Many Musics, Ninth Series (i)

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Continued from here:
http://studioeight.tv/phpbb/viewtopic.php?f=2&t=28778

Many Musics, Ninth Series

“Open hands, touch, & teach others how”

i. Flutter

Tonight I listen for the flutter to go.
Less than a hum, a low whistle,
less than a something, a key-shaped
declivity in the ether, humbling clue.

It was another dream of sand set me to go.
This one a test, the several questions,
fingering grains to conjure answer,
& in the right order: Forgive. Understand. Reconcile.

And now the path, past my dreams,
& every foolish hour. Came where I should,
in this graying dusk, & now to listen,
now to watch, wait & watch, there—
A pink nose, glowing fur, parting through grass,
a way not a way, just the flutter to go.

******

ii. By Way of Reply

Arrived here from so many hours & miles,
I remember hard two. One is your greasy brow,
your sweaty face, playing a game you love
but maybe not enough. You want to sing,
shape the air to your music, color exposed
the cankers in your heart, if not fill
or efface them all. I watch from
the sidelines, a backup reporter with
little interest until you collide into me
& we collapse in pains & mud.

Years later, I dream we are talking
on the phone, trying to explain
our lost friendship, understand the moment
when mud becomes dust, understand
anything at all. A turn & I am in
a vast coffeehouse in San Francisco,
several floors, rooms doored by old
patchwork curtains, a couch the color
of badly dyed red hair, thin covers-less
books of poetry heaped together between bricks.

I’m glad we moved here, I think, finally,
after living so many other places.
San Francisco, I think gladly, at last.

When I wake, we’re not in or bound
for San Francisco. And you are still
my friend, waking in your own home,
with your loving wife like mine.

And I am in the Gate, still, too,
& it reminds me that the old truism
about diminishing numbers of doors
through the years is laziness worse
than lies. Look left, look right, mind
& look ahead. They’re swinging every
which way, a shaggy spectral music at the ready.

******

iii. Empty Ballpark

The black kitten, so tiny in her long blue top hat,
sleeps on a scrap of cardboard I found,
or sometimes on the edge of my hand.
We cannot decide if she is my dream,
either of us, but she remains close in my hours.

I’m trying to understand what any of this is,
as I always have, did. I saw clouds in the
skies, when a child, as frames to mysteries
embedded in the blue. The ways lamps
reflected on windows, in my first heartbreak,
& the next, seemed a secret warm pattern to things.

Faces in crowds befuddled me, each one dry
& no hint of the tinder within. Perhaps something
when wrapped in a book, or a letter. I watched lamps
deeper into reflections, listened. Watched lover
after lover sleep in my bed, gentle as demised.
The black kitten came, then the blue top hat.

Or the other way. I travelled the last carriage
out of town, walked & walked, found
an empty ballpark. A scrap of cardboard.
Or the edge of my hand. Sleeping without answer,
or question. A trust in me. I step from the ground,
finally, balancing her as my all.

******

iv. Big Dreams

I awake. Really alone. You’re both gone.
I have nothing left but the Gate.
I don’t know what this means but
it’s my only way on now. This great bed,
that large table, the plain table & chair.

The last time I saw you, the last time
we curled half-nude, watching TV,
you relaxed, you smiled with me.
You had translucent shades on your windows,
to let the stars & streetlights in,
but obscurely. I was not your lover.

We formed a circle, you & me & him,
we tendered each other, I was not your lover,
nor his, we were sugar water on
each other’s tongues, colluding flames
in each other’s hearts. I joined you, & you,
I stayed, & then remained, & then no more.

There is light on the water outside,
I struggle to think dawn or dusk.
Those mountains are always white-capped
so I do not know the season. Those evergreens
tell little more, but I am a man &
so yearn to know. I am a man &
knowing is a hole I try to fill. I am a man &
I miss you for all your cruelties,
you final lies, your lingering tenderness.

I was not your lover that last long night
when we finally all twisted into bed,
when we made each other come new stars
into the hours & skies. I was not your lover
when the juices of our bodies commingled
& no god could tell us apart. I was not your lover
but I am a man & I am still trying to fill
that hole, see through your translucent shades
into your heart, hearts, three, two, one,
& I am awake. Really alone. You’re gone.

******

v. Guerilla

It came upon me with no name &
it is beautiful & I can’t describe it
but I’ll try. There were streets then,
closer to the water, the salt & water,
& the glare of trollies, & the fire. I was mad,
several times over, I walked & walked.

