Many Musics, Seventh Series *part 1 of 4*

[cenacle]

Continued from here:
http://www.spiritplants.org/forums/the-library/many-musics-sixth-series-***part-3-of-3***


Many Musics, Seventh Series

"There's no final answer."
—Dr. Timothy Leary
Radio interview, 1986.


i. "Are You Happy?"


That night we sat again watching that old movie,
  with Bing Crosby & that young starlet whose name
we never knew, & you asked me the question—


& I sit here in the subway station with the trains
  going by both ways, as though the choice is as easy
as the choosing, this way or that one—


& I suppose I could have looked up her name
  in the time since you've been gone, but I haven't—
I sit here, again, watching & not choosing—


You asked me the question I am still not answering
  after all this time, & I think: if I finally answer,
I lose you, for you will smile no matter what I say,


& turn away for a moment, & think of other things.


******


ii. How to Train Your Dragon


The dragon in the human heart urges
  to fly again, & to blow out furious fires
of song. Housed in a body ever passing,
  & a mind caged in motion, the way out
presents itself by tawdry principle, bloated
  emotion, & the knife. The dragon bides, & bides.


******


iii. Old Man


All night I stared at him,
  lying on his deathbed, eyes shut,
long grey beard tucked above his blanket.
  Silent, still.
& I kept coming back, over & over,
  from wherever else, a circuit
returning me to this slow dying,
  in this strange place, locomotives & cypress trees,
far from where he'd ruled, where he'd created,
  where he'd loved. Seemed a warning.
A warning. The years pass & I keep returning.
  Still dying. Still the scents of morning
nearing. We owe the dead nearly all
  but what to those dying in our dreams?


******


iv. Generate Silence . . .


The famous artist & his wife, she of the many
  veils & scarves, led the golden tiger
through the town, its crowded parks of
  pink cheeks & tossed balls. The tiger
padded along, noiselessly, a monstrous hunger
  beneath teeth & tawn. Stopped for a word,
a photograph, an embrace, the artist
  answered each time, "healing is hereon,"
gestured softly to his robust tiger &
  then his pale wife, veils pushed back.


Later, perhaps, the tiger lounged among
  frail bones & remaining bits of flesh.
To meet this hour's music, finally,
  & follow its pathless course, you must
generate silence enough to blanket
  the past's cries & moans. You must eat
the tiger too, in all, leave no bones, nor
  even a scent.


******


v. Zublian
Pierre-Auguste Renoir, "Dance at Bougival," oil on canvas, 1885.


The bugs kept getting bigger in that studio,
  a room & a window, & a toilet,
& there were of different kinds, some
  like me, they knew my want for touch.
They laughed. I imagined them laughing but,
  they laughed. They crawled on her skin,
her face & arms, never his, as they
  danced in tatters on my wall. Never
his. Hung from her bonnet, peeked up,
  peeked down, offered to tell, knew I'd
say no. Dancing close with her, holding her
  hand, her embrace, he no more possessed
her than I did in my half-sunk chair.
  They laughed. They knew.


******


vi. Distress


From the basement we protested,
  it was tight & dirty, & I kept forgetting
against what. A bent idea called God?
  The next king? I turned to one of the
younger bodies, warm lights still on her face.
  She used words somebody else had said,
whispered in that dank of old blood, with
  bookish fervor. Heated more on a distant
fire. Turned to an older one, his mind
  a familiar scar from the many meetings
& scrambles through shouting hours that had
  brought us here. He huddled me close &
said there was no more light up there
  worth knowing. Memories. Eyed that younger
one with a lingering stroke. By last chance,
  I turned to my own face in the basement's
half-remaining antique mirror. I saw nobody
  else in its reflection as I dodged my eye &
face. It's been a rough stretch, I turned &
  explained, hoping somebody was there.
Only the darkness & the thought of your
  name, your smile. You were near. Nearer.


******


vii. Take Back Your Mind


The pencils soften during transit,
  I noticed this the first time
it occurred to me to kill them all
  & bring you back with me to this
hopeful new hour. You would like it
  here, with your curiosity & dagger's wit.


