Many Musics, Sixth Series ***Part 2 of 3***

[cenacle]

Continued from:
http://www.spiritplants.org/forums/the-library/many-musics-sixth-series-***work-in-progress***/
xxxi. High Porch

I will sing for you. It's what I've come here to do.
I will teach you to sing too, whatever kind your song.
Now you will sing for me. We'll twine our songs, & listen.

******

xxxii. Harvard Square in Spring

I think how the stone tables & cyberspace cross,
  & the old man guitarist of this square
passed by laughing virgins with tinkling trinkets,
  & the moon above half-noticing the few dramas
& many blooms below. I look around this
  courtyard & feel old & young & perplexed
  by living's changing years. No secret to noticing
a pair of shapely chattering legs nor the
  shallow breathing of the faces above their game.
A wish to remember, finely and fully,
  & then ask, what else? What tonight? What the morrow?
Living things move restless, quick and slow,
  cross the planet, dead ones at their ease.

******

xxxiii. Consideration

I left in a hurry, tired & hungry. A song
  to chase, to make new, to find & lose
& find again. I became afraid, & age set in.
  Pushed back, one bloom, another. Returning
still hungry, less fear, many musics, many trees.


******

xxxiv. Amongst Old Stones

Men depart this world free, yet wish a marker
  of their visit, a widow, a stripling, an etched
chip of rock to note their bones. The poor will
  take a few inches, the kings a foot or two,
or six, as though the earth receives in greater
  & lesser order by purse & speech & polity's
dirty divisions. Chaotic bird-noise here, this green,
  green day. A siren rises among blarings & shouts,
distant music of a parade & the spring rain
  of near church bells harking the new hour. We walk
quietly amongst these old stones, taking our notes,
  leaving our trinkets for the heroes, nodding
without knowing why at the graves of babes,
  & loyal wives, & dear servants without surname.
The trees stand, benign titans, their young leaves
  a bidding to make the world new again today,
their roots twisted mildly among the departed,
  bringing the news from above, when any
to know. Their world still.

******

xxxv. Leaving West

How glorious, how high, how dreams
  will drive a man to chase a thought,
a sweet ass, a promise spiking his mind.
  Years, the world moves & moves again,
& how does the hunger keep changing masks
  without diminish? Nothing to heat the blood
but move & move again, & new marvel
  at the animal heart's ways of remembering it
all while keeping hope's claws out for next bright ray.

******

xxxvi. Anniversary

Moving many pens along the years,
  in distant rooms with strangest aches,
a heart wilting & blooming again in song,
  among hotel armchairs where talk of
markets nears the erotic. Pause. Sweep
  around. Dimming winter light outside, or
snow upon the glass roof, sometimes sweating
  rage & want on the many sheets, & no why
but strange pleasures salve strange aches,
  & each new pen uncapped with old hunger,
& the world is strangely beautiful at best,
  & language clumsy reveals a moment,
the passage through, its striver, this hour's sure going.

******

xxxvii. Mind Flowers

One of the mystics approaches with the truth,
  not sure if a book or a glow, I back away,
he smiles, nods. "When you're ready."
  I look around the night, how this springtime
northern city has such late, late dusks.
  On this street, still open, an old barber shop,
an Afghani restaurant. Several art galleries.
  The cafe I am saying goodbye to tonight.

I look at the mystic, & nod. He smiles,
  moves near, touches my shoulder. Points.
Where? "There." Where? "And there too."
  Then he does a little dance. Nods again.
"That's it?" "What else?" Gives me a push to go.

******

xxxviii. Nothing Lasts . . .

There was an hour I'd like to tell you
  about, because I believe you have had
these hours too, & they are few, &
  they do not last. Nobody noticed us smiling
through these streets, we knew something,
  it was between us, passed back & forth,
a fire, a glow, a light, street after street.

I think we must have sat down eventually,
  it was getting night. There had been so many
words, there always are, for while
  the loneliness itself has no words, not a one,
we spend our lives describing it, one to another,
  & in our songs, our books, our high noise.

