Dream (four tet hands dub)
In my dream you are the same forever
The first flush of spring forever on your lips
Summer radiance forever mixed into the musk of your hair
In my dreams you come again and again and again forever
You never age or grow or have kids or turn to rust
You are Athena, Diana, Abnoba, Sirona, Isis,
Forever
Mary forever, virginal forever, bursting with fruit forever,
Red forever, full of the river and the rain
Giggling forever, abundant and supple forever
In my dream, nothing is dead, there is only forests and green fields
Forever wild flowers where you recline with grass on your
Belly, and thighs milk weightless breasts bulging
And everything is good in gods green universe
And we grow old and sleep side by side forever.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
lamb of molach 2nd draft
Lamb of Moloch
It had been raining for five days but the work went on, continually. Day and night. Two shifts 12 hours each. It was called a “shut down”. That’s when a big petroleum processing plant shuts down completely for maintenance. The longer the plant is off- line the more money is lost. Hundreds of thousands of dollars a day. So the bosses push to get it done. Everybody works 7 days a week, 12 hours a day.
A petroleum plant is a mass towers, made of gauges, pipes, heaters, coolers, valves, and dials. Towers are knots of metal twisting stories high, called stacks. In the rain the “stacks” were surrounded by giant sheets of plastic, hung from wires and tied off to the scaffolding that surrounded the stacks. The wind was so high the rain still blew in. The sheets caught the wind like sails, and ripped. They popped and whistled. Everything in the stack was dripping wet. Guys had to climb up the “racks” or scaffolding--into the great tangle of pipes to do the work. In the rain and dark this was a terrible and slow going. They were often nearly soaked before they even got to the place in the pipes they had to work, their heavy one piece fire resistant suit weighing up to 30 pounds when wet. Harsh florescent lights blazed from the ground on the outside, but in the middle it didn’t help. Inside the stack small lights were hung at various points, but it was still too dark. Shadows hid everything because everything was a tangle of pipe. Climbing inside the stack was squirming through the entrails of a robot monster.
The guys wore harnesses and lanyards. They hooked their lanyards to the racks and climbed up. They called it “tying off”. But it was hard maneuvering through the tangle, even without lines to get hooked on gauges and tied up in. So guys often “flew” up. They climbed without tying off because it was quicker and easier. There were safety guys who were supposed to watch everything, but they often looked the other way because the job had to get done for anyone—including them—to get paid.
Most of the guys were x-cons. They had shaved heads and tattoos. The tattoos that made it obvious where they had been to anyone with an eye to see. It was absolutely the best job any con could get. When they all showed up at starting time they were loaded into a bus at the gate and the buss drove back to the stacks. They called the buss the “Grey Bird”, same as they do in jail. They had a mean and often vulgarly violent sense of humor, much like that in jail. They cliqued up the same as they would in jail. The cliques followed roughly racial lines. There was some mixing, but not too much. Guys always jostled for position in the little hierarchies that were constantly being erected and challenged. Also, like in the joint one was either a shark or a fish. There was a constant threat of violence, it hung in the air and informed every action and word. Fights often broke out but were quickly stopped. Confrontation was usually over petty grievances, and tended to be settled just as quick. Mostly dude’s bark was worse than the bite, but the bite could sometimes be pretty bad too.
Adam considered the whole culture one borne of a wage slave mentality. He didn’t much talk to any of the guys. He kept to him-self. He had a plan. The plan was to make enough money to pay for a few semesters of school and quit as soon as he could. Most of the guys left him alone. He seemed to them not very sociable, or scared, or both. He was no threat and stayed out of the little rivalries so he was not given much mind one way or the other. When he did talk to the other workers he bitched about working conditions. Sometimes they seemed responsive, sometimes they just replied that they were glad to have a job, and to not let the foreman hear them talking that uppity shit.
One night the crew leader tried to get under his skin because Adam had told hin he was just a tool of the bosses. The lead kept sending him to get Benntol Karitine. BK was a solvent that the men used to melt the adhesive that was left on the pipe when the insulation was stripped off. It was one of the nastiest jobs, and the most dangerous because it involved a lot of climbing up and down the stacks. Plus you had to siphon by mouth the BK out of the tank when the pump was broke, which it currently was. There was a large tank of the stuff on the ground near the stack. Adam would have to climb down with a five gallon bucket, fill it up by siphoning the BK from the tank, and tie the bucket to a line. If the bucket got hung up, as it often did, it was his job climb up and un-lodge it.
