Many Musics, Sixth Series ***Part 1 of 3***

[cenacle]

Many Musics, Sixth Series

"Black ink. Psychedelia.
Try to love the world near & far."


i. Two Blooms

Cut roots, for a sweet touch,
  living on water & packets of fresh,
I wanted to cross the line, wanted to know,
  what did you see, rooted to the earth,
what did you see later in that vase?

Then one of you sagged, let go, was it hard?
  I brought you to the empty flower box
of soil, just outside the window with
  the vase. Closed the curtain against your
remain. Some of your petals discovered
  still inside. I cringed but want to know
better than this.

The other remains inside, in the vase,
  not yet, not yet, but soon. I speak of this
to noone, it's mine, this, I'm loving you,
  I'm mourning for you, I listen around
me to what men say of death & I think
  of you. Nothing learned yet. A hunger. A terror.

******

ii. Gone is Gone

Your petals don't fall like the other's
  but you burst from within as you droop
from without. Bloom gone, yes, I know,
  & the strange fact of birthday flowers
now on the same table. And through
  the window where the other is gone.
How gone is gone? Is gone?

******

iii. Shifts Shifting

Something. A deep something I cannot
  or will not call dream or music or want.
This world is not ours. Every last bloom
  of us falls, always has. Always will?
Maybe so. Maybe better so. What then?

An earthquake hit an island yesterday.
  Today that girl smiled at him & one
hit his heart. Every shift contacts
  every other shift. The bodies under
rubble. How she moves beneath him
  in his dreams. That unsentimental.

******

iv. Remain of Remain

When you finally joined the other,
  I was clumsy & your petals fell
scattered to the floor. I delivered
  the remain of your remain
to the flower box, a lean, a toss, a departure.
  Your bloom went elsewhere,
like the light after dusk goes.

******

v. Several Breaths

I look about me at the men & women
  hurrying, shiny things for sale in shops,
the cold rain, the glaring streets,
  shift & shift & shift again. Open my mouth
to ask, close it again. Open it now to breathe
  & maybe that's better, what I have sure for now—

& the want to feel things complexly,
  & with several reasons, so that these feelings
will stick, stay, bloom wildly into a world
  which cannot be throttled by a word,
a chance, an unlucky shifting, like a blade
  sweeping all away at ground level
til nothing is left, executed cleanly by—

& you & I, the intense everything
  of you & I, there was a moment
& its many echoes, perhaps several moments,
  you are a face, you are a surfside,
you are a song, you are a line of words
  that catches me halfway down &
holds. You hold. Then another hour
  I hold, my hands clean of their
wavering ignorance, holding you, just you,

I hold you & I breathe & I say
  "breathe" to you & you breathe & we breathe
together & another year & another place
  & I am still holding you, "breathe," &
you are still holding me, "breathe," &
  it never ends, " breathe," the world, breathe.

******

vi. Of the Moon

The rest of your colors going, went,
  gone, & I sit here pushing sums of decay
into forces of memory, nodding one
  to the bloom that came, & two
to the one which remains, for to be alive
  is to swing new music from decay
& memory for as long as possible,
  disbelieving the last note will come,
is coming, disbelieve it while nodding
  the stars & what just can't not be possible.

******

vii. How Nothing, But Then Everything

The touch I still have because never
  given, a summer's day & I do not know
how. Everything gathers in how
  I look at you now, & in what you
see. How close? How possible?
  Years from now, dreams & hard hours say,
I am still nearing you, breathing, closer.

******

viii. Tight Jeans, & Another War

This world is not ours, & the constant hustle
  among men not to know, crash through
gravity, knit new molecules from several,
  cry out a song or a ship or an orchestrated
violence great enough to bear it down
  at last. The hungers within will to surround
the world in flesh or words or secret, subtle
  fineness, possess until one is another,
& time stops & moves again with a gesture,
  & she watches among pink shreds &
pools of descending fine, wondering if
  the next touch will break or tend her want.

******

ix. Raw From Hours

The hungers within will to surround the world
  in flesh or words or the gross massings
of godmongers, how a few men can touch
  the map & decide. Mountains decide our fates
eventually, what the seas less willing yield,
  how the skies change in color & the air
in subtleties, telling not a few men now but
  all here & hereon how we've done—

So when I look at you, my love, think of what
  you are by soul & spirit, how the few men
are shifting maps we reside, & how the mountains
  will tend the world its unfolding when
these men lie again simply in her arms,
  I think: what we do matters & matters,
& very much matters. And little, & less,
  & none at all. The glare in one's face,
the music of an excited night, the ways flesh
  insists to its pleasures, the ways hearts
shape these further still—

I am left ever half-exposed & crying,
  half-hidden, crouched close, in how much
I love the world & how much I love you.