It trailed away, in lingers, in waves,
  in dreams, then to now, & sometimes
gentle hits a wall, or a new face, a melody,
  then a rhythm, then your face, your every face,
& it all explodes again, a rageless, freaking, human love.

******

xxxix. . . . but Nothing is Lost

Feel the great miracle of doubt & love,
  it hurries bodies home in the rain,
to whatever awaits, get there, get there,

get there. The books on the shelves,
  each one a try at luring a truth into cage,
call it a philosophy, call it a song, sing it,

sing it, so many hours to it, singing,
  watching civilizations raise & decay
by their songs, looking forward or remembering,

& what if this time I simply fall back into
  my couch's cushions, & stop. Simply stop.
No movement. A barking. Distant lawnmower.

Begin to move again, not sure how, because it hurts
  not to, hurts, & so move again, move anew,
with doubt & love, always, moving again. Better.

******

xl. CoffeeTime

Someone said you'd like it there, years ago,
  & excited I came by streetcar to this
cafe's armchair, this one, its predecessor,
  oh I was a lorn, ragged soul but could
always smile at another's freak try in
  explaining love or the world. I entered
the caverns here & felt safe for awhile,
  hours of safety in a life disintegrating,
coming here became precious, conflation
  of place with sanctuary, & I came
often. Then I left a long while, remembering.

When I returned, my hand its better grip on
  the wheel, it still mattered, many more times
I came & brought my suffering & my lights both,
  like old, I kept it sanctuary in my heart.

And tonight I part you, how to tell this not
  in mere sadness but in song, how to tell
what leaving sanctuary is like, this for another,
  & yet another in the length of years,
& the idea of sanctuary is addictive, I confess,
  in another's arms, in music, & here, now,
these going hours, cement floor by painted wall by
  open door by the breaths & ink I leave here with love.

******



xli. Strange Pleasures


Blooms wild into the world,
  meet its heavy press with new music,
salve by touch, by question, by the force
  of strange new pleasures.


Does the eventual mask grow from
  within, or by contact with the world's
hungry decay, its terror that the years
  have taught nothing but survival
hardens the will, & the air itself feeds
  on hearts sheathed for dance not war?


******


xlii. Here is Shorthand


Black cows riddle the manless scrub 'scape.
No sight of the hands that built the fences
or put down the tracks or raised up
the electrical poles. Just black cows
nudging wearily for food, shitting every few
steps, fattening for plates on unseen tables.


******


xliii. Road Diary #13: Night Paving


Lightning slits apart the hour's
  dark flesh, exposing old moments
drying & too sweet to lightly tongue
  for a memory. I look for your face
with the next flash but find nothing
  but the exploding torrent that is sentiment,
& a line of restless cars damning up
  the road as crews furiously repair
or defend the insoluable.


******


xliv. Fate Isn't What We're Up Against


Many musics, wake, blink, still the world.
  Still no answers, disappearing between thighs,
through shutting doors, & the hour gone.
  And the year gone. Red. Green. Yellow.
One's soul divines in measuring one memory by
  another, & the music in distortion & forgetfulness itself.


Many musics, some culled from the hours slept,
  against an empty wallet, a crushed heart,
the heat, the cold, the hard thrashings of animal
  among animal in this half-awakened
functionality. Fate isn't what we're up
  against so much as me against you.


Many musics, uplift still in song with those
  who praise to be alive. I praise, & I praise,
I do. But then restless with the night's lamps
  of both iron & fire. Restless, because blood flows,
it does not perch & idle. Restless because
  why all that pain if not distilled to tonight's better song?


******


xlv. Beware & Be Aware


I look amongst my selves to be certain,
  to cohere & contact the light.
When not in concert at least I find instinct to carry through.


******


xlvi. Stoned Immaculate


Romance was such a drunken vexation
  that no amount of lecture on pheromone
& evolution could have persuaded me
  from dogging the secret of her scent in the shadows.


******


xlvii. Roll the Bones


I've learned to see luck as the charming
  fluid one can attempt to seduce the world
by, with a medicine man's grin & an eye on the door.


