It defeats the purpose of rhythm

to think that one creates it.

Itís already there-

clinging to the bones of dead musicians

in their instrument coffins.

That skull was once filled

with the loud questions:

What will I be?

How will I do it?

The questions rang in that shell

that was the head of a man.

Sometimes I am full of war and rhythm,

and I am the confusion-

the echo of those questions.