It came upon me with a beautiful push
to say, to sing, & I can only think of hands,
so many hands, come & gone, watched
& come & gone. Parks full of scrawny green,
the moon hardly a thumb’s print above.
I walk & I walk. Your ass remains poised

before me, your eyes so dark, so fuzzy with want
& challenge. Like a good fuck can clear
away your heart’s trash. The trollies pass
in pairs by the open window, one hither,
the other yon, I laugh. I should have laughed.
The beautiful thing, nameless, nods with me.

Calmer now, unsated, we sit together
under your room’s single window.
Its view to bricks imprinted red & gold,
it comes upon us both now, sitting
together, our hands twined, coming,
going, I notice your ankles are discolored.

“My shoes,” you explain. The beautiful thing
is nudging me again, pulling now.
Have to hurry. I kiss your bare shoulder &
stand finally. Your look is plain,
the timeless one when love leaves too soon
& no counter. I turn. Walk & walk.

Till the years pass, greener parks,
other hands. I can’t describe it all
but I’ll try. You dream you’re with a friend,
another one lost one way or another,
& sitting together, there is relief. Time
didn’t take you, I never let you go,
this beautiful thing pounds with every beat
in my chest, a music that never quits.

******

vi. Burning Man

The flutter to go came years ago,
came upon me here, this table,
this courtyard, a night kissed soft
with lights & air as these, it came,
in a flutter, rightly music? So I chose,
& chose to go, chose to follow.

Dreaming, dreaming, perhaps, & I still wonder
at it, how I let a flutter make a world,
I loved the four trees in this courtyard,
the old bricked floor, the clack & laughter
of chess pieces nearby, we might all have
grown old together, I have might have written

here every year from then to now. But I didn’t.
Not here. A preacher, one night, there
on the street, crying, “Your world’s mud’s
becoming dust! Behold it everywhere!
Your world’s mud is becoming dust!” I stood.
The clatter of lights in the cafe, its later hours,

its mediocre foods. The flutter to go &
I stood up. I was from other years.

There were too many ancient buildings
as I walked, too much tribute to old gods
& aged learning. The park I found was young
with green, I tried to stay, tried to kneel
& believe. On a bench, a scrap of cardboard
I pocketed, flutter, flutter, go.

Those around me didn’t know theirs
was half some world becoming half
some other, they were figures in an equation,
waving spectres in a long long wind, I could not
warn them, could not long lie among them,
their views translucent when young &

muddier & muddier. I walked on, came finally
to a tall fire in the desert where all
could go. They danced around it, cried &
cheered. What a beautiful thing, to flutter,
flutter, & finally go! The years had eaten
my hands, my art, I thought I had nothing left

yet I did not burn. I could not burn.
A man of dreams does not burn.

I hold my uncharred scrap of cardboard tonight.
The courtyard trees above me burst with
springtime green, another softly kissed night.
The mediocre foods, the knock of chessboards.
What comes, & will not go. Where I must return.
What beauties the night will not cede.

******

vii. A Man of Dreams

A man of dreams does not burn.
Am I man of dreams? Seems so.
Many dreams? Seems so.

I still wake. I still walk by day’s light.
My lover nestles me in the crimson shades
of our chamber. Our bed alights with moans & cries.

But dreaming, I sit here in this familiar
courtyard & feel it close, as the worn bricks
under my feet, the green green leaves above.

Not all is one or the other, my cane
is both, oaken, carved instructions
I cannot read when awake, called a hekk.

My coat, this long leather thing, another
that had crossed the Dreaming &
keeps me close. A singing in my ears.

I am trying to know this. Nobody can
tell. The summer wind, the blue glare
of gaseous street lamps. Taxis & cruisers
on the street. What is waking?
What is dreaming? Do I come here from
elsewhere & what is that place?

A woman’s sweet ass in denim reminds
me of another. The chess players
nearby chat of multiple realities
between moves. I feel the lust,
live & remembered both. Their ideas
seem reasonable, a guitar starts up.

The music is a signal, a nudge,
a something, catch a hold its thread,
follow as a clue. Remember some things.
It’s what I struggle to do. I do not burn.
I close my eyes, over the fence of details
& into the music. Cool darkness,
flowing, floating, water the temperature
of skin. A bare shoulder in a cluster
of glares, a reedy voice. To find her again,
to remember some things. The Dreaming
nudges me back from its far edges &
I wake. A bare shoulder. Nothing burns.

******

viii. A Chair is Like a Stump

There was a situation. They dress me
& send me into the night, kind,
dear, I’d struggled. They listened close.
Fed me pieces of fruit, & much water,
walked me in the garden many times
where the striped white tiger with
electric blue eyes roams. But now
I am dressed & sent into the night,
to a club, to continue my healing, &
travel on. It’s the next stage.

