When I look around for proof
That I am alive, epistemology aside
I am a living metaphysics scattered
In the wind, dreams bought by books
There is no defragmenting this love
It’s the self-search of sheltered legacies
*
And I become a candidate
For door to door sustenance
Looking for proof that I exist
In these empty faces, these cynics with luggage
Perhaps I should be practicing not having
Because possession, isn’t in the cards
I’m no longer waiting, I’m simply
Pressing my ears and eyes into everything
Hoping that I don’t abandon hope too easily
*
I won’t rush death a bunch of dust
But leave what I am, stuck with you.
Wuji Seshat 
Your sentiment and photo remind me of the night in Manhattan that I learned to play trumpet, mentored by an inebriated, homeless Tony Fruscella, who once had been the jazz toast — ‘jazz toast,’ I like that — of the town and husband of Morgana King… a timeless night for me. His tones were what spurred me to speak with him.