At the bottom a guy they called “One Man” or “Just One Man” was standing watching Adam climb down from untying a tie-up. Also like in prision everyone got a nickname. They called him that because everytime he was asked to do do something chaellinging he would say something like, “I’ll try boss, but I’m just one man” or something. It was sort of a running joke.
“Why you let him do you like that Crash? Tell him to send someone else, no one person should have to do it every time.”
Adam took off his helmet and wiped his fore head on his sleeve, “Fuck em, I’m gonna quit at the end of the week anyhow, I made enough to go back to school. This job is easy because every time I come down I rest, and I take my sweet time, they don’t say much if I take my time”.
Listen here young buck, listen, it’s all about respect, you got to let guys know they can’t fuck with you like that. You shouldn’t have to come down every time. Its considered bitch work, you should be patin by now. Yous a painter by trade ant you”. Adam noticed the small beads of beard starting to form on One Man’s chin and neck. His skin was shinny black and beautiful in the harsh light. Adam thought that 10,000 years ago hed would be a proud hunter or warrior, witgh many children and a strong totem. Adam thougt he’d rather be a medicine man, but a hunter would be cool too. He thought, “we’d be frineds, me and One Man, we’d sleep by the fire to keep warm and track large game like two free men”.
“CRASH, wake up space coybow, you fuckin listen to me homeboy!
Adam blinked, “Respect”?!
Adam looked at him with amusement. “I get paid the same weather I’m haulin BK or paintin. I don’t care what that chicken shit crew leader thinks of me. He gets paid as much as we do, they choose another one every few weeks anyhow, he won’t be there long. You know why they do that? They do that to make some guys think they are better than the rest. But truth is they ant no better than dog shit, just like the rest of us is treated like dog shit. If you guys were smarter you’d demand to lay out while its ranin. Nobody should have to work in the damn pouring rain, but instead you’re too busy knocking dicks and grab assin like you was in the joint. Ya’ll should get it together and stop givein each other such a hard time. You should learn how to give the bosses a hard time instead”.
One Man looked off across the yard, far off, “I’m gonna be a boss sometime soon. That’s why you gotta get the good jobs not the shit jobs. It shows you can move up, take on more responsibility. One day I'll be management, I gotta rase my seed to have a little somthin”.
Adam laughed. “It’s all the same. All jobs are the same out here if you are working in the stacks. You get paid the same and the conditions are the same and the hours are the same and the risks are the same. IF you’re not sittin your fat ass in the office then you’re out here with the rest of us dogs, and if you’re out here its all the same.
Adam tied off the bucket and frowned as it got tied up on a gauge. He stated up. Half way up he got tangled up in his line. He could barely move enough to un-hook him-self. It was hard to see. The easiest thing to do was just un-hook, free himself from the tangle of lanyard, and tie off again. It was hard to move but much easier not being tied up to a scaffold. He went to unhook himself. Just as he did his foot slipped. Everything was so wet.
There was a large open spot just behind him. He fell into the hole backwards. His hard hat came off as he fell and he hit his head on a pipe, hard, then fell the rest of the way dead. The lanyard lines trailed up as he fell like impotent wings.
One Man watched blankly as he fell, it happened so quick he did not really register what he had just witnessed until Adam crashed on the concrete, his head cracked aginst it and some brain spilled out. No matter, his soul had already flown.
His broken body stretched across the concrete, pelted by rain, head pouring blood and brains. The blood fell washed in lines, on the concrete. The wind groaned through the guts of the stack.
The lights smoked as the rain pelted them. The blood was absorbed into the concrete, or washed into the drain.
It had been raining for five days but the work went on, continually. Day and night. Two shifts 12 hours each. It was called a “shut down”. That’s when a big petroleum processing plant shuts down completely for maintenance. The longer the plant is off- line the more money is lost. Hundreds of thousands of dollars a day. So the bosses push to get it done. Everybody works 7 days a week, 12 hours a day.
