Continued from here:
viewtopic.php?f=2&t=9040
xix. 6/12/2000 Art Institute of Chicago
Georgia O’Keeffe, “Red Hills with Flowers,”
1937, oil on canvas
What burns in you is beauty.
Beauty burns in all creation.
Here you are, first & last flower of the world.
There you’ll go, joining other dreamers in those hills.
There you’ll be, now fully a dream, beyond knowing’s
fruitless toil.
xx. 6/12/2000 Art Institute of Chicago
Edward Hopper, “Nighthawks,”
1942, oil on canvas
All alone. All suffering. yes.
coffee in a diner 4 a.m. gleaming urns.
dull eyes. outside not a yell nor a mumble . . .
Open the door, Betty! Don’t wait for your
date, he likes the gloom.
Don’t wait for that lone man who eyed
the folds of your red dress & nodded.
Betty, don’t wait for the patron either,
he prefers closed doors, would cover
the windows & extinguish the lights—
if he could. If it mattered.
Perhaps this is your fate, your mission,
the meaning you need.
You care, Betty. You care beyond good
& bad, beyond safety, beyond love,
beyond the words & the glances &
these dour souls here, make a
break for it, Betty, smile, mention
the powder room, smile at them
all & in the vacuum, the few
moments, do something to
that door
do something, a brick, a garbage can,
do what you’ve wanted to do all of
your life, stop waking up wondering
who & why, hurry now! A cigarette
& a cup of coffee make a short
watch to go by, hurry, yes,
do it! Leave your purse, it
will be their clue that you
aren’t ever coming back.
xxi. 6/12/2000 Art Institute of Chicago
Jackson Pollock, “Grayed Rainbow,”
1953, oil on canvas
There is no answer.
There is sadness & morning light.
There is the need to mount, to have,
There is need to receive, to contain.
There is no meaning.
Morning light accumulates until
it no longer exists.
xxii. 6/12/2000 Art Institute of Chicago
Gerhard Richter, “Ice 1-4,”
1989, oil on canvas
Deep in the world’s woods
on the morning of the day
when the world ended,
a soft sound, flesh, breathing,
other noises followed, then
stillness again, the woods slept.
xxiii.
Deep in the world’s waters,
toward noon of the day
when the world ended,
no belief as ever in sky & land,
fear of light, perhaps of change
too. Nothing is named or divided.
xxiv.
High above the world
at dusk of the day
when the world ended,
shimmer & cloud, the silence
of paradise, of perfect
undulation.
xxv.
Down in the heart of the world
near midnight of the day when the
world ended, all was well, all
was calm, change, decay, growth,
illusion, beauty, the pyre was
ready. Tonight’s ending will be spectacular.
xxvi. 6/16/2000 Harvard Square
Au Bon Pain Cafe, Cambridge, MA
A thing not word, a word not thing,
the universe hardens with a
burning ambivalence.
Music. Power. Fecundity. Time annihilates
light annihilates mystery annihilates
that which strays too rhythmically
til buried in flesh & words. Flesh & words.
There is no answer. Here she remains
immaculate & young. Cutting air with blood.
There is no answer. Find the trees,
nuzzle the wind. Learn how to accept.
How to nod. Disappear along the
path home.
xxvii. 6/16/2000 Harvard Square
Au Bon Pain Cafe, Cambridge, MA
The fury of existence. Happiness no limits.
Night, once again, night, always.
A pair of shoulders better to be part of
fleshes twisting musics than thought.
Thought is for aspiring species.
True manifestation for cogitating angels
comes in reunion with bloody-backed
fury.
Daily ignored the howling bookends
of existence in favor of the mortal hustle.
Merge your blood & hers & the earth’s, merge
them anew in a depthless agony. Learn.
Learn what she knows alone at moments
when from her cunt squirm eyes, a face.
xxviii. 6/16/2000 Harvard Square
Au Bon Pain Cafe, Cambridge, MA
I listen tonight for one true note. I hear
everywhere coins, clatter, asses dropping
into wooden seats.
I am disappearing even now, before the
grime of my trainride, the prayers
for soft voice, the spewy careen into Dream.
I know nothing now because I distrust
knowledge, all is water, perfect,
unknowable, all is dream-breast, life
resumes again dryly every morning.
xxix. 7/8/2000 On board New York City-
to-Indianapolis Greyhound bus
Maybe in a moment revelation
maybe after that extinction
Maybe twisted with this moment here
Maybe first everything, then nothing, is clear
Or the kind of yes that quickly buds doubts
Or the kind of no that winks & dances past midnight
What will the gathered faces tell you?
Several things you need not know?
What will the music be when you’ve
finally sucked the flame?
What will you become when you’ve
finally shed your bed & name?
***
Tonight could be the night
of revelation & extinction
Don’t ask the trees. Don’t flood the fields.