******

x. Good Glare of Gone

I thought it was your eyes, or your laugh,
  or wetly tickling your crack the way
into you & never return. A song, a bloom,
  a ragged card wrought by my hours &
strangeness. But these were simply better &
  worse blows on your outmost door.

Years to this moon & more willing you flow
  me in on these absent nights, through
subterranea, & the mystery in how then
  still touches now, forth & back & forth,
& where I still find you in my own.

******



xi. Get Clean or Die Trying


Another eruption, the earth wordless by
  her live fury, I believe her, I believe you,
you are furious, human bodies live
  on your body & abuse it, eat & breathe
of it & abuse it. And more eat & breathe
  of it, & more abuse it.


Reach into my heart, mother, my true mother,
  the one who birthed & cares for my kind,
reach into my heart, mother, deeper
  than any has ever known me, feel how raw,
how twisted in music & want & brotherhood
  for all, how angry, how like your fury
is mine, I am small, but I am like you.


I do not know of men's gods & idols
  this deep in me, little reaches me
but music, of breath, of beat, of dream,
  & I wish to service you as you service me,
from this simple core & terminus, let me sing
  & better know how to sing, sing for you
by gesture to all, for all that you love,
  let me be plainly one of your musics,
let this power between us unbraid.


******


xii. Music of My Chaos


World hard from the groin & nothing
  rhymes with moon. I keep asking
on the nights toughest with sinews of want,
  keep asking when the soft word or
the mild touch, keep asking with
  the years' stretching howl of crazy blood
to tonight, what rhymes with the moon?


In the shift of lights, a few years of men
  among the dozens boys, the mass willing
to live by more glare but less heat,
  accede what the selfish gods of men demand,
whatever rhymes beneath the moon. I ask
  hard from the groin, unaccepting the control
or the chaos, what rhymes with you, moon?


By the nights of mad vision when too much
  felt, the world of men both vicious & dull,
the content is still found in singing discontent,
  nothing rhymes with moon, nothing good
rhymes with moon. Or, worse to it,
  everything rhymes with moon & I am years
past being bluster & man enough to say it plain.


******


xiii. Sky Isn't Possible Tonight


The questions aren't many. Who to fuck.
  What to eat next. Whether a god is due
by praise or privation. Not many.
  Whether a nation of men will betray
itself by its ideals or its hungers. Who to blame
  & how to punish. How the books will tell it
so that further bravery isn't possible & little wanted.


******


xiv. Urban Spectacular


An old, drunk man dozes near, with a clutch
  of bills & coins, a cigarette for later,
a bill due but fuck it. The stars are somewhere
  out there, they've always been, couple of
drinks now, the radio later at home,
  with its remedies for skin & flatulence & time itself.


******


xv. Bauhaus (Til Next)


So I wrote here, for years, hard &
  deep. Sometimes awful. Sometimes not.
A thank you. Remembrance. Til next.


******


xvi. Interruption


What rhymes with the moon is Art
What slips freely through the hours is Art
What flows between limbs is Art
What touches deep & lasts is Art
What builds from sleep is Art


What this broad new view in weakest hours
    is Art
What now seen toward that distant rock
    from this nearly drown is Art
What sings nearer is art, sings nearer,
    a hand, a blind eye, a voice of leaves,
      a white tree, lay with me, white tree


What do I want?     "You want Art"
What do I want?     "You want Art"
What do I want?     "You want Art"


What must I do?     "Rhyme with the moon"
What must I do?     "Rhyme better with the moon"
What must I do?     "You must return now &
    rhyme better with the moon"


What of the white tree?     "The White tree is Art"
What of the white tree?     "The White tree rhymes
    with the moon"
What of the white tree?     "You must return now &
    rhyme with the moon"


What rhymes with the moon is Art
What returns me from waves on hours is Art
What wakes me to my bed & my limbs is Art
What again walks me among clouds & men is Art


What remains, reigns, in the deepest forests
    of concrete & metal is a shining, a white tree, is Art.


******


xvii. Birdy Say Ku-Ku!


I'd call it a soap opera,
  the strange and flimsy human condition,
but sometimes not, sometimes it's art.


* * *


Sometime's it's art, she looked at me.
  Her failure. Her body's strange exception.
Those poems are old, they're mine.


* * *


My poems are old, not you.
  Not you, my poems, some new.
You're gone, here are new poems.


* * *


Here are new poems, feed from.
  Trust of years, still here, these.
I tell another, trust the flow.


* * *


The flow, oh, trust the flow.
  Art, the power, universe of lights,
how music travels, one to next.


* * *


One to another, laying heads close.
  Strange condition, flimsy, old, new.
Always the flow, Art, the power.




******


xviii. Portrait in Sepia


The story was told under a glass roof,
  the snowflakes hitting it from dark skies,
the doctor had assured us all that sex
  tied souls deep into their dirt & the way
out was a hard strike & a crying release.
  Most nodded, who hadn't cum & seen a glance
of God, or lost & felt the fall within,
  the kind nobody else sees, ground rushing close.