A petroleum plant is a mass towers, made of gauges, pipes, heaters, coolers, valves, and dials. Towers are knots of metal twisting stories high, called stacks. In the rain the “stacks” were surrounded by giant sheets of plastic, hung from wires and tied off to the scaffolding that surrounded the stacks. The wind was so high the rain still blew in. The sheets caught the wind like sails, and ripped. They popped and whistled. Everything in the stack was dripping wet. Guys had to climb up the “racks” or scaffolding--into the great tangle of pipes to do the work. In the rain and dark this was a terrible and slow going. They were often nearly soaked before they even got to the place in the pipes they had to work, their heavy one piece fire resistant suit weighing up to 30 pounds when wet. Harsh florescent lights blazed from the ground on the outside, but in the middle it didn’t help. Inside the stack small lights were hung at various points, but it was still too dark. Shadows hid everything because everything was a tangle of pipe. Climbing inside the stack was squirming through the entrails of a robot monster.
The guys wore harnesses and lanyards. They hooked their lanyards to the racks and climbed up. They called it “tying off”. But it was hard maneuvering through the tangle, even without lines to get hooked on gauges and tied up in. So guys often “flew” up. They climbed without tying off because it was quicker and easier. There were safety guys who were supposed to watch everything, but they often looked the other way because the job had to get done for anyone—including them—to get paid.
Most of the guys were x-cons. They had shaved heads and tattoos. The tattoos that made it obvious where they had been to anyone with an eye to see. It was absolutely the best job any con could get. When they all showed up at starting time they were loaded into a bus at the gate and the buss drove back to the stacks. They called the buss the “Grey Bird”, same as they do in jail. They had a mean and often vulgarly violent sense of humor, much like that in jail. They cliqued up the same as they would in jail. The cliques followed roughly racial lines. There was some mixing, but not too much. Guys always jostled for position in the little hierarchies that were constantly being erected and challenged. Also, like in the joint one was either a shark or a fish. There was a constant threat of violence, it hung in the air and informed every action and word. Fights often broke out but were quickly stopped. Confrontation was usually over petty grievances, and tended to be settled just as quick. Mostly dude’s bark was worse than the bite, but the bite could sometimes be pretty bad too.
Adam considered the whole culture one borne of a wage slave mentality. He didn’t much talk to any of the guys. He kept to him-self. He had a plan. The plan was to make enough money to pay for a few semesters of school and quit as soon as he could. Most of the guys left him alone. He seemed to them not very sociable, or scared, or both. He was no threat and stayed out of the little rivalries so he was not given much mind one way or the other. When he did talk to the other workers he bitched about working conditions. Sometimes they seemed responsive, sometimes they just replied that they were glad to have a job, and to not let the foreman hear them talking that uppity shit.
One night the crew leader tried to get under his skin because Adam had told hin he was just a tool of the bosses. The lead kept sending him to get Benntol Karitine. BK was a solvent that the men used to melt the adhesive that was left on the pipe when the insulation was stripped off. It was one of the nastiest jobs, and the most dangerous because it involved a lot of climbing up and down the stacks. Plus you had to siphon by mouth the BK out of the tank when the pump was broke, which it currently was. There was a large tank of the stuff on the ground near the stack. Adam would have to climb down with a five gallon bucket, fill it up by siphoning the BK from the tank, and tie the bucket to a line. If the bucket got hung up, as it often did, it was his job climb up and un-lodge it.
At the bottom a guy they called “One Man” or “Just One Man” was standing watching Adam climb down from untying a tie-up. Also like in prision everyone got a nickname. They called him that because everytime he was asked to do do something chaellinging he would say something like, “I’ll try boss, but I’m just one man” or something. It was sort of a running joke.
“Why you let him do you like that Crash? Tell him to send someone else, no one person should have to do it every time.”
Adam took off his helmet and wiped his fore head on his sleeve, “Fuck em, I’m gonna quit at the end of the week anyhow, I made enough to go back to school. This job is easy because every time I come down I rest, and I take my sweet time, they don’t say much if I take my time”.