No, that dog isn't quite a dog. He's from . . .
  hereon, & it didn't quite work so
he's not fully here. It upsets him
  that he cannot speak. We touch his
tawny fur, caress his warmth, love him
  all we can, but he cannot say his name.


Yes, the pencils. I think it means that
  when we go, we also don't return quite
the same. You'll see, your console is nearly
  built. No, we cannot go out there, now
or ever. This room is safe from all but
  the planet's own destruction. But we can't leave.


We can love each other, & the world, forever,
  in the past, the future, but never now.


******


viii. We Only Live A Day


He had loved the law when a strong, young
  man, how it flowed & changed through time,
how it emerged from men's hearts & fears
  but also from the world around them,
if the land was hard or fertile, if the snows
  came for six months of the year.


Supple & sublime, he called it, a powerful beast
  in every crack & shadow, it spoke to him
of changing eternals, he dreamed it in his
  bachelor's chambers, until on a street past
sundown he met a woman in a pink dress &
  red bonnet. More supple, more sublime. His pages cracked.


On his usual street corner now, he fingers
  the payphone for change, hikes the rope
of his oily trousers, mumbles to his blue doll
  of the conspiracy between pink cheeks &
the ships overhead. I lean closer to listen
  from an empty store doorway. I do not wish to become him.


They'll find nothing left when they finally
  come for me. My books are gone. My health.
I'll crack open at first touch. Lizard bones in a desert sun.


******


ix. Remembering the Old West


The old argument between now,
  tomorrow, & eternity, I've travelled
awhile & haven't decided. Back then,
  I sang them spirituals & blues to keep
things close. I told them God rode
  with them on their hunts, & a bit of God
fell when one of them did. It seemed fair
  to say, if not true. They liked it, kept people out.


Later, I worked with a rich man, found him
  things, razors, talking pillows, he thought
I had the magick, no, I didn't, I don't,
  I told him, I've travelled, the possible
& the impossible are not adjacent lands,
  pointed to the sunset, try to keep it in your hands.


Since then I've just kept it all in my head
  & looked for new work. These times
need a magick I do not have or know,
  need a preacher & a prayer greener than
the ones around here. But I don't want
  to leave. It's where I've been travelling to.


******


x. A Priest & a Rabbi Walk Into a Bar . . .


Only disbelieve in nothing, that's what
  LSD taught me, in time. I said that
too, only disbelieve in nothing, & again,
  only disbelieve in nothing, that night
in the TV news studio, as they dosed
  my buddy & me for the cameras,
dripping it down our faces, saying
  this was how it's done.


The man being interviewed, the expert
  on this, he's taking donations &
signing people up. No trouble happened
  because of any of this, he continues,
& I think: he sounds like he's been to the
  future & knows for sure. My buddy & I
laugh, this is what happens when the experts
  go on TV & start to explain.


******



xi. [untitled]


If I believed in god, he would look like a tree
  & sing forever.


******


xii. Circulation Salves Distress


I met him at a party at a dilapidation
  near the city of scholars & beggars. We were
both long homeless then. The party was for
  travellers like us, at crossroads & tired.
The game going on as I arrived was a favorite,
  simply called Chains, a reminder of
what happens when you stop moving.


The dilapidation had no roof to comfort,
  or conceal, to lie that every soul tonight
slept warm & caged. There were the heady
  local periodicals on plastic tables, dense
erudition made to capture a melodic fancy
  & dissect a fang to its meaning. Amongst the periodicals
were squat jars of the dreaming juice.
  You could tell its heavier drinkers by
their whispered song, "sometimes I am me,
  sometimes I'm not, sometimes I'm arriving,
sometimes passing through."


He noticed to me the rhythm of the place,
  its restive hum, how nothing here abided
agreeably in time. We huddled with others
  near the wall & laughed at the film
about the crazy dog from the future,
  never quite arrived. It learned, in time,
to croon its wish to land in music or despair.


When the soldiers came to stifle the
  open-air sexcries that worried the preachers
& their nests on nearby streets, my buddy & I
  left to travel on together awhile.
The morning was quiet, not yet sunrise,
  between breaths of wind a silence.
We left the city of scholars & beggars
  to its thousand-year decay, to what men
will think when none need crawl a thick tome
  for answers, nor any need wish pages made better food.