"But what of the rest? The moments tending
  a sick mother, feeding her water, helping
her remember an old name?" The doctor shook
  his head. "There are mysteries, grant this,
but the root . . . the root! of human anguish
  is what I say." Most still nodded, it was true.


Then I remembered another night, or it
  was a dream. There were bodies, like always,
& the moon would have moved a few to couple
  but, no, yes, there were drums among
the trees, there were shouts, the bodies & fires
  danced one another like nothing was ever lost
& here it was again, returned. I woke up
  alone in the morning, the ground, damp with dew,
a scattered, grubby soul, yet loved & needed by all.


******


xix. Rose Garden


Even shorn to picturesque the wilds bloom
  through, noises of mate & make, trees great
against an unconquered sky. When aware,
  when awake, my breath calms to all
becoming, there is movement, there is change,
  all is well. Mine to know, mind to find,
if not good in every man's eyes, still, all is well.


******


xx. Fears & Regrets


Several fears & regrets. More than that.
  Anyone reading this, sure, nod, several, more.
I can think of faces I caused pain,
  hearts I damaged, & those who damaged me.
I can think of places unseen, moments gone.
  You'll nod, you've got yours, whatever mask you wear.


Would you agree too: fucking sick of it?
Nothing goes away, nothing returns.
Everything's here, alive, buried, somewhere.


And I think, then, why? And why?
I think it's lack of seeing the world
  as a world. Not a backdrop for human drama
but a wide, strange world. Green & wild.
  Full of healing & death. A million hungers
combating that men can affect but do not own.


Somewhere, in all of it, every answer
  to every question, here, this world,
a cure to sick, a plant to divine the stars & within,
  every last delicious possibility of sense,
still, now, tonight, you with your fears & regrets,
  me with mine. Several & more. And all this.


******

xxi. What Groove Low

I wanted to find the other for
  what I knew wasn't enough.
Listened, heard nothing. No voices from dreams.
  No wonder at leaves in the wind.
I had to find other. Not a building of statues
  & a grim book. More the mystery of a face
turned to another, a passing, protected moment.
  I had to find other, if there were roots
to beauty not contrived by a man. If these roots
  reached through & past a mortal life.
It became a question of "why?" & then
  a question of even more. The more years passed,
the fewer remaining, however many,
  no longer a question of the give or the take,
or finding the other, or the many others,
  no longer any question at all, but how to sing
like beat & breath unknowing mine or the world's.


******


xxii. War for the Moon

You see a dead stone with brute power to influence.
We see a companion living in the sky.
You see affect, we feel relation.

You use tools to dislodge truth from its darkness.
We feel the truth does not cower but stands
    proudly everywhere, singing worlds to our deafness.
You vow to know. We yearn to remember.


******


xxiii. The Argument

A great leader grinds through to top of the mountain.
A good leader cuts a path.
A great leader leaves bodies in his wake.
A good leader leaves inspirations for others.
A great leader creates a legend & then goes.
A good leader creates a body of instructions
    & never goes—


******


xxiv. Wage Slave (ii.)

I woke with a throbbing ankle & a need
  to piss. I hoped she slept still beside me.
That day a boss had asked, "What are you
  worth to my company? Bring me a list."
A man less smart than sharp, amused
  by his own occasional bursts of modesty.
Once a soldier, 20 years & 50 fewer pounds ago.

My ankle throbbed & I needed to piss &
  I didn't want to wake her. She hadn't been
sleeping well. I lay close, shock & anger
  mingled closer. Did they meet at my ankle?
How could that be? I finally rose for
  a pain pill & to piss out the day. Walked fine.
She shifted & mumbled her concern. "Nothing."

A piss in the dark is a low thing of beauty,
  more relieving than the pill. I didn't sleep
for a long time, my mind pummeling
  the old argument between now, tomorrow,
& eternity. The first is mine, second to the boss,
  & eternity to something like that long piss,
& my wish to keep a loved one in her peace.


******


xxv. The Celestial

The celestial is nearing, is breathing,
  is moving in lights. The heated torso,
however draped, however slept with daylight
  & polity, is clue, in arch & curve,
to celestial, what shines by lawless music.
  I wonder how the chains instruct their own
release, how a turn, or a wrench, in that other
  direction, & how freedom bleeds, how freedom flows,
how the celestial was never the treasure held in secret.


******


xxvi. Still, & Ever

Nothing learned yet, though the gurus
  & kings will speak by fires & drums,
will line their platforms with a thousand
  naked torsos, point to strange worlds coming,
where virtue fuels & starlight reigns,
  nothing learned yet. Flesh is hunger,
this is the strange new world, your king
  are senses that behold, your guru
is how mind shapes the world as song of your days.