Listen here young buck, listen, it’s all about respect, you got to let guys know they can’t fuck with you like that. You shouldn’t have to come down every time. Its considered bitch work, you should be patin by now. Yous a painter by trade ant you”. Adam noticed the small beads of beard starting to form on One Man’s chin and neck. His skin was shinny black and beautiful in the harsh light. Adam thought that 10,000 years ago hed would be a proud hunter or warrior, witgh many children and a strong totem. Adam thougt he’d rather be a medicine man, but a hunter would be cool too. He thought, “we’d be frineds, me and One Man, we’d sleep by the fire to keep warm and track large game like two free men”.
“CRASH, wake up space coybow, you fuckin listen to me homeboy!
Adam blinked, “Respect”?!
Adam looked at him with amusement. “I get paid the same weather I’m haulin BK or paintin. I don’t care what that chicken shit crew leader thinks of me. He gets paid as much as we do, they choose another one every few weeks anyhow, he won’t be there long. You know why they do that? They do that to make some guys think they are better than the rest. But truth is they ant no better than dog shit, just like the rest of us is treated like dog shit. If you guys were smarter you’d demand to lay out while its ranin. Nobody should have to work in the damn pouring rain, but instead you’re too busy knocking dicks and grab assin like you was in the joint. Ya’ll should get it together and stop givein each other such a hard time. You should learn how to give the bosses a hard time instead”.
One Man looked off across the yard, far off, “I’m gonna be a boss sometime soon. That’s why you gotta get the good jobs not the shit jobs. It shows you can move up, take on more responsibility. One day I'll be management, I gotta rase my seed to have a little somthin”.
Adam laughed. “It’s all the same. All jobs are the same out here if you are working in the stacks. You get paid the same and the conditions are the same and the hours are the same and the risks are the same. IF you’re not sittin your fat ass in the office then you’re out here with the rest of us dogs, and if you’re out here its all the same.
Adam tied off the bucket and frowned as it got tied up on a gauge. He stated up. Half way up he got tangled up in his line. He could barely move enough to un-hook him-self. It was hard to see. The easiest thing to do was just un-hook, free himself from the tangle of lanyard, and tie off again. It was hard to move but much easier not being tied up to a scaffold. He went to unhook himself. Just as he did his foot slipped. Everything was so wet.
There was a large open spot just behind him. He fell into the hole backwards. His hard hat came off as he fell and he hit his head on a pipe, hard, then fell the rest of the way dead. The lanyard lines trailed up as he fell like impotent wings.
One Man watched blankly as he fell, it happened so quick he did not really register what he had just witnessed until Adam crashed on the concrete, his head cracked aginst it and some brain spilled out. No matter, his soul had already flown.
His broken body stretched across the concrete, pelted by rain, head pouring blood and brains. The blood fell washed in lines, on the concrete. The wind groaned through the guts of the stack.
The lights smoked as the rain pelted them. The blood was absorbed into the concrete, or washed into the drain.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
not quite a poem
Some beautiful objects are made by other human beings on earth
Dreamed up and cut from the air, commanded out of the eather
Spoken, sang, played, drawn into being from nothing
Are so powerfully beautiful, conjure such deep feeling
Are so exact, get to the focused singularity of a sentiment
Impression, state of mind, thing, moment, need, dream, etc..,
Move you so fundamentally, for just a few moments
You are taken entirely, forgetting your place in time, society
Geography etc.., you become an appendage of the work, the part of the work that feels its slef.
They call out of you a deep sentimentality, not necessarily for anything particular
Just a monsoon of feeling, a churning mixture of something visceral
Needful, ancient, primitive but more-less refined and wrapped in the contingent
They likely include arguments, formulas, structures
But that’s not what they are, they don’t make arguments
They are truths somehow, common to our blood
Since we dropped out of the trees, and stood wondering that perhaps
A fearsome and fortunate mistake had occurred,
Dreamed up and cut from the air, commanded out of the eather
Spoken, sang, played, drawn into being from nothing
Are so powerfully beautiful, conjure such deep feeling
Are so exact, get to the focused singularity of a sentiment
Impression, state of mind, thing, moment, need, dream, etc..,
Move you so fundamentally, for just a few moments
You are taken entirely, forgetting your place in time, society
Geography etc.., you become an appendage of the work, the part of the work that feels its slef.
