Luyện nghe bài hát Plastic Pattern People

Glad to get high and see the slow world.
Just to reach, and touch, the half floating.
Worlds spinning orbit than 9/8ths Dave Brubeck.
We come now, frantically searching for Thomas Moore, villages.
Up on suddenly, Charlie and our man Abdul Malik,
to add bass, to a pit of insecurity.

You may be plastic because you meditate,
the bottom of glasses, The third side of your universe.

Add on Coltrane and her cosmic strains.
Still no on blue black horizons.

plasticity is tested by a formless assault.
The sun can answer questions in tune, to all sacrifices.
But why would our new jazz age us no more mind expanding puzzles?

John.

Blow from under, always, and never, so the morning, the sun,
may scream of bending saxophones.

The world arrives, with Yusef Lateef, and Pharaoh Saunders.
With oboes straining to the core of your unknown soul.
Shankar comes, with strings attached, prepared to stabilize your seventh sense,
Your rhythm.

Up and a silly ladder run the notes, without the words.
Words are important for the mind, but the are for the soul.
Miles Davis, So
Cannonball, Fiddler, Mercy.
Dexter Gordon, One Up.
Byrd, playing Cristo, but what about words?

Would you like to survive on sadness? Call on Ella and Happiness.
Drift with Smokey, Medley, Bobby Taylor, and Otis Redding.
Soul where frustrations are washed by drums, Nina and Miriam.

Congo, Mongo, me, senseless, bongo, Tonto.
Flash through dream of STP and LSD.
Speed and sometimes musics call, is frustrated.
And the man is confused.

Our speed is our pace, much too fast, not good.
I beg you to escape, and live, and all of the real.
Until a call for you to cry elsewhere.
We all cry, but tell me.

Must our be white?