If time is not decay, perhaps immortality is possible. Painters and composers create the beautiful. What else do they do? Barry Gibb, maker of records, looks down from the balcony of the Kennedy Center as they honor him with horrible covers. Not honor, but horror. A gifted musician with piano or guitar could have made those melodies and harmonies, familiar to millions, speak out sweetly and properly. This is how they kill the poet. Of course Mr. Gibb was grateful, even if the Bee Gee from the balcony thought: this is shit and everyone is shit. Thank God for records we can listen to alone.