They call out of you a deep sentimentality, not necessarily for anything particular
Just a monsoon of feeling, a churning mixture of something visceral
Needful, ancient, primitive but more-less refined and wrapped in the contingent
They likely include arguments, formulas, structures
But that’s not what they are, they don’t make arguments
They are truths somehow, common to our blood
Since we dropped out of the trees, and stood wondering that perhaps
A fearsome and fortunate mistake had occurred,
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
This terrible god
This terrible God
I would rather say my god is high up
With the highest things
Voice like rolling waves
Universal and all that
Pure and all that
The measure of things
The last standard
And all that
Nope
My god is all dirt
Stink and frenzy
Totem for virile savages
Who look her in the face
And sterile rationalists
Who can’t take his gaze
Freud Lacan Jung
Behind all that ink
Behind all those books
Underneath all that text
Burning red pulsating angry faced
I would like to say that
My god is all justice and love
Washed so clean under bright robes
Lounging among the stars directing
The great machinery
Nope
My god is worse
Than heathen, amorphous
Has all sides demands
Libations of blood and semen, cares nothing of impotent prayers' words
Lives in wild places, the bowels and loins of all things
Insatiably starved, not to be consoled, worse than Dionysus
Worse than Bacchus worse than the Furies who rip flesh
And howl for more meat and bone and blood in the forest crouching over the kill
Black hair a death shroud
My starving restless god
Demanding worship, demanding
Submission, total, inside the wind, inside the river, inside the oak grove
Part animal, male, female, plant, bull-goat, clawed sphinx,
Beautiful Harpie, winged predator, a razor tonged siren
All the time singing, terrible Circe turning men to pigs
Horned bearded Pan the musician, laughing and playing that intoxicating tune
Will I never be free
I would cut him out
I would rip her from my core
I would dry it and bleach it and douse it
With anti-septic, burn them out but cannot
I look forward to old age.
I would rather say my god is high up
With the highest things
Voice like rolling waves
Universal and all that
Pure and all that
The measure of things
The last standard
And all that
Nope
My god is all dirt
Stink and frenzy
Totem for virile savages
Who look her in the face
And sterile rationalists
Who can’t take his gaze
Freud Lacan Jung
Behind all that ink
Behind all those books
Underneath all that text
Burning red pulsating angry faced
I would like to say that
My god is all justice and love
Washed so clean under bright robes
Lounging among the stars directing
The great machinery
Nope
My god is worse
Than heathen, amorphous
Has all sides demands
Libations of blood and semen, cares nothing of impotent prayers' words
Lives in wild places, the bowels and loins of all things
Insatiably starved, not to be consoled, worse than Dionysus
Worse than Bacchus worse than the Furies who rip flesh
And howl for more meat and bone and blood in the forest crouching over the kill
Black hair a death shroud
My starving restless god
Demanding worship, demanding
Submission, total, inside the wind, inside the river, inside the oak grove
Part animal, male, female, plant, bull-goat, clawed sphinx,
Beautiful Harpie, winged predator, a razor tonged siren
All the time singing, terrible Circe turning men to pigs
Horned bearded Pan the musician, laughing and playing that intoxicating tune
Will I never be free
I would cut him out
I would rip her from my core
I would dry it and bleach it and douse it
With anti-septic, burn them out but cannot
I look forward to old age.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
this is not a poem
This is not a poem,
You dry souled little boy
Hung-up, constipated, I should pity you but am not that moral
Maybe I should tell you all your little fears and resentments are
Consuming you, but youd throw a little temper tantrum
your too scared to let things go, or can’t help but to be broken by little things
Too selfish, too spoiled, downward eyes,
Droopy grimace, go hide in your room baby, suck your thum
Read comics, online chat sites, I would say masturbate
But I don’t think you can cum. You’re all taboo, shame, guilt
Self obsessed anxiety, the world has scared you to death
Dry spirit, rotting, go crawl into a hole and cry
Professor bore me to death, are you still talking
Take a breath doctor dusty, I’m not impressed, your words words
Words words words words words….