The club is dark & the music growls
from a fractured stage. I count
ten lights upon it & nothing clearly
in view. It’s wrong, maybe others
notice too. I stand & look at the girl
sitting with me, her red hair, electric
blue eyes, dressed in feathers & leaves,
more vines & stones a crown on her head,
she smiles toward something & points.
She says, “It’s a language of metaphors
& displacement.” I nod.

I reply, eyeing her shoulder soft in lights,
her cheek softer in shadows,
“a person is a house of rooms. And we
go from one room to the next,
clearing the cobwebs, but then
the rooms we’re not in fill up with
more & more & we keep moving.”
I am shaking, this matters.
I grasp her shoulder, grip it,
pull her to me. “A chair is like a stump.”

We go. We will travel together.
You will show me. You are not her
but you will show me. At night
you are warm water, floating in
darkness. Music tugging me &
I follow. Your touch is moonlight
in deep woods, a push, a pull, a tremble
to press me on in these obscure matters.

******

ix. Take Back Your Mind

It was a far Western city. Winter blooms
outside the window that morning. Now night.
That morning I’d read the sad letter &
it’s sent me along my day’s path. The longer
I stayed in Dreamland, the more it became
something else. The rest of it. What explained
our encasement in time & space, on earth,
breathing, beating. Slaves to genetic
programming. To let go all was to fall, to fail,
to die. So we rigged choice behind eyelids,
behind bars of sleep, there to blow, to exhaust.

But it was a sad letter, there is that
too. And the blooms come before spring.
And I left you sleeping, covered you to
chill & light. The letter warned you
of me, wondered at all your years
tending my music. It was a letter
letting you go, knowing you wouldn’t,
knowing you believed, you loved,
you waited & knew. Your face peaceful,
your ever-light sleep mercifully unbroken.

I walked far to find my friends in
their paintless old church, its many rooms
a refuge. Looking further, I found them
in the cemetery with its clusters
of embedded stone markers. Their crowd
of the poor, the half bidden, a few ex-priests,
none of it mattered, I walked on, she
wasn’t in this city, the rain was icy.

As I returned to you by dusk,
all was ice, impossibly iced,
our street now a long climb, my doing
maybe. I find a phone in my hand
to call you, its cord runs to a set of
dark boulders outside our door.

I call & call. The horizon now careens
with wild sheets of light, ripping &
mending, ripping & mending, this is how
worlds end here, nothing learned
but that losing solid ground below
us, flying past days & miles,
would relieve us of nothing dearest,
the touch as it passes, the breath expires,
& to choose again, & to choose again.

******

x. There Were Birds

There were birds, there were birds, there were birds,
& at first they were out my window &
they were filling my dreams so they were
out my window but filling my dreams too.
They crossed over, with their singing,
their chuckling, crossed over until eventually
they formed my dreams, bigger & bigger,
their singing became my dreams, my dreams
became their singing, more & more,
& still they were out my window singing.

You remained. You slept more & more.
You slept deeper into your covers, your pillow.
You were no longer there by sun, by day.
You were leaving with the birds, leaving
with the birds, leaving with the birds.
You were now neither by sun nor moon
but you were some strange remain.
Close to me still, a shadowy sticky something
now, the first sweetness life will take
& leave only open hands to remind.

******

xi. Some Strange Remain

The ships have always been overhead.
And yet, not just overhead. For you see,
we are on those ships, as we walk around,
down here, we are on those ships overhead.

I wonder over all this as your hand half-asleep
roams me, trembling for another tussle.
I let your hand, miss, miss again, slide away
into sleep. You don’t want me that much.

It could have been you or either of the other two,
in truth. I just needed one of you to keep me
until this rolling restaurant reaches
the next city. You were the youngest,
least likely to hit or gag. Easiest to please
with a few licks & a slow smile.

The restaurant has rooms in the back,
a few to rent, & I need your wallet too.
When you’re out I use your coins for
the black & white TV, smoke & watch a film
about a woman captured & brought to a cell.
She powerfully remembers her youth & friends,
but they seem like boys she’d seen on TV.

You stir. I consider. I’m from those ships overhead;
knowing this would you still have fucked me?
Now I’m sitting on the parapet outside our room,
watching dark flat lands roll by,
looking up, missing gaps of time & intent.
Light on the horizon, a thin smear
of pink & yellow. Here, there, up there.
Did you really look down my body in
your bleary, gleeful rush? I’ve had a few
over the years. Tits small but firm,
tummy flat, decent legs. Finish smoking, decide.

