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

[cenacle]

Continued from:
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li. Some of What


The way is dis-illusion, & the lesson
  that what conceals shapes in the light,
by the lights shared by men & skies,
  the lights grown up over years, centuries,
shapes a man's mind even before he grasps
  he possesses such a thing, wonders what it is,
or why. The way is dis-illusion, to feel it
  deep & hard every hour, plain or golden,
feel it all hard as each beat forces a rush
  of living blood, as each breath renews
& opens, every one of us a pore for breath,
  for light, for each other's little reasons
& greater fears. The way is dis-illusion
  for all claims to heart, to land, to coin,
come to dust, & yet tonight we each & many
  claim a little still, & claim a little more.


******


lii. An Off Night


Only disbelieve in nothing & the world
  may move a little your way. Let a god in,
an angry one, a gentler one, the one
  who sings of illusions & the one who says
the songs are illusions themselves.


Only disbelieve in nothing & see what
  turns in another's hand, what art he carries
to earn his coin, what secret art he carries
  otherwise. There won't be the reward from
the fist or the master's flick, but something else.


Only disbelieve in nothing until it shows
  behind the refrain, the rhymes for slaving
folk, the grit & frown that keep men
  burrowed close together, closer than a thought,
closer than a sniff. Limbs & mind bound, disbelieve.


Only disbelieve in nothing & mercy
  you are one of us. And mercy will you suffer,
and mercy will you sing! Only disbelieve
  in nothing & one day your hand will
no longer make a fist. And open. And open. And open.


******


liii. Politik


Would a king or preacher know your
  private most maps, ran light & fingers over
its terrains, its crevasses. But no god's man
  knows nor state functional. Where you yearn,
where you years later still bleed, or laugh.
  The hour where concession & kindness
exchanged masks. The hour whose memory
  tendered you for years. Devotion is not
for subtlety & obedience does not have shades.
  In brief, it's yours, the complex carcass
of your life, save for the numbers prayed
  to obeisance, the child's wonder & anarchy kept close.


******


liv. Romance


I wonder what most of you ever offered
  but a tapping foot, a giggle, a touch of skin,
& promises not possible to keep, if ever intended.


******


lv. Spiritual


There's that sound in the room—
    after the spiritual's been sung—
a breath within no breast—
  it was here—did you feel it?
& then the slightest noise—
  & it's like a relief—
for none of us & this hour can be that holy—
  can be that holy—none of us--


******


lvi. Zombie Love Song


Look at the lights, watch the faces,
  how many years collected in doing this,
looking, watching, wishing, wanting,
  hungering better explanation of a tight ass,
the brutal ways of men, the spiraling
  instants of joy, reached, yowled for,
can't hold on, tried, ride so long,
  tried, look at the lights, watch the faces.


The tangle of men as the flesh & the heart
  each make a bid, looking, watching,
wishing, wanting, a suffering of mind,
  of body, of something else, half-sung
dream of another world like this one
  but kinder, questions of coin & market
of less matter than who will tender you tonight
  & how will the morrow 'merge from your dreams?


The lights, the faces, the tangle of suffering
  unsolved & ecstasy too much a novelty to hold
dear to days. Too many myths, too many gods
  to parse the pain into tomes & laws of the land.
Tonight I sing to the creatures of this world,
  what more possible? What beauty awaits?
What have we to fear in each other?
  What strikes truer than kindness & love?


******


lvii. Not Alone


Trying to deduce from history
  to this moment, idea of tree to this
shading oak, what the great poets
  croon of love & what this live blood
in me wants. The music of voices,
  growls, growing things, an insect I watched
smash my walls till it fell. The formula,
  better than an old thought called God,
the one will please & sate you, push you,
  out & up, down & deep, through yourself,
till we meet somewhere else that resembles
  tonight but you cannot remember
your name or path, I cannot remember my own,
  & we smile without history or consequence.


******


lviii. Come In Me


To distinguish by flesh & name,
  & to discriminate, & divide, & divide again,
shape words to weather & its gods,
  awl the path for better & lesser love,
& what songs to sing, what heroes do,
  & confine to the edges some thoughts,
the daring, the renegade, the forbidden,
  cloak dreams in the motley of fools,
give a nod to some desires, a cell to others,
  to erect in tome & human structure an answer
to this world's mysteries, encircle the chaos
  & call it tamed, weight each heart
with myths of expectation, a punishment,
  some reward, point far to explain here,
build a high, hard world of distrust for
  simple instincts, gut the child's wish
to share & wonder, flood each heart's beast
  with doubt, with restlessness, with half-said
faith that well-spent coins sate wordless surges
  of loins, look at this world & say with me:
what else? what better? what more, & why not?


******


lix. Memory & Prelude


I woke this morning, early, writhing,
  a dream's lingering claws, stroked,
squeezed, & no more sleep, not even close
  what was it? Not a woman, known or stranger,
nor a man, animal, god. A memory, old one,
  released last night when I found a high school
essay. In a pile, a glance, a nod, none else.
  But enough. A teacher I don't remember but
he liked me. Those years weren't pretty. He graded
  me high, smiled, taught me with a worn man's
hope that someone listened. All I wanted to do
  was fuck a cheerleader. Or the poet girl
I adored. Or quite a few others. No why
  in it. The rest of my grades made nobody
proud, nobody smile, hope. I skipped school
  for the library, to write a paper on my
favorite books, the ones with no money &
  a laughing kindess for all. I wrote & I wrote,
then typed & typed. He smiled, hoped, gave me
  the best grade he could but knew it wasn't
good enough. I wanted to fuck her, & fuck her,
  & fuck her. Skipped school, hid, read,
wrote. Then one day came & suddenly I
  remembered. This morning, no more sleep.