Ok ok I get it you’re an intellectual, ok, thing is
I don’t care about any of it, if talking is not for the sake
Of action, of pleasure, of light, of life, of movement,
Why are you still here, its obvious that you don’t care if anyone is listening
You like to talk, that’s the point, does it make you feel powerful,
In control, im not going to stand here and listen to you jerk off all day
When I walk away you just keep making your speech, to the air
So big time middle management you should be so very proud
Little office, little desk, little computer, little Alexander, Pompey,
Saladin, MacArthur etc….
So concerned with this tiny, focused, pointless, slow-motion factory of death
Keep the wells running smooth little man, keep oil on the gears, you are a jester
A fool but you cant see it, overweight stuffed shirt man, drink more coffiee so
You can fight traffic on the way home, did a good job today, counted every penny
Made sure the rock was pushed to the top of the hill, tomorrow you can push it up again
Thus your life drips away like the coffee you brew, one little bit at a time
Miserable lap dog for the bosses, they spit and you lick it up for nourishment
Having done nothing, meant nothing, seen nothing
You dry souled little boy
Hung-up, constipated, I should pity you but am not that moral
Maybe I should tell you all your little fears and resentments are
Consuming you, but youd throw a little temper tantrum
your too scared to let things go, or can’t help but to be broken by little things
Too selfish, too spoiled, downward eyes,
Droopy grimace, go hide in your room baby, suck your thum
Read comics, online chat sites, I would say masturbate
But I don’t think you can cum. You’re all taboo, shame, guilt
Self obsessed anxiety, the world has scared you to death
Dry spirit, rotting, go crawl into a hole and cry
Professor bore me to death, are you still talking
Take a breath doctor dusty, I’m not impressed, your words words
Words words words words words….
Ok ok I get it you’re an intellectual, ok, thing is
I don’t care about any of it, if talking is not for the sake
Of action, of pleasure, of light, of life, of movement,
Why are you still here, its obvious that you don’t care if anyone is listening
You like to talk, that’s the point, does it make you feel powerful,
In control, im not going to stand here and listen to you jerk off all day
When I walk away you just keep making your speech, to the air
So big time middle management you should be so very proud
Little office, little desk, little computer, little Alexander, Pompey,
Saladin, MacArthur etc….
So concerned with this tiny, focused, pointless, slow-motion factory of death
Keep the wells running smooth little man, keep oil on the gears, you are a jester
A fool but you cant see it, overweight stuffed shirt man, drink more coffiee so
You can fight traffic on the way home, did a good job today, counted every penny
Made sure the rock was pushed to the top of the hill, tomorrow you can push it up again
Thus your life drips away like the coffee you brew, one little bit at a time
Miserable lap dog for the bosses, they spit and you lick it up for nourishment
Having done nothing, meant nothing, seen nothing
this happened
Portrait.
All arms and legs, talking, talking, playing with hair on the couch next to me
Giggling, looks at me and smiles as I write this, I smile, look away
Suddenly made nervous by a kid, don’t want to be rude,
Don’t know how to respond, plus would rather write about her
We chat, she talks very quickly, plays with her hair, why am I so nervous
Her crew, kids, freshmen, her a kid, why am I nervous,
too much coffee for the middle aged, don’t want
To come off rude, asks me what I’m writing I say:
I’m tryin to capture the tiny sun bleached golden threads on your brown arms
I’m tryin to capture the way your friend with the death metal shirt laughs and shifts his weight
I’m tryin to capture the harsh song of the hatchling mocking bird demanding food and attention, the
One bird rushed, flying franticly in and out of our shrubs, same as every spring, to regurgitate
Into the mouth of her young, another flying form point to point around the yard,
Buzzing the nighbors cat, making a very specific sound that means “get away”
I’m trying to get at the pure distilled logos churning in the center of your guts
I’m trying to shuffle closer to the light and heat that illuminates all this and is
Budding budding budding exploding all around us at this very moment
I’m tryin to blueprint eternity, with illustrations and commentary in the margins
I’m after the password primordial, the golden chant, the exact prayer,
So I watch close,
Nah, I’m lyin’ I didn’t say that, I didn’t much say anything, I said it was for school
Something for school, and put my headphones on