You’re lying splayed out, where I left you,
easy to lick up hard & mount again.
You groan wanting, carnal & drugged both.
You’re another of my practice runs but I’m reminded
I don’t need that much. I ride you, squeeze you,
hurt you a little, you squeal pleasure.

Morning. I’ve stayed in the city as
that restaurant rolled through. A stretch
among men not as young or as pretty
as you were. Have to put a little more mileage
on this body. Some bruising for my purpose.
I bring you with me, in a memory,
your eyes wide, spasming, & again,
& why your empty bed, not the others?
Because they wouldn’t think to ask.

******

xii. Happiness

Quiet months. Left my room only at dawn,
grew & gathered at the local park to keep
this body extant. Watched my black & white TV,
I’d kept it. Sometimes had to make a friend
to get some coins to watch. Hurt him
but only if he wouldn’t go.

The new ones upstairs, they began coming
through my window, look around,
take things. There wasn’t much, but
they’d play it as their due, climb
through the window, take things. Eventually
I went a floor below, for his company,
& because he heard them too. Taking things.

I’d smoke & watch him careen his days.
Come home from hurting people in an office,
fucking women with single names. Living days
that were all edges. He’d lay with me
like a surrender. We’d give up sometimes &
watch my TV. Better than upstairs.

But then he would visit his niece & smile.
Smile & play & bring gifts, dance her around
in the rain. All would fall away. All the edges.
He was happy & that was good. Nothing for most
in this world but to find someone or something
to be happy with. What other choice to this?

******

xiii. Big Canvas, Empty

I guess you could say that love will warp
your path, one way or another. So your
best angle on the thing is to make sure
you love as well as you possibly can, because
your path will warp, one way or another.
Nothing wrong in that. It’s a good thing.

They said it was a big canvas, empty,
that’s what I think they said. Mine to fill
while I was here, before my task was ready.
The window started showing me more
than my TV. I watched this story unfold.

The boy & girl there are in a house with
many floors. There’s an elevator that runs
from one floor to the next. They’re trying
to get together, to be close, it’s not working.
They end up always on different floors.
I smoke & watch this tussle, is it years?

The seasons come & go, it seems
a lot of time passes, & yet they
never grow old, they never leave the house.
At one point they find each other in
the elevator, & for a moment they’re close,
happy, makes sense, things cohere,
& then something. And then something else.
As I watch they’re on different floors
again, but it’s different, now they remember.

The remembering is what changes things
because if they have, they will again.
I watch as they near from one obstacle
to the next, sometimes an interior obstacle,
worst kind. And then, finally, many floors up,
there he is, there she is, they’re together,
it’s a sweet story. I’ve watched it so long.
I close the window & pull the curtain closed.

Some warps in the path can be as beautiful
as you can possibly imagine. But remember:
it’s all warps in the end.

******

xiv. Wilderdays

Were they dreams when I first watched you
dance? Were they what drew me to you?
Others saw you dancing on the raked
dancing grounds, how you’d make the sand
& pebbles scatter. How you would lithe & blind
move near the large rocks, roll over them,
bend back to them, never a word, no sound
but the scrapes & scatterings.

I knew all this from within me,
my years, my dreams too, at least
some of them, conjured from the books
of patterns you’d study be evening,
patterns that would shape & form our dreams,
how we reached each other then,
dreams that would return us our waking lives.

Were they prophecy? Did you prefer one stone
over another? Did you want me then too?
Did you see the bushes & trees move with you,
the secret fountain among them start to gush?
The black stone shaped like a star missing its point?
The pink one like a slouched or failing heart?
The flowers by spring & winger? Were they dreams?

******

xv. What Isn’t Left

Wake up. No, wake up. In a warehouse,
long steps, running. Light of day is gone.
They control the situation beyond
all reason, it’s obvious. What am I here?

When they first came, it was as angels
from God, His missionaries come to destroy
the foul Earth, pass judgment on all.
People believed this. By the millions.

They submitted themselves to be judged
& punished. It was that easy.

Wake up. No, wake up. It’s a vast camp,
strange, I keep moving. Feeling like something
to be found, among these tents & trees
& buildings. Something to help me find you.

I meet people wearing costumes promoting
eternal life. It adheres to the body,
sucks out the years & the toxins. To wear
this costume is to live forever.