Become the music again
It will bring you home. It will burn you down.
Something soft too. Something soft here lacks.
Tonight could be the night when
what reveals, what extinguishes,
Partners, mates, makers of the new coming.
***
Extinction, revelation, the way the morning
light careens off hidden pond, the way
the night urges the soul to play or charge,
extinction & revelation, the turnpike’s truths
gull more every day with solutions of plastic
proclaimed by prophets of wood.
Somewhere tonight love is freezing into habit.
Elsewhere tonight love is melting, laws over & gone.
One lifetime nearly concluded wheezing onto
the bus, a metal walker, seat warning
ahead to the final bed & the coffin.
***
I’ve been waiting to love you all my life.
But now the mirror must urge me to cease doubting.
Tonight I am travelling to you, I know that.
Revelation, extinction, water for the hopeless.
Will you still be cherry when I get there?
Will I?
Cherry Hill, New Jersey on a night heavy with
revelation & extinction.
Full moon flirty shows one buttock tonight.
If I don’t find you soon there’s be a new wisdom
will be time for me to school in.
***
Revelation & extinction are just fancy words.
Pretties for the brain. Cigarettes. Chewing gum.
Watching her dance that night opened nearly
every door.
A rainbow the other day, its blank belly
filled with bolts, what more? What else?
This world is fat with miracles & woe,
fat, with fire, with pain, with chocolate,
with mace, with crowds around a
water bowl, with solitary lords rich
with echoes & bottled time
Revelation, extinction, how the blood is readying
to come wildly.
***
The freaks will never own the world
they preach of another, deeper, proclaim
how things shall be when they dance
when they smoke
when they board the crowded midnight
bus smiling, friends to all, friends
to any
The freaks know revelation & extinction.
Cherry tomatoes in a window garden.
A pocketful of photos from the
mountain festival.
Stories of ghosts known & remembered.
Songs for you, tonight, it will
never ever be here again.
The freaks will never own the world
because they find extinction too funny,
& revelation too obvious. You
can’t sell a freak the city & its scripture
you can’t scare a freak with threats
of denial. The freaks will never own
the world because they keep running
away shouting “What world? Which one?”
xxx. 7/9/2000 On board NY City-
to-Indianapolis Greyhound bus
What will make the alignment hold?
Cease, release, stop seeking to know.
What have I forgotten, what has blurred?
Laughter ever floats, ever renews.
What will come of this confusion, this frenzy?
A full moon, dancing shadows, fire all night.
I have no guesses left. I feel old.
Nothing is what it seems. Stay still. Let the fuck go.
When will come the splendor present curves—
Stop. No more. The trees will not blink.
Today. Tomorrow. Silence. Music. Mystery.
The rainbow’s blank belly full of bolts, miracle at
a train station last Thursday night.
xxxi. 7/12/2000 Deer Creek Music Center,
Noblesville, Indiana (Phish show)
Despair: Life’s burns, busts, blastholes—
Hope: what remains thereafter, straggles on, sometimes ecstatic—
xxxii. 7/15/2000 Polaris Ampitheatre,
Columbus, Ohio (Phish Show)
He is the man who walks around &
asks “Why?” I follow him these days.
“Perfection is a come-hither whore” he
says. “A mirror image really. A shadow.
“Best pursue the combined clan of doubts,
remorse, fear, part companions to,
part wardens of hope.”
I met him after a night of dreaming
in which I remembered again I can
fly.
I was sleeping in the trees near
carnival in the field by the town
which had burned the afternoon
before the carnival had arrived.
He was sitting spine perfectly straight
against an oak eyeing me queerly
as I slept in my sleeping bag
outside my tent within which
my bag of notebooks & suitcase of barter books
resided dryly, dearly, like children
“I used to make butterflies,” he said,
“Eager & flitty, but that was when another
kind of world was more in evidence,
when some things were easier, when
some of us were learning
how to arrive home.”
We didn’t begin to travel together
right away. I didn’t know what
he could do for me, I was
in no state to truly help anyone else.
xxxiii. 7/15/2000 Polaris Ampitheatre,
Columbus, Ohio (Phish Show)
The moon has confessed its
full beauty tonight
I think: “All is Family”
at the concert, tripping
All is Beauty, too, I remember
like last night’s dream
remembering I can easily fly
Full moon manifestation
All is Family.
All is Beauty.
In tonight’s dream you will
remember how to fly.
xxxiv. 7/16/2000 On board Cleveland, Ohio-
to-New York City Greyhound bus
“You don’t truly embrace what means most
to you” he said, making butterflies leap
from the midnight flames, “No,” he continued
“you sit in a dark room watching every night’s
pink & gold sunset through an imagined
window” & he walked into the woods for a time
leaving me to suckle off these thoughts
their pleasure, their pain
“I want to write a book called Why?”