******


xxvii. World is Not Ours

In that dream I was with blood kin
  on a happy wedding day, hours unreal
to memories, how the mind worries,
  how it gnaws back, how that day
might have turned, it didn't. Everyone
  smiling, relieved. Weddings are good days.


******


xxviii. Quack: A Love Song

There was a newspaper article about
  governments killing spies, their own citizens,
& someone turned to me with a sneer.
  I nodded, every king rules with
a bloody hand, a darkened heart.
  A man governed is a man in your shadow,
& the failing in how light could otherwise be cast.


******


xxix. Continuance

Here are new poems, the ones since
  I loved you, & you, & you. Each one
crawling from the previous, from the ugliest
  hours, the words, the breaks in flesh &
hearts. New poems, some to remember,
  some to mourn, then a few to
simply look on. What next, & next,
  & the possibilities for a long time
were few. Breathe in, breathe out.
  Then new vines along the path, & then
many paths. Many paths, new poems.
  New poems, many musics. Continuance.


******


xxx. East-West

Once I lived here, a small town in a green place,
  & it was my home & where I loved. Here was here,
the rest was there. Years & years.

Then I moved here, for awhile, but the borders
  were fuzzier. I read books & wondered about
there & there. Here was still here, but less so.

Bleeding, angry, curious, I fled from here to a
  larger here. A deeper history, & for awhile
the waves of there & there receded from my steps.

Then returned, as myths, as mountains, as
  far-stretching horizons, here shifted & shifted
again as though not to settle but to keep dancing.

Now I look over all the heres & decide to move on
  by returning. An old here beckons new & I think
maybe here is just shorthand for everywhere & nowhere.


******

Continued:
http://www.spiritplants.org/forums/the-library/many-musics-sixth-series-***part-two***in-progress***/

[cenacle]

*** Many Musics, VI, i. Two Blooms - true story, I really don't like receiving cut flowers . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, ii, Gone is Gone - watching the tale unfold, darkly fascinating . . . humans fear death . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, iii, Shifts Shifting - I like this: "Every shift contacts every other shift."
*** Many Musics, VI, iv, Remain of Remain - This is how the strange story concluded . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, v, Several Breaths - breathe . . . breathe . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, vi, Of the Moon - coda to the earlier poems . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, vii, How Nothing, But Then Everything - another sad poem . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, viii, Tight Jeans, & Another War - this world is not ours, f'sure . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, ix. Raw From Hours - a rare love poem for beloved . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, x, Good Glare of Gone - remembering a memory new . . .

[cenacle]

*** Many Musics, VI, xi, Get Clean or Die Trying - Just wishing humans weren't so fucking stupid about caring for their one and only home . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xii, Music of My Chaos - "the content is still found in singing discontent" - I like that still . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xiii, Sky Isn't Possible Tonight - angry, sad, wondering . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xiv, Urban Spectacular - "the radio later at home, with its remedies for skin & flatulence & time itself" - still kicks . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xv, Bauhaus (Til Next) - Twas a wonderful coffeehouse in Seattle, lived by it for three years, and not far for other years, wrote and wrote there, loved it, punky place, high bookcases, view of Space Needle . . . still miss it this far . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xvi, Interruption - song of praise . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xvii, Birdy Say Ku-Ku! - a try at haiku, not native to me, I do like "Always the flow, Art, the power"
*** Many Musics, VI, xviii, Portrait in Sepia - Remembering a long ago miracle night dancing and dying and born anew in northern Vermont mountains . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xix, Rose Garden - try to write to nature, it's difficult, beautiful Rose Garden in Portland, Oregon though . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xx, Fears & Regrets - weirdly hopeful . . .

[cenacle]

*** Many Musics, VI, xxi, What Groove Low - it's necessary to live without answers, and to act and decide, and again, and again . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xxii, War for the Moon - always the war between those who seek to control all and those who seek liberation for all . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xxiii, The Argument - it is a strange argument but it still makes sense to me . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xxiv, Wage Slave (ii.) - End of a job where I did not feel respected or valued . . . "A piss in the dark is a low thing of beauty" still a nice line . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xxv, The Celestial - Strange music . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xxvi, Still, & Ever - Men know some things, and confuse this for everything . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xxvii, World is Not Ours - My dreams often bring me back, try to solve, and salve . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xxviii, Quack: A Love Song - keep talking about men and their failings . . . we could succeed if we just knew how close we are to peace, and how far too . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xxix, Continuance - I think I was tired, and this poem is tired . . .
*** Many Musics, VI, xxx, East-West - On the cusp of moving back East (this was back in 2010) . . .

[judih]

i enjoy reading this personal history, with its sways and detours

[cenacle]

Taking awhile to get all the poems posted here, but it's getting there