******


xiii. Lithe


What the others come here for isn't
  important. We're told to skin for devices,
the lower drawers, safes in the walls,
  keep looking, in the laundry, the trash,
they're somewhere. This hotel is bugged as a
  project high-rise, told again & again.
So we look, some of us, I think most
  just need the job, & keep moving room to room.


We all have reasons, that's all. I come here
  day after day to find you, to sniff you
out, sometimes I think I just want your scent
  one more time, sometimes I think once
I find it I'll follow it back to you. If any man
  could, it would be me. It was mine first.


Wasn't it? I think so. I let that matter
  to me. I skin for devices, find them,
never turn them in, or give them to the worst
  of us to do. I'm sniffing for you, that's why
I come. I tasted you in one of these rooms
  thirty years ago, our eyes, one, watching you
above me, me below you, entering, entering,
  receiving, no difference. "Yes," you whispered
& smiled. I'll find you. I'll follow you back.


******


xiv. Sorry Youth


When I think of you these many years later,
  you're on your belly nude on that studio futon,
your look back at me a fang, fuck me, hurt me,
  fuck me! Make me feel something, good or not.


So now I can answer you: panty up that pretty ass,
  or let me for you. I loved you enough to refrain.




******


xv. Feedback


The madcap scholar laughed & leaned forward
  on the couch. "The best mystics say
we earn free will, like some of us
  learn to sing." My friends laugh, &
take pictures, it's a good night. The house
  is run through with candles & pipes.


He follows me, for some reason,
  down into a basement room. Several
of us are nude & making a film
  for one of the girls, her dead brother,
it's a sad film. "Here's love," says
  the scholar quietly. "For your path hereon."


Like the best parties, with great scholars
  & all, there's a bomb. Two of us are
crouched over it in the tent, diffusing
  it. The scholar looks at me, the best
of him in passing, says, "What for?
  You tell me now." I nod toward the girls
dancing with each other inside the house,
  up to the stars ever trying to get us
to listen to the answers being offered,
  down to the pieces of diffused bomb
at my feet, & shrug. And nod again.


******


xvi. Ikebana


Dale Chihuly, Ikebana Boat, Wooden & Glass, 2011


The old rowboat collects everything
  as it rides through the dead world,
collects what crawls from the black water,
  what falls from vines overhead,
what is sometimes thrown from shore
  by unseen hands, or paws, even fins.


The water is smooth, calm like death,
  mirrors the dark sky where nothing shines
by day & nobody looks up to see at night.
  You're wondering how I know, from where
I see this boat. He told me about it,
  my brother, who won't sleep to see it better.


The back room is his whole quiet world,
  where he shuns food, bed, radio, TV,
to see it better, to use his every sense to see,
  use his tingling saggy skin, lays on the floor
in a cluster of pained limbs, fights through visions,
  streets of skulls, shoreless ponds, children too.


I don't know if he knows me when I come,
  shut the crooked door, kneel close to him,
see & smell & taste his sickness, sample his
  current hour's picture, decide to stay or no—


He talks of the burnt umber tentacle,
  reaching back, the dragging pink wing
feathering the water, the seagull's heart
  a decaying stone in the chipped blue shell.
"Sometimes the boat is moving slower,"
  he croons, & I almost touch him, refrain,
remember another time. It was bad.


Walking back into the shop where the patrons
  beg for books of easy treatises on God
& cartoons of lovers from their hearts'
  forbidden chambers, I stop. I stop.
I wonder again if this is my brother's
  boat, if his onion-shaped bullets, &
wooden bells leaking fuel oil aren't this world
  a level or two below, moving even slower.


******


xvii. Way of the Creatures


I follow the Way of the Creatures
which is no way but to sing & sing
which is no way but to love & pity more
which is no way but to know a little
      in the big mirror
which is no way but to watch & wait,
      & so much unknown but there's light
      & there's breeze, & maybe someone nearby warm
which is no way but to see the stars
      & decide will I go with them high or
      will they see me here down low?
which is no way but a pinknosed white bunny
      flashing past, a cackling imp crying
      more play, a sleek panda bear dancing
      by, the urge to include all, & especially you.