I keep walking. Wake up. No, wake up.
Need to find a place to rest. To dream.
You forget me sometimes. You forget
I am coming to you. You dance
for him, & him, & it’s enough, it’s full
in you. I cry out. This is not a hunger
that I chose. It consumes my path
ever closer to you. I won’t wake up.

******

xvi. Cackling

They need to give me something.
I grind & thrash for them to give
me something. When they do, it cackles.
It’s an . . . imp in many colors.

Cackles & leads me away. This is play.
Like my old friend & his niece. I’m led away
& I go, what else? What has gnashing
my thighs for you done me? There is cackling.
There is play. All a game, all illusion.

I go, & there are many trees. Pale beneath
the darker stars. The imp smoothes my listen,
learns me sniff twice, & again. The imp shows me there
might be other friends, if I let. Let go, sniff, let go.

I am thus content to exhale until the night
my imp goes all white, still cackling
but all colors gone. The bite is in me
again, oh feel it. Sand & stones scatter.
Feel it. I dream of you again, & all the while
the imp is cackling. Her colors restored,
her eyes wide & wild. She is cackling,
hurry, me go. Hurry, hurry, cackling,
hurry me go.

******

xvii. I Killed Someone

It was the worse part of it. I killed someone
& I’m running, but I have no chance.
They know & are following. I remember
it like a cloudy sky in my mind. Who
did I kill? Why?

It’s night, I’m in these strange woods.
They retreat for the moment. It’s like
they think what’s here will do their intent
better than they could. What do I think this?
Can I hear them talking from this far away?

The woods glow pale at night, below
strangely dark stars in a cream sky.
I’m OK. Whatever this is, it can take me.
I wait. It doesn’t. So I try remembering.

There was a room, where it happened,
it was small, a basement, my means gone.
One man bound me so tight to him I thought
we’d die together, watching each other’s
eyes go glassy. Another would save me when
I wasn’t there for saving. He purchased me,
tried to bring me off.

I couldn’t. I had this goldfish, beautiful,
in a glass vessel. I’d watch it swim as
they’d gag me, scorch my chest, weep &
fuck me harder. Then there’s two. I’d thought
the other died, but no, good news.

They talk to me. Sometimes they aren’t
even in the water. They sing to me,
so vulnerable, their bowl keeps getting
jostled & breaking. Between me I
clean my body & their goldfish bowl.
They let me know too hot or too cold.
We work together. As is right.

I let them see you in my mind,
as I see you. They understand what
I mean, what I am doing. When he comes,
the nice one, me purchased & to be taken
with him, I can’t. I won’t. They swim
into my eyes as I kill him, we watch
together what I do, their bowl on his head,
a jagged piece in his chest, again & again
until he won’t ever take us.

You’re still with me here, tonight,
swimming in my eyes, not too hot
or too cold. I’ll bring you with me,
to her. We’ll sing to her. We’ll go.
This woods won’t harm us tonight,
or ever. It’s morning. And now we go.

******

xviii. I Follow

Along came the Traveling Troubadour,
long dead, but loved by many
in the places we travel. I find myself
in his company, happily, as many times
before, none the how or the why.
What is real? What isn’t? Not yet?

He laughs & bids me sing for the crowds.
He’s told me often to grasp them
by their eyes, see the music their
hearts yearn, sing it, sing it.
The snapping fires, the low moon lighting
trees around us, this is easy
& they dance. Learn something, something else,
& dance more. He laughs & nods me more.

Between towns & crowds, I show him
my puzzle. I have a blue sheet to write upon
but seem to have trouble. I wish to fill it
with my fragments which, when assembled,
form a whole, show me path on to her.
He nods, sees my dilemma.

“None, one, & many,” he laughs, almost cackles.
Yes, indeed, I nod. None, one, & many.
He lifts his instrument, strikes a perfect note,
smiles a happy smile, & is gone again
until the next time around.

******

xix. Come the Island

Come the Island, come the doubt.
Come me there, I hesitated, protected.
Lived on the beach, sleeped under branches
leaned against a tree.
Laid out nude on the beach to burn,
to feel myself want the relief of
your touch. Hesitated, protected.

I watched the full moon with my matching skin
& saw a face in the moon & the face
seemed to talk to me alone & it said
click-click! noise-noise! click-click! noise-noise!
in a gnattering tongue I felt I’d once known.

The next night my skin still troubled me
& it looked like the tiny imp in the moon
returned to distract me from pain & sleeplessness,
gnattering wildly, high & low, urge me too.

The third night I could not keep awake
as my skin no longer ached & I crawled
among my branches leaned against the tree.
Up in the sky, the moon too waning
for me to see the imp again. But she pressed
me along to you. She loved me, she cackled,
she pressed me wake & go.

