I thought it would be a good idea if I picked up where that dream left off.
West Montgomery, Charley Parker, Johnny Hodges, and Ray Lucus were jamming on the banks of some nondescript river. Suddenly, T.S. Eliot's ghost appears and begins reading his dead yellow-newspaper-cathedral poetry. Fifteen minutes into the reading, his audience falls asleep. Whitman, Ginsberg, and Leroi Jones come up behind him., tap him on the shoulder, and whisper in his ear: This is not a funeral ceremony, mate. Get on with it, will you?
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