******


xviii. Let Go


So let's say there are three friends,
  nice guys, & here's the twist:
one is gay, & another hates gays.
  Hm. How's that going to work.


I had a dream one night that the
  gay-hater took a long knife to
his friend & cut out his heart.


He showed me & I smiled at him.
  The moon was just a slice as we
buried our friend. As we sang glorious songs
  about suffering & buried our dear friend.


******


xix. White Tuxedo & Black Top Hat


The dice rolls six & I look out
  the long window. My father laughs,
knowing things I do not. Better answers,
  no answers, I can't say. I turn back
to him, to the others, to the gas pump
  I can't figure to operate. My father
nods & we each take turns. This apartment
  will need everyone's help to make a good go.


Sophia, I love her name most of all,
  she calls it a cat's name & says no more,
smiling. She picked out the furniture,
  all of it, blonde woods, old, needing
work, hands on, love. She found curtains
  in thrift shops & sewed them back together.


Eventually, I have to go. Parties like these
  come to their dreaming end with
the dawn, that chilly morning breeze.
  I look at my father, give me something before
I go. Go on, fucker. Give it me. Now he's
  not smiling. "Stop singing from your knees."


I nod. Because what else would a dream
  worth recalling have to say?


******


xx. Glaring Lights


My bike in pieces on a long table,
  laid out in plain intimate detail.
One of those single bulbs lighting up the garage,
  & so quiet. What's funny is what moves
a heart, in moments, through the years,
  how it receives & releases & changes shape
again & again. Now I'll tell you that my
  my music took the form of tools & sweat
until we were riding again, what keeps the years
  & close by is a tangle. I've let enough go.


******

[cenacle]

*** Many Musics, VII, i, "Are You Happy?" - beginning a sequence of poems derived from dreams, a sad one, but funny in a melancholy way . . .
*** Many Musics, VII, ii, How to Train Your Dragon - inspired in part by the movie, but passing on elsewhere from there . . .
*** Many Musics, VII, iii, Old Man - dream poem, based in part on the death of Russian novelist Leo Tolstoy . . .
*** Many Musics, VII, iv, Generate Silence . . . dream poem, darkly funny again, full of strange glints . . .
*** Many Musics, VII, v, Zublian - a word from my dreams, and a fresh song inspired by a poem i've written about for decades . . .
*** Many Musics, VII, vi, Distress - dream poem, bit of a love poem by the end, vivid, strange . . .
*** Many Musics, VII, vii, Take Back Your Mind - dream poem, sci fi this time, again a bit of a love angle, sweet . . .
*** Many Musics, VII, viii, We Only Live A Day - another song partly from dream, partly from strange folk on the streets of the city . . .
*** Many Musics, VII, ix, Remembering the Old West - dream poem, surreal, the key is to not be wowed by strange places, they are commonplace to those who live there . . .
*** Many Musics, VII, x, A Priest & a Rabbi Walk Into a Bar . . . another dream, like an extended good joke . . .

[cenacle]

*** Many Musics, VII, xi, [untitled] - This still pretty much sums up my thinking and beliefs . . .
*** Many Musics, VII, xii - Circulation Salves Distress - dream poem, sort of a SF tale . . .
*** Many Musics, VII, xiii - Lithe - dream poem, cloak and daggerish . .
*** Many Musics, VII, xiv - Sorry Youth - an old bitter lingering . . .
*** Many Musics, VII, xv - Feedback - another weird dream poem . .
*** Many Musics, VII, xvi - Ikebana - Image: http://collagediva.typepad.com/.a/6a010536104739970b0154334b27ad970c-pi - A dream-like poem but based on Chihuly's great work
*** Many Musics, VII, xvii - Way of the Creatures - something sweet from my secret heart . . .
*** Many Musics, VII, xviii - Let Go - Weird little thing . . .
*** Many Musics, VII, xix - White Tuxedo & Black Top Hat - "stop singing from your knees" -that's good advice . . .
*** Many Musics, VII, xx - Glaring Lights - I've had my bike years now, and it is a good companion for sure . . .

[cenacle]

continued here:
http://www.spiritplants.org/forums/the-library/many-musics-seventh-series-*part-2-of-3*/msg33571/#msg33571