******

xx. Nearer to You

Our first time not in a bed or on grass,
or by woods, but in the Royal Temple.
My dress housed undergarments trimmed for entry,
for pleasure. He hid me there before light
& came when his morning business was done.
Came alone, among the pieces to one & another,
for general gossip to assemble, that he drew nearer
the old gods as war closed in. All respected
his hours of prayer alone in the Temple.

I knelt between his thighs & roused
his member swiftly. Then he motioned
& I sat on his lap, facing him, his hands
sliding in through the hidden flaps
in my blouse, the rest of him sliding
in me down below.

He was strong but guided me gently
our first time, taught me to moan
through our clasped fingers, to keep my eyes
shut & see him through our quicking beats
& breaths, & faster, & a nebulous climax
he led me in & out of until our hands
exploded in cry, until our bones shook &
muscles relaxed.

I was let in early in the morning,
let out late at night, I did not know by who,
but I’d seen you dance already, I knew
I’d found you. When he finally moved me
to a private chamber to keep me more
elaborately, it didn’t matter. The goldfish
in my eyes swam peaceful, the imp in the moon
cackled with good new play, I would crumple
the King your father as I neared you &
neared you, & sweat him & this world away
from this skin of mine you would touch, you would possess.

******

xxi. We Are Six

We are scattered, even enemy now,
but once we came together, walked as one.
We six, raised & summoned from different lands
& times, bound for the Island, many
years in the coagulation, all meant
to bind us for this task, to answer for all
what if anything could be done to save men--

Could the Tangled Gate undo all the wrong
we’d brought to ourselves & our world?

A fellowship they make the myths from,
the one of the great Beast tricked
by his own dream into devouring his head,
the one of the woman who bit off the cocks
of enchanted seamen until the night
she broke her teeth & lost her tongue
devouring our brother’s image cut in stone.
The later one of the man who walked in crown
& dragon’s robes, telling of his god’s every whim
& judgment, until our brother sang him nude
into the Fountain’s cheering & clearing
waters, to emerge soft & wide-eyed
with every crumb of the world now mine &
yours & all’s to share.

A fellowship, broken on the Island,
within the Tangled Gate. Not built by men,
not the stuff of this world. It tore us
from each other not because malevolent,
but because men can only undo men.
We cannot undo the elemental forces
of this world. Submit, thrash, burn, heal.

This pond I stay is calm at twilight, chipping & whirring
of its world at rest. I think about my brothers
& I wish we had another hour in the Gate.
To submit to its powers, yes, but insist our fraternity.
Teach us to know our world, play it,
sing it, heal it of us, we are ignorant
& rude of these things. But teach us not
how to love one another, for though you
consume our bodies & minds, you cannot
know our hearts, how a hand’s touch
stays forever in changing shapes of memory,
how a soft word twists into blood & loins,
how the very air we breathed that morning
as we arrived on the Island still fills
& empties our lungs, each of us, tonight,
tomorrow, it’s cool, calm, we look around,
anchor the boat, glad we are near
to one another, whatever comes, whatever comes.

******

xxii. Dreamwalker

I was sometimes called the Dreamwalker
because I could step in & out of them
like other men a field of lilies & grass,
& I could squeeze them & shape them
to a chunk of wisdom, a word, a message
from what knows this world & blows
best through its ways.

My brothers would tend me when I woke,
sweating, sometimes injured from my travels
in Dreamland. Wash my body, clean
its wounds, kissing touch & caress.
Later dressed, supped, I would sit with them
& tell what I could. Some things would not
carry over. Would crumble in the waking,
or the telling, or in their eyes as they
watched me, needed me to tell.

As days neared us toward the Island
& the Tangled Gate, my dreams went numb
of picture, word, advice. My brothers
found nothing in my face. Only one image:
a spread of fresh warm blood on a log,
a huge axe from the sky chopping it twine.

We tried something at my begging upon
reaching the Island, its shoreless rocky
edge. From my pouch the herbs & powders
to set me into waking sleep. I followed
with the others in two places at once,
trying first to see doubly, then singly.
In dream I was alone, on an Island
come alive, coated in fur & teeth,
angry, uncalmable, not enough to consume
me or us whole, but to efface us,
like we never were in this world.

I cry out. A face. A man’s sad face
but not sad. Furious. The Island,
its body of the Beast, its face of a man,
I cry out again, & fall down forever.
My brothers all return to me from
their explorings. Gather close to me,
each a hand on my trembling form.
We are one again, o world’s dreaming
heart! why couldn’t the Island have
consumed us then as one than
spew us like spittle in all directions
thereafter? I feel you still, all of you,
my brothers, tending me, waiting
my words, even when the only ones
I had left, finally, were I’m sorry.