I explain again to his absence
“I think it may help. I’m nearly ready
to begin.”
xxxv. 7/16/2000 On board Cleveland, Ohio-
to-New York City Greyhound bus
Somewhere She sits on a hillside
of pink petals. She is healing an
old man who’s recovered his sight,
& has discovered himself alone in the world.
I’m not ready to watch her engage
touch to touch. I can only listen.
The breath of concentration. The whistley whisper
of love.
“Heal me too” I want to say to her but cannot.
We are strangers save in dreams.
The hillside’s pink petals are where she
urges the old man to begin. “This is family,
right here,” she explains. The old man listens
more than looks, still, tis his habit. He
smells the scent of her long hike, is pleased
that young girls still smell like beauty &
power. Her words rest in his ear, aural
light, memory, regret, joy.
“Heal me too” I want to say to her but cannot.
Vision rises, colors & bells, dreams become
part tree, part flame-flecked stream.
Dreams & we know each other & I
call her wife & sister & mother &
mate, enemy & teacher.
she calls me similar names, & laughs,
& plows through my skin
a funky bitch, a carnal friend
lover made of blood & mud
teacher with teeth
mother with hunger
sister with glee
enemy til the spasm
mate in joy & grief
“All is family” she tells the old man
& he nods, weary with all of these
colors & dimensions
“Heal me too” she wants to say to me
but cannot.
xxxvi. 7/16/2000 On board Cleveland, Ohio-
to-New York City and New York City-to-Boston
Greyhound buses; finished 7/17/2000 Diesel Cafe
Somerville, Massachusetts
Tonight I will disappear along the path
home, evaporate finally, leaving my
bones & body to continue what I choose
not to abide n’more.
Tonight goodbye to breasts & bellies,
to want & strain, to cowardice,
to lawlessness, to hollow coins, to repression,
to the best of it all, to futility
What remains a holy emptiness,
the persistence of mold,
still hungering for a crevice of treasure,
a secret burning city of bliss,
an invisible forest, happy fleshlessness—
I have only these words to summon
You. Panic. Jettison. Whirlpool.
Modulation. Pain. Silence. Cessation.
I dream of flying. I dream of You.
I do not wish to disappear just yet
He laughs & says “Regard your own hand,
boy! Can you claim even to understand
its magic? Do you understand anything at all?”
No. I understand nothing. Nothing at all.
I flow & stagger blindly.
Somewhere You writhe & wiggle too.
Somewhere Your secret language hints
at my name. You ponder symbols
that somewhat resemble me.
I cannot disappear along the path home
tonight. I cannot yet disavow You.
He laughs again. “Believe in everything
still for no damned good reason.
Faith. Children & lunatics. One or two
preachers. Artists who limp & bleed
and flail but fight on. Yes, boy! Fine!”
You’ve known none like me. I’ll be
your first & last. We know each
other already in dreams & silence.
Something already between us, not yet
word, nor yet shine, yet
beyond shadow, no longer blue fancy
Something from somewhere, wreckage
of a dream, a remaining bliss,
a residua, word made flesh made
word made flesh, a ring of echoes
round the universe, a glance that began
a thousand centuries ago
mirrors of fire before time began to
contrive its noose
an unfound door in an unnoticed wood
by which the bus careens before
its crash, every day, forever thoughts
of the last kiss, the next dollar
a floating passage spent with a book
called Why?
How often have I disappeared along the
path home! Who arrives in my place?
Who will You meet when Your equation
rolls me into Your life?
How will he be at loving You? Will he midnights
when sweat & bloodybacked conversation
think even then about evaporating? Will
You hold him tight with teeth til he yowls?
Will You & he, known as we, claw in
some dawns, become useless with words,
finally settle to prayer with Preacher Sunrise
& the Butterfly Overlord Flaming Harmony
Chorale? Butter pecan ice cream? Bourbon
with shots of LSD?
He says grimly “You’ve got a mind like
a bagful of penny candy, Son.
Go ahead. Give her bouquets of ecstasy
& annihilation. See how long she stays.”
There’s more, o a terrible amount more. I’ve
chosen to survive along the path home &
this means trouble for I have my demands
I have something to offer I’m going to keep
offering til someone accepts
Words. Wounds. Laughter. Lawlessness.
Fingers that know how to rile & flow.
Tongue bearing a trey of dangers.
Skin with seething pores.
Warm breath flows over me from
a universe strange, growling,
curious. A riddle curled in sleep.