I had a friend, his name was John,
  he was a rough piece of work. He liked me
too, & it mattered more. Here's why. One day
  he saw me getting pushed around &
stepped in. I didn't have many friends,
  none like him. His act, his word, protected
me. I didn't know how to fight any more
  than I knew how to fuck. Nobody had
taught me. I knew how to hide, elude, get
  through the day, keep my thoughts my
own, close. I don't know why he liked me,
  or stepped in. I had nothing to offer me.
He could have taught me how to fight & fuck,
  maybe, I would return & ask: "How do
you do it? Use your body's power, its want,
  its will? Show me." Maybe he would have.
What did I have for him? It was another day's
  answer & maybe this is what wouldn't
let me sleep this morning, what drove me
  from bedroom to living room couch.
Is this a lesson, something like that?
  I don't think so. Or a lesson thus spoke:
shit happens. All the time. Maybe something
  else. You see, he asked me a question,
this friend, John. And I answered because
  I had no friends like him & no cheerleader pussy
& no skills to fight, make way in the world.


He was in the hallway, taking a make-up
  test in the class where I'd given the teacher
hope. I came out to go to the bathroom
  & he asked me to help him. The teacher
called it cheating later, when he caught me.
  I suppose so. The teacher's heart broke
& he crushed my grade down low. Probably
  my friend outright failed. I went to college
& he probably didn't. We were different kinds
  of failures. I could contrive a sentence &
write it out. He could beat up a fellow &
  then lay his cheerleader girlfriend
out smooth, give it to her twice hard, make
  her moan, writhe, cheer, forget awhile.
And what was all this for? Maybe all these
  years later I simply look back & wonder
how little connection any of us made then,
  & how this not-much truth is so often true.
That hour, helping, cheating, hoping, breaking,
  it passed, passed long, long ago. Nobody
left from it. Just an old sheaf of typed pages
  I found yesterday, what was called onion
skin back then. A grade scrawled over it,
  the dead bones of a gone pride. A breakable
certainty in me about the world years back
  replaced by a working doubt. The universal
flow collects it all, whatever its seeming worth.




******




lx. Psychedelic Dream (vi)


"There is nothing. There is always nothing."
—Pablo Neruda, "Past"


Dream is destiny. It became a question
  of the questions & what musics in it.
Stop. Or at least pause. What a thing singing
  anyway but a nose into the wind, what news
there, the bits sayable, pretty with effect.
  Pause. Or at least slow. The rhythms
are always there, what the wind's shaking,
  how the sea talks in tides to shore.


What were the questions? Who will love me?
  Who will fuck me? Who will sing my bones?
I think it now, tonight, more a question
  of who wouldn't. Most of the seething world,
& the lost idea of god. I still speak to the stars.
  It's just now I hear their like cries in return.


Dream is destiny. How close a truth to heart's,
  how navigable those words? I chased them,
without pause, or slow, it's what blood cries
  to do. Chase!


What to chase? A woman, of course.
  A muse, a mate. Calls to full moon
over desert temples: let me find her.
  Let me name her. Let me sing her.


What then? Dream is destiny? A good question,
  the right one? I run with the elixirs & smoke,
the try to clasp cock & starlight in song,
  I'm not alone, this is what men do.
Chase hard, in full moons, & high tides, &
  with empty pockets & tiring bones. Chase,
& chase, til the breath & beats give out.


Better question: what until then? I don't know.
  The songs wait ascending staircases I know
but may see differently this time, in lights
  reminding me, the rubble of sobering mornings,
the glints unspent by word in chords, & curves, & green.


But: there is nothing. There is always nothing.
  And: dream is destiny. And maybe one too many
fine asses chatting agreeably with a sweet.
  My hungers & my questions are the same
as ever & do not answer & do not comfort.


Dream isn't destiny. Destiny contrives between
  the songs, in the books one sets on a shelf,
the photograph carried in a pocket.
  In the wordless & waiting hours of even
the most wordful & aware. Destiny knits
  these hours without name, the gestures
most unnoticed. The breathing between laughter.


Not, perhaps then, a question of the questions
  or the music. Maybe a fear that,
sans the questions, why the mind,
  why the press moving flesh, what the hustle
of men among men? Otherwise loud beasts
  playing elaborate polluting games to urge
doubtful urges & claim an old story for why.


What music to do with the least, the hungriest
  of hours, bent half-smiling for another's nod?
What music grips the knees, compacts
  the loins, tells better than a headline
what next move in the dance? What music
  true to the awkward shiftings of the dance?


I ask & still, because there's music &
  a waiting song in the worst of it.
Because the invisible threads the gossip
  & deep magic hurries kings too.


I ask, by singing, mull traffic for a code
  in its clashing glares. I ask, by singing,
because I believe the green in men may
  still abide. The machines may in most futile
years to come simple point a hand to a hand
  & say: clasp. Hold. Learn. I ask, by singing,
because I know none other path, & fail
  to despair finally while a pen in my hand.


Singing, to myself, to you, to the world
  in this way or another. Because dream
isn't destiny. Because the path told of
  later traced uncut through deepest woods
& tangled hours. Singing because there is breath
  coming, & again, & the beat to push,
& the mind to trouble over the why.


No questions. No destiny. No whys.
  Singing because the air tonight
is soft & biteless, & the full moon
  is teasing a hint like always. The earth
below recalls her fallen & still fruits
  by spring in reply. The scents of blooms &
decay mixture hungrily everywhere.


What musics in it? I went looking for
  the questions & these are what I found.




July 24, 2010
Cambridge, Massachusetts


******

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continued here:
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