******

xxiii. Lovers

They knew me as he, they knew me
as she, we lay together in couples
& groups, the road was too long for questions
that no longer mattered. You held those with you,
you loved them, they were lorn. You loved them.

As a girl I waited for the men to find me,
I waited, veiled, ruffled, impatient,
the universe made my body to play,
to think & play, to think & love & play,
to figure it all out among hands & eyes
& thighs & words part prayer, part lies.

The men found me & I let them chase,
let them breathe my scent & sleep alone,
let them make canvases by my vague smile,
let them caterwaul music from their hard loins.
The men found me & I let a few with
a secret smile, moved them to build
& to destroy & to calm the fuck down &
to raise back the fuck up.

The years passed & I needed to know
better, to feel it hard entering me,
feel that driving thing of empires,
gird it soft, feel it raised helplessly
by blush & a thigh, need to possess
something, have it, fuck it, fuck it,
rest. Rest softly. Year upon year.

Eventually, what difference? I knew
it mattered, knew it, then less so.
All flesh is lorn, all flesh needs love.
Me to help make it so. My brothers,
when the Beast pulled me down to light,
I felt the why for it all, remembered
again. We’re here for the friction, we’re here
for the lorn. We’re how the world
makes its music, what it plays, what it burns.

******

xxiv. Dreams the Island

Before I was King, do you remember?
I washed my shirt carefully every day.
I slept among the legs & hands & dirty mouths
of my own brothers, the ones blood told me
were brothers. Before I learned my path
needed dearer ones to me.

There was no King then, just groups of men
keeping each to its piece. Peace but
when a woman got restless for a new face.
We were too tired working fields for politics.

But there were dreams I could not bury between
randy maidens’ thighs. More to this world
than working it over like a prize fight.
I asked the old men of the tribe,
a tooth among them, & they laughed.

Eventually it was the women, full moonlight,
the tall fires, I made them share me
the drinks neither wine nor water. The hours
showing me years ago, the Island,
out there on the horizon, something there,
a Gate? They couldn’t tell me. They squabbled my cock.

Knowing something I tried to tell. Maybe
something more to this world than dirty hands.
The men shook me off for easier lessons
of drink & sleeping the hours hard off.
I needed new brothers to teach me how
listen, teach me how see. New brothers
to travel that Island’s dream & bring its seers home.

******

xxv. So High

It was in the sea-water we first
touched you, by then we were yours.
The day preternaturally bright, the kind
quickly dries the lips. I’d said you’d come kind,
fast & slower, like a woman’s smiling eyes
as you followed her hips, like faint water
trickling you into a dream. The sea-water
as it touched our ankles & knees,
as we pulled our small boats to shore.

Then it was the air, it felt like remembering,
it felt like private, impossibly private,
things to each one of us. A touch, a word.
A private smell with its private smile.
The air of the Island curled around us
in waves that slowly consumed. But a finger
on the lips to me, not a word to any
or the magic’s gone. And it’s just a lonely island.
Shh. Finger on the lips. Not a word.

We camped that night on the beach,
subdued, none of our songs matched
those strange patterns of stars, the colors
they seemed to imply. Our bonfire roared,
we six about it, a mile from one set of warming
hands to the next. I wondered for a word
& felt I should, always the others had
nodded to me & my plants & potions.

I closed my eyes. I called the Island
to me, humbly, I bid it near as I
could abide. I presented myself for
protection of my brothers, let me flow
through them tonight & always, I pray
I flow through & protect you one & all.

They look me close over. A few smile.
“The place will fell more of us in the end.”
Nod. Laugh. (Finger on the lips. Not a word.
Or the magic’s gone.)

******

xxvi. Unexplainable Spasm

I was told first, given my task when
I had none, when I was nothing.
Another face among leaves & trees. Too many
years chasing good ass & then whatever ass.
Too many explanations. Too much time.

The voice in my head, I was hungry,
lightheaded, pills for meals, pills for sleep.
The voice, a young boy’s or a girl’s, humming
at first, draw me in lure my mind. Look about,
city crowds, we exist to each other by news
only our skins & sniffs know. Nothing. The voice
sang louder, moved me from brownstones &
cobblestones to a park, a bench without light.

“Would you like to do something beautiful?
Would you like to save the world?
Would you like to feel like the stones,
the streams, the wind among nameless things?”