All arms and legs, talking, talking, playing with hair on the couch next to me
Giggling, looks at me and smiles as I write this, I smile, look away
Suddenly made nervous by a kid, don’t want to be rude,
Don’t know how to respond, plus would rather write about her
We chat, she talks very quickly, plays with her hair, why am I so nervous
Her crew, kids, freshmen, her a kid, why am I nervous,
too much coffee for the middle aged, don’t want
To come off rude, asks me what I’m writing I say:
I’m tryin to capture the tiny sun bleached golden threads on your brown arms
I’m tryin to capture the way your friend with the death metal shirt laughs and shifts his weight
I’m tryin to capture the harsh song of the hatchling mocking bird demanding food and attention, the
One bird rushed, flying franticly in and out of our shrubs, same as every spring, to regurgitate
Into the mouth of her young, another flying form point to point around the yard,
Buzzing the nighbors cat, making a very specific sound that means “get away”
I’m trying to get at the pure distilled logos churning in the center of your guts
I’m trying to shuffle closer to the light and heat that illuminates all this and is
Budding budding budding exploding all around us at this very moment
I’m tryin to blueprint eternity, with illustrations and commentary in the margins
I’m after the password primordial, the golden chant, the exact prayer,
So I watch close,
Nah, I’m lyin’ I didn’t say that, I didn’t much say anything, I said it was for school
Something for school, and put my headphones on
Saturday, April 16, 2011
my 2 cents
If art is not elemental
Call it algebra, call it an exercise in
Dead aesthetics, look at me I’m a poet
Writer, musician,
If it is not elemental
Call it philosophy, arguments
Whatever, not poetry, not art
If it is not all god, death, sex, struggle, violence, birth, need, love, fate
A red hot slug blasting your heart through your spine
Hit you like the first wet tong kiss, like the first time you came in
Someone’s mouth, like when you held your baby sister for the first time
Like when you saw a bloated corpse on the beach, crabs eating the flesh
Like when you woke up after a terrible crash, first light, begin picking up the pieces
Like when you think of the great terrible dream red sun breaking over the world
Sound and and fury and justice and retribution and death and hope
I have seen them come and go, come and go, perfumed rooms, talking
Of Yeats, fine. Talking of Whitman. Fine. Talking of Cummings.
But if it don’t stick, like the taste of garlic, or too much ginger
In the back of your throat, no matter reading them
It should smell of loam, bleed, leave track marks, stain white cotton and pink silk
Dirty bed sheets, scrape knees, shake and vibrate, be all wood and
Grass and sweat and the mud on the bottom of the river, the
Clay at the lake that sticks in between your toes, the silent terror
And mystery of swimming too far out past the break
That first break on the bus through cheap head phones,
the exposure to Whitman, lusty, all beard sun burnet sholders
or when you finally understand what the spring is. What death is.
If not that, forget it. It ant art. I don’t know what it is.
Call it algebra, call it an exercise in
Dead aesthetics, look at me I’m a poet
Writer, musician,
If it is not elemental
Call it philosophy, arguments
Whatever, not poetry, not art
If it is not all god, death, sex, struggle, violence, birth, need, love, fate
A red hot slug blasting your heart through your spine
Hit you like the first wet tong kiss, like the first time you came in
Someone’s mouth, like when you held your baby sister for the first time
Like when you saw a bloated corpse on the beach, crabs eating the flesh
Like when you woke up after a terrible crash, first light, begin picking up the pieces
Like when you think of the great terrible dream red sun breaking over the world
Sound and and fury and justice and retribution and death and hope
I have seen them come and go, come and go, perfumed rooms, talking
Of Yeats, fine. Talking of Whitman. Fine. Talking of Cummings.
But if it don’t stick, like the taste of garlic, or too much ginger
In the back of your throat, no matter reading them
It should smell of loam, bleed, leave track marks, stain white cotton and pink silk
Dirty bed sheets, scrape knees, shake and vibrate, be all wood and
Grass and sweat and the mud on the bottom of the river, the
Clay at the lake that sticks in between your toes, the silent terror
And mystery of swimming too far out past the break
That first break on the bus through cheap head phones,
the exposure to Whitman, lusty, all beard sun burnet sholders
or when you finally understand what the spring is. What death is.
If not that, forget it. It ant art. I don’t know what it is.
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