Many Musics, first series ***Complete***

[cenacle]

tonight added Many Musics, xl, That Glare, I was thinking about God, about the nature of creation, where it is most visible, where one can point to and say, look, this is not mere random collide of molecules, and I again looked toward the ferment in things, the burble, where things clash, where mystery shouts for a look but tells nothing plain. Something like this...

[cenacle]

tonight added Many Musics, xli, "Hard Warp," world a boiling ferment, that's pretty much my view, not the whole of the answer, but some kind of image I work with often...

[cenacle]

this afternoon added Many Musics, xlii, Toward Perfection on Earth, I have hacked at this idea before, though it's hard to get right, just where do humans fit in the larger world? Is there a knowable place? I wonder this without much answer...

[cenacle]

this afternoon added Many Musics, xliii, Some Parable, I like the ending, sometimes a paradoxical image is potent, one wishes it were possible to enact...

[cenacle]

tonight added Many Musics, xliv, Warm Piss & Sour Milk, I had in mind what is nauseous to people, what seems not valuable or subtle, and yet how somehow we are connected to these things too, they matter...also a bit of a vision near the end, remembering a moment with KD in the desert as bonfire sparks flew overhead, and what nice things the future might bring...

[cenacle]

tonight added Many Musics, xlv, "Eleusis," surely one of my deepest curiosities, what was it? How did it last for centuries? How did it fit into human society? The Eleusian Mysteries are a giant shadow in ancient times, blotting out understanding of other truths then, and now, til it is itself understood...I hope one day to go to Greece, to the remains of Eleusis, and feel it live...

[cenacle]

This afternoon added Many Musics, xlvi, "No Reign," I was in the hard vision of Burning Man, I think, mulling what means anything, and what does no matter the day's joy or woe...

[cenacle]

tonight added Many Musics, xlvii, "Brink," this poem is about as sentimental as I get, remembering years writing all seasons at a cafe courtyard in Cambridge, Massachusetts, the chess players nearby, the guitarists on the sidewalk, the tourists, the college crowds, the way the trees changed colors, and some things changed over those years, but some didn't, and i haven't been back there in four years but I remember it better than most things, I say this nakedly because I think most people have their heart-near places, and they remember, and this remembrance grows dearer with the years...

[cenacle]

This afternoon added Many Musics, xlviii, "Plaza (Remembrance)," it was Saturday night in Seattle, I had a weekend to myself and was riding blocks and blocks from one place to the next, and I came to a place where I had spent some suffering hours writing a few years back, and I simply wrote what was there to be written at that moment...I pitched music into the night by way of affection and melancholy...

[cenacle]

tonight added Many Musics, xlix, "Question," I think life sums to a little, a lot from a little, years to days to moments, and the moments no way to make, they come, no way to avoid, they come, no way to know, they come, they go, they stay in other ways than time...

[judih]

'question' also phrases the melancholy - the old soul in a body that remembers that vigour is now, yet now soon passes

[cenacle]

tonight added Many Musics, l, "Consequence," sometimes I try to root down to the bottom and take a look, and what I find usually saddens me, a bit, then sends me along to do better work harder try more RELAX TOO...

[cenacle]

today added Many Musics, li, "Song for Hearts," I live in flesh and will never ever understand it, love either....

[cenacle]

earlier added Many Musics, lii, "Maybe/Still," the acid of memory, deeper and mysterious by the passing years...

[cenacle]

tonight added added Many Musics, liii, "Essence," the sad truth is eventually you eat skin off your own bones for an image, a feeling, a melody, or you burn something down more, and the next time more, burn it til nothing left to think or feel toward it, but then there is more, always more, i dont remember this night accurately, i remember it for sweet telling, for what melancholy in it, or rhythmic pathos...i don't care that one night decades ago i stood in a lost house sunburnt watching the full moon, or if it happened like that, or at all, the point is something like this night lingers, and i know how to tap it, drag it forth for how i can suck it for new juice, learn it, art is full of pretty lies, pretty truths, but the pretty is the point more than the lies or truths, pretty is the point, does it tap tap does the mind's tongue want to sing it over and over? craft is disappearing into the work and not found by a stray seam of quality...making it look real, sincere, effortless, whether it is or not, art is not this world plain so much as this world plain made pretty, always the pretty, no matter the harsh, the dissonance, somewhere in there the universe melodious and pressing on a new...