there’s so much to look at
and I keep looking and looking
and when I see I want to see more
and the more I see the more connections are made
and those connections
beget more connections that are tangential
they are related
a cousin
they are connected
by the sinew of commonality
of which I do not question
I just keep looking and looking
knowing that one day I will not see it all
but I will get my fill just the same
Posts
If Only for a Moment
in the bed
in the dark
where if anything were to happen
if there was even a chance…
in the dim flicker of the television
in the cool breeze of the evening’s end
the wine making the impossible seem
possible
if only for a moment
displayed like temptation
stretched out
laid back
an island, entire to itself
Skimbleshanks Cassette
from decaying cassette tapes — from basement sessions — proceed at your own risk
Skimbleshanks_Wayside (from Sonalysts 1987, better version forthcoming)
Skimbleshanks_Underground Recorded on Thames Street, Groton, by 17 Relics, 1987
“Untitled” spawns new writing
TELETHON DAY
when I was ten years old
i had the opportunity to be on TV.
a speciality- my fifteen minutes of fame.
even as I had no idea who andy warhol was,
my appearance was paramount. I chose an un- folded
flannel shirt and my aerosmith belt buckle- to be seen
as if I belonged in the frame,
and not just another image for the television’s buzz.
his acceptance was astonishing. he would be told
there was only research and no cure. this path
would be the risk of treatment- the same
moment countless others faced had became ours.
while painting the house during the summer before,
he said he would not be sold
on the science of folklore.
the telethon is being broadcast on the radio today-
they are raising money
Knotted
this may go nowhere
the electric razor buzzes erratically in the other room
charging
cleaning itself and
charging
and there was this urge to do something
in the form of words launched
they just kept coming
bunched up into phrases
scenarios
but under the influence of words
that just keep coming
me and the razor and the robot doing its thing
bubbling, whirring
and someone somewhere stoned as hell
thinking about it
that thing
and how it should fit in
or better yet, integrate
or forget about it all together
and take a nap
but no
instead
like pulses
and impulses
under no one’s direction
pushing at
pushing out
a smooth ripple easily washing over
and over
and over
like pulses
and impulses
and the razor and the robot doing its thing
but not without Humphrey
in the background
ruining everything with his ideas
on the condition of reality
With Aristotle
Aristotle in the back yard instead of raking the leaves that crackle and rustle under foot
Supposing that knowledge is one of those things that is fine and valuable
Considering each thought as it comes to mind – wondering if, fleetingly or otherwise, each is an action unto itself
Of these some are held to be affections peculiar to the soul itself, others belong to the animals
Falling behind the effort to keep pace as the awareness of every moment’s passing stacks upon its predecessor
the inquiry, that is, about substance and what a thing is — perhaps someone might think
Thinking about thinking, thoughts about thoughts, daydreams dangle loosely and tangle into knotty heaps
For straightness is inseparable if indeed it is impossible without a body
A murder of crows acts as a distraction and an awareness of my re-action drives me inside to seek refuge from the endless possibilities
Titter & Scroop
Vienna 1914
Here you are in front of mirrors
naked then clothed in suits of dead fathers.
Here you’ve painted a tree
Which is really you stepping over
fields and fences.
Here you’re a prisoner covered in red coats.
Jackdaws settle in trees outside your cell.
You write, “A single orange was the only light.”
As soldier you do not fight but guard prisoner,
as your uncle Leopold guarded you
with his mustache and cane.
Here your mistress kneels on all fours.
You position her according to large mirrors.
She buries her face, appears headless.
She might be a table.
It is 1914 there are whole towns of women
turned chairs, figurines, pieces of cloth.
The men are heads, hands, shirt fronts flashing.
Because her skin is paper you dab it with vermillion.
Its toxic mercury light breasts, heels, and ankles.
Mined in China, Sin door to Indians,
it is the mark of marriage, more expensive than gilding.
This woman will never wear your mark.
You intend to marry well, one of two sisters.
Their father is a master locksmith.
They walk in clean Protestant light.
Besides, marriage ruins good mistresses.
At news of your intentions she leaves you
in fields of rock with torsos and faces.
Now it is you that kneels, ankle lodged
between two stones.
Sharp toothed artists of Vienna,
you’ve given us men with green faces,
eyes rimmed in red, afraid of losing
their right hand.
They observe it severed in dreams.
They treat it with electro shock.
It jumps and jumps.
Like you we open and close windows,
piece meal pay checks, walk doorway
to doorway dirtying floors.
Like you we wait for catastrophe
and know it has already happened.
Lean Ether
open to a blank page just in case
just in case this document is ready to become a documentation
a documentation of that which is already happening, in progress
a contemporaneous convergence, if you will.
crude, and yet we all agree: Beautiful
though beautiful hardly fits the bill as an attempt at describing
describing but just scratching the surface, grazing the veneer
these are the words. this is the phrasing.
each line is a happening in it self
itself taking shape as the words spill out and spill onto
spill onto and across in the form of a poem, fashion a verse
make from nothing but the words in my head: Something.
Catbird
there’s a catbird in the Xylosma
not nesting, exactly, but living
or hiding from the rain that’s recently returned
after just one day to drain
assess the damage and be thankful for none
the catbird flits about
and I can’t decide if
it is doing so nervously
or in a rather cavalier fashion
chi-chi-chippering away
either to herself or at me
she’s peeking through the cool dark of her dense shelter
from branch to branch hopping
getting up to eye level
maybe to assess the threat
and be thankful for none
I, perhaps nervously, step away
from the bulging hedge
begging to be pruned
pack a bowl
and smoke it
as the catbird looks on