Monday, January 29, 2007
to keep it clasped tight between my pincers
through the long-winded goose
chasing. I fail.
Even in this moment as I clatter backwards
on all fours recounting
all of the ways I have fallen short – all of the music
I began, with what heat!, and promptly cut off cold
turkey. Oh, I’m sorry, yes,
an accident of course, just
slipped my mind. Socrates
stood motionless for days on end
to keep a palsied grip on the kite’s
elusive tail that whips up sometimes, pulls taut, 80 degrees
I’m telling you, easy to follow.
We get this hallowed sense of self, religious
inflation, which, in the course of things, is lost
when the kite dips and the rope
and I’m left alone
in one place, trying to re-collect the story,
trying to patch together clues
to my amnesiac life, amidst a rabble
of circumstantial evidence, and this ridiculous
rope strung backwards through time,
tied always - strange now that I think of it -
to the successive images of me.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
all of the ways
that eagerness fails –
it does yes, perhaps,
in the end. But do we ever have the end?
We have only now, this: mop of hair
on the Red Priest’s pate jouncing back and forth
to the cheerful cadence, raised arm
announcing each arriving beat.
We wait expectant for the bright descent –
for the opening of the next gate, ajar,
daylight betraying the world behind.
We follow the hand that runs from room to room
throwing wide the doors of the house.
Don’t try and explain away
the smile on Vivaldi’s face,
or mine. Let tomorrow worry
Won’t eagerness wend its way off some distant cliff
of meaninglessness? Yes, and how the hell should I know.
Too many monolithic syllables in between.
And such delight in the next.
Such vivid delight in the next.
Monday, January 08, 2007
He was born in Ravenna, which was one of my favorite stops in Italy when I went a couple years back. Lovely old Byzantine city, cobblestoned and courtyarded - home to San Vitale, an exceptionally beautiful Byzantine Basilica of the 6th century.
His melodies are clear and fluid. They are refreshing.
Click on Corelli's flowing mane to hear Concerti Grossi, Opus 6, no 8, allegro.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
As I listen, I'm prepping to jump back into the waters of Rhetoric and Critical Reading. Met my new class. They seem swell. Not so much in the swollen sense, as in the neat-o, allright.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
So, as I said, the soul asked questions to the man who touched, and he replied in kind with light and encouraging puffs of language. His sentences, it became clear, his words to himself, were wrapped about something.
This made the soul touch faster - the man began to ask his questions in rapid succession - poppop pop -like a derrick pumping oil, bad and noxious, from the world's snake bite wound. They watched his words unravel. Something was appearing. Loneliness evaporated into mystic glee. Harder and harder they went, language greased and gunning, and then
the thing itself revealed.
Was laid bare.
I saw it.
I was watching.
The man and the soul, however, had fallen asleep. Three times this happened. Before the fourth could find its culmination, the ground had taken back its own.
twisted off. After all the roads out to the lake
have been erased. (Leaving me stranded)
After we have stood and faced
what it is
that we aren't capable of calling you,
Soul, come, and sit with me.
I need an arm,
a bit of flesh,
to lean my weight upon.
You dont refuse an old man
it? A moment ago I was young
and building -
Then the raucous vacuum
came and orchestrated the renewal
of the dark. It meant to.
Oh, it feels that it meant to
do that to you.
Come, then, let me touch your face
so you can know
And we shall lean again into the wind -
Soul, do you hear me
calling down the funnel?-
the dark and ravishing wind.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Vivaldi! He, formidable master of the Baroquean pitch, is the composer of the week. I've been listening to the Four Seasons, which you've heard nearly in entirety even if you think you haven't. La Stravaganza is next in the queue. His music feels like the Californian New Year: bright, busy, wealthy.
for the days are short -
It being winter.
It being the climate.
It being the mustard sandwich
we wave when bereft at lunch
of the thing itself -
whatever we happen to be speaking of.
Soul? Are you my gesture's pith or sandwich?
That's not the question I brought you here to ask,
but it seems pertinent.
It seems like it will fit.
It always fits.
It was made to.
I'm asking: there's you, and there's your flesh -
in English, two extremities, and two hearts, composite
acting as the thing we wave
when we speak of you.
My lips, bread.
My tongue, processing meat -
I am waving myself out over the dark lake.
I am conversing of you.
dedicated to the Hofer
With an arched neck,
lays an ear to the fleshy divet
between his chests pectoral lumps
and listens to the metronomic
drumbeat of blood.
Oh Soul, can't you see I'm dying
to know where it is you're making
(This is not about the beauty of the language!
Come out, my hands are clean!)
The soul remains quiet,
flexing in the dark
to whom I addressed my next question:
And what are you the lack of?
And why do I hate you so much?
The blood pumps.
A waft of pancake batter cooking lifts,
pungence of a morphic creature.
Monday, January 01, 2007
The syntax is a veritable freak show of perfection, the slipping between thought and dialogue smooth and sweet, and the characters livid with animation. Buck Mulligan is doing wonders for my heart.
This may be presumptuous, but if the first chapter is a clue, this book will be one of my favorites long before I reach its faraway final word. It is, after all, not in the least a short novel.
And the new year is here. As you might have induced from my last two poems, I spent some of it in the desert. Mojave National Preserve, 100 miles southwest of Satan's National Preserve. No, I'm not talking about Death Valley - that's 100 miles due north. I'm speaking of Vegas. Las Vegas. The Vegas. And what are the Vegas? No one really knows, but shoot, can they put on a show.
Sorry, my verbosity has been aroused.
Back to Stephen Dedalus.
they do no harm to it.
it is so simple. it is not listening
to the babble of the way things
should be. it is even, steady,
and rises quickly in both lights
when it wants to.
these rises, these white peaks, granite
and dry scrub,
are silent in that hour
when the sun and moon meet -
they want to be silent -
they have nothing more to say than being there.
they let the sky speak its smallest most
neglected songs: the low swish of cirrus clouds
unraveling, the faint clap
of stars appearing. these love the desert for its humility,
and fear it.
who is this, so wise, so simple
as to let things be how they are?
the sun reveals it.
the moon makes it bright with joy.
I am thinking of a new kind of year.
As the late year folded down
old behind the last range,
red and thin, flapping in the hard winter wind,
I clapped my hands -
a new idea.
I waited, not speaking a word to any soul,
not even you,
until the sun blushed its sphere
and sank. Until the last spot of light winked.
Until the dimming sky screamed,
ripped the last pink
gauze off the dying thing and slapped it
back into the universe, I waited,
every inch of my skin bristling -
and when the old man howled and collapsed back,
and the sky said "Ma cosa fai?"
I replied "I am inventing again."