Will our love reveal the something
that willna desist, will I lay at
last calmly not just with you but
among the forever legion of your
sisters, our sisters, more than sated,
more than empty
trusting again, as once, in the breast
& the belly, the gleam, undulation,
yes, the undulation I have painfully
witnessed in each of you diminishing
from me across the ridiculous babble
of my years, trusting again that
the milk is true, the sweat honest,
the moan numberless, the thought
instinctive with laugh & memory, what
more can I demand of thee, young love,
how can I be of more annihilating
service to thee? Could mere fucking ever be this fun?
To play one true note. To nail You
among the dense strews of a
dryly rotting haystack called Reality.
To demand your answers bear a few
words along with the usual flecks
& touches. To play one true note
& watch you dance, cyclone, fury,
a mind, several, many, all, watch
you devour air, watch you near me
where I lie, prone & stiff, take me
without softness, without regret, without
emotion, the animal in you has
etched your cheeks in pigs’ blood,
what You do to me is about existence
itself, the pain involved crude & effective,
the tightening sun above quickens Your grind,
You’ve gone now beyond female, beyond
wife & sister & mother & nurturer & whore
there is no pretty purpose left in You,
no morality tattooed on Your breasts
from the many centuries as chalice
& property, preying on me You feed,
sating me of weariness & seed You pray
neither vanity nor shame as truth releases Your blood
Seeking, finally, to remove the I
from here & hereafter, neither I
nor We, no He, no She, at last an
ending that all may become possible
again, the teaching grid visible again
in every growl & vine, above all
the glowing dotted roof of the cosmos
impossibly high, the floor down
unseen below, creatures again, nameless
& divine & native to this mystery &
miracle, walking, hunting creatures
dreaming by daylight, unable to distinguish
a branch from a kiss, a memory from a
claw, a word from a deed, all
the lands & waters alive with these
creatures, neither risen nor fallen
but floating, wiggling, saucy with moon-kin,
ferocious to learn from weed-gurus———
Tonight, my love, & thus I approach You
each word scrawled on a dry leaf of mud,
the madness & magic of anguish & anticipation,
how I approach You by flare, by crackle,
by retch. Tonight, my love, approaching You
shedding sinews & blue fancies. My music denses & readies.
6 x 36 Nocturnes, series one, #19-36
6 x 36 Nocturnes, series one, #19-36
Last edited by Cenacle on September 9th, 2019, 10:49 pm, edited 1 time in total.
in these still early poems of the Nocturnes, I was beginning to explore the idea of mixing that electronica DJs commonly use, sampling lines from poems to form new poems, finding new meanings in new juxtapositions, not for lingual gaming, but for what juice remains in a line to be found by mix and mix and mix again...this first series was not intended as a first series originally, but then I realized I could push on, start a second series, and mix in deeper and deeper...what I've discovered over the years as that there is no bottom, no wall one hits where words lose their meaning...time has its effect, and the challenge is to respond with all one has at any given hour...
-
stilltrucking
- Posts: 20607
- Joined: October 24th, 2004, 12:29 pm
- Location: Oz or somepLace like Kansas
It was a long scrollThere you’ll be, now fully a dream, beyond knowing’s
fruitless toil
The freaks will never own
the world because they keep running
away shouting “What world? Which one?”
I have no guesses left. I feel old.
Nothing is what it seems. Stay still. Let the fuck go
“Heal me too” I want to say to her but cannot.
We are strangers save in dreams.
Dreams & we know each other & I
call her wife & sister & mother &
mate, enemy & teacher
I have something to offer I’m going to keep
offering til someone accepts
and I was very sorry to see it end
thank you
-
Doreen Peri
- Site Admin
- Posts: 14539
- Joined: July 10th, 2004, 3:30 pm
- Location: Virginia
- Contact:
It's maybe a strange idea, or just novel, but since I work with the idea that all is music, rhythm and flow, vibrations, and what lay person's knowledge I have of sub atomic physics seems to bear this out, what DJs do and how it fascinates me seemed a natural connection. They mix, they sample, they create new from old, they respond to the live hour they are performing in, the crowd, the venue. When I write, I am very aware of setting, since I like being out in the world and its distractions, and of music, usually on my headphones, but sometimes just what is playing on a coffeehouse's or fast food joint's or whatever's loudspeakers. I play what is going on in the environment, what's burbling in my head, and some lines or words from previous poems, let them become something singular. Maybe it's like synasthesia, in a twisted way, turning multiple sensations, internal and external, into a single written work.
I've always written this way, but moreso in recent years. The Nocturnes I am posting really busted my head open to what is possible. Other things led to this busting, such as entheogens and deeply studying music, as as visual art, to learn how to play words, paint words, push words to some place where I felt both native and filled with the mystery. Something else, eh?
I've always written this way, but moreso in recent years. The Nocturnes I am posting really busted my head open to what is possible. Other things led to this busting, such as entheogens and deeply studying music, as as visual art, to learn how to play words, paint words, push words to some place where I felt both native and filled with the mystery. Something else, eh?
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