******


xlviii. No One is in Control


I've long not studied the brick beneath
  my feet, how deep it binds, with nearby tree,
to the earth below, in every season,
  the slapdash ways years pass for men,
under foot there is brick, root, earth.


I reck the world's history is not the same
  as men's, charting change with less dissension.
What world without flow? Yet men would jerk
  this way & that, a symphony of bolts
on how & why & what next & what might be.
  Or blood & conquest over these same things.


In returning to my old home, a wish to gather
  concert & conflict both, assail them by
the bricks below & their history of men,
  & the roots below that & what strives
to be discerned common among all.
  What beats, what breathes, closer than a word.


******


xlix. Beneath Tamarack Again


The passage of time is measured in the mind,
  measured in the mind, & also the body.
Measured in the body, & where the blossoms go,
  & last year's endless snow. The snow
in the skies, too, ancient lights & their message
  to keep moving & keep shining & no,
you will not elude time, in your mind or your body,
  but behold about you the rest of the world,
its passing just like you! You smile, you age,
  you creak, these stars might say but, long
after your last, you shine to some future amazement.


******


l. In a Bookstore


I watched her shadow-dark hair swing from side
  to side across her half-nude back as she chattered
    softly to another, & thought of other things—


Turned to the half-shaded window with its view of
  drizzled shaking leaves, & forgot her,
    & thought of other things—


I looked down to my journal & read of two writers
  wrangling the words "empathy" & "sympathy" between
    them, & forgot the rainy leaves & thought again
      of other things—


Her hands reminded me, as they tossed & flew,
  a glimpse of her garishly large hoop earrings
    made me wonder their purpose—& I turned back
      wondering to the leaves & how they live their lives in the air—


Coming back to the page I discovered my two writers
  now in agreement: empathy & sympathy
    are one thing, & run through all that lives—
  looking up I saw the girl leaving with her friend,
swinging hair & blinking earrings & half naked back
  & all—suddenly there were other faces &
    noises around me, photos of sleeping or dead things
      on the wall, countless books with their arguing hints,
& a new-struck faith that a million missing things still could be found.


******

[cenacle]

*** Many Musics, VI, xxxi, High Porch - This and the next few poems were written while KD and I were in the process of moving from West Coast US to East Coast, where I am from . . . this poem written on my dear friend Jim's porch of his apartment . . . where he had his little studio set up . . . I miss him and his music a lot . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xxxii, Harvard Square in Spring - Returning to my old writing place, looking around with new eyes, still loving it there, glad to be back . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xxxiii, Consideration - Glad to be back in New England . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xxxiv, Amongst Old Stones - At the Old Granary Burial Ground in Boston, trying to come to reckon with this strange place . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xxxv, Leaving West - Trying to get what it meant to live out West, and then leave . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xxxvi, Anniversary - Remembering, remembering . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xxxvii, Mind Flowers - On 21st Ave in Portland, and leaving it after years, and just a love note . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xxxviii, Nothing Lasts . . . - Remembering, remembering . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xxxix, . . . but Nothing is Lost - Moving, moving, leaving, leaving . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xl, CoffeeTime -  another love note, to a coffeehouse that saved me again and again . . .

[cenacle]

*** Many Musics, VI, xli, Strange Pleasures – mixed old lines with new, a curvy complaint . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xlii, Here is Shorthand – traveling across America on the Greyhound bus, hundreds of miles no people about . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xliii, Road Diary #13 - Night Paving – life on the road, day, night, full of strange events . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xliv, Fate Isn't What We're Up Against – mulling song on the world . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xlv, Beware & Be Aware – Carry on, oh carry on . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xlvi, Stoned Immaculate – Too many foolish nights chasing skirts . . . and missing . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xlvii, Roll the Bones – haha, funny joke . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xlviii, No One is in Control – living back in Boston, trying to figure this out, happy for it, but still trying to figure it out better . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xlix, Beneath Tamarack Again - been so long since I sat under that tamarack tree in that old graveyard in ZombieTown, Mass, and here I was, back anew, and glad, praising glad . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, l, In a Bookstore – At a Borders Books (RIP) in Boston, looking around and around, trying to mix what was happening into a new song . . .