I nodded to this madness, or open door.
Nodded & was led back in time, my own times,
my canvases, unfinished, I saw them now,
saw what they should be, painted & painted,
the voice singing, singing, its light, my path,
on & on, it would have been enough,
I ate bread & cheese again, scattered happy kisses.

“Would you like to do something beautiful?
Would you like to save the world?”
I nodded & knew there had to be more.

The canvases became other, developed
a within, a toward, faces, singly
at first but then I saw how they were a group,
the tall windows of my chamber let in stars
& moons & something between them, madness
or open door, I nodded, the same faces,
canvas after canvas, woods, pale woods,
the sea, knowing, near, the Island,
of course the Island. Always the Island.
Always the Gate.

“Would you like to do something beautiful?
Would you like to save the world?”
I nodded, & drew us together, at last.
Each found the canvas I made for him,
in his time & place, studied it, dreamed it
day & night until known better than
the common light, better than brain,
body, beat, breath, knew it & stepped through.

There we were together, our ship, the sea
& more sea. Morning. Waking in a cluster,
a herd, a batch of wondering faces. What next?
Time to do something beautiful. Time to save the world.

They knew, these found brothers, that I
had brought them here. Called me
the Magician but I shook it off. Urged me
paint our path, our enemies, beautiful women
to find & dance with. Shook it off
worse. There is only the Island. There is only
the Gate. My sole canvas aboard that ship
showed not the what nor where of our task
but how it would bind us better, break us finally.
They gathered. Laughed. Then less. New vows.

I made us curl together, again, the night
before we arrive the Island. Every man
another’s hand to his lips, his breast.
Someone laughed. Another shushed.
We sailed unknown seas of stars, & songs
of boys & girls wished & washed our minds.
Night passed. Coming home, coming home.

We ranged the Island for days,
the stories don’t tell this, it wasn’t
a single day’s conquest, we were brave,
we were less so, the Gate humbled us
before it would be found. Farther & farther
from the world, lost in mystic pale woods
until I listened, begged a little, & listened,
& led us the remaining way.

The Gate is not of this world & our skills
& tricks & strong hands did us no good.
The paths walled by vines & stones hurried
& pushed us, no pause, no food, never quite
night to rest. We came, straggled, crowded
before the cave of the Beast. Words gone
as each of us entered the cave, & was consumed.

Consumed us, singly, & then in all, & I felt
the stones, I felt the promised streams,
I let go, & more, & all, & now the wind
among nameless things. I nodded, smiled,
did not return, my brothers, now I am
become the canvas upon which you will
do something beautiful. I grant you this music,
burden you this song. I don’t know if you can,
but you will try & save the world.

******

xxvii. The Gypsy Girl

Among the adventures the one we never spoke,
the girl in the graveyard & she was possibly dead,
but we each had of her & were less & more.

We had sailed toward the Island for years
without discovering sight of it. The books read,
the shamans drunk with, the myth held no live bones.

A tavern to loose it, put down the weapons &
too many maps. We ranged to different new
companions & pursuits. New smells in the nose.

“You’re the Dreamwalker,” she said to me,
young, pretty, but a scar, but a limp,
scarves of many sigils, cards on her table, a crystal.

I nod. Briefly imagine licking her scar, her everywhere,
then take my drink. My friend’s new brew.
“The Island’s a dreamer. It dreams the world.”

We walk outside, I don’t tell my brothers.
She sniffs of blue fire, too too blue, &
leads me to a graveyard. We lay among effaced stones.

I don’t reach for her as I ought, or might,
but she gazes the stars & sings me a song.
I sleep. Dream of warm blood on a fallen tree.

I find her while looking for the Dreamwalker.
She smiles, & I tense. Bids me sit with her
among a cluster of stones. Some say only “from.” Some only “to.”

“You lay with men & women both?” I nod.
She curls into me, her hands soft,
curious, benign. “The chasm won’t be breached.”

The painter joins us, remarks the moonlight,
the shadows. She slips from her scarves & skirts
& bids him portray her, portray us together.

We twine for my friend & he draws with
a shaky hand, shakes his head, cannot
render, & goes. She seems to follow, without her clothes.

My brothers are scattered & here is a naked woman
in a graveyard. She is scared, limps, scarred
but beautiful. I cover her with my cloak.

Now on an ancient bench near the graveyard’s gate,
she calms, pushes my cloak plainly aside.
Urges my hands upon her. “There is no time.”

I turn from my games of pegs & chance
& find only our youngest brother remains.
“They’ve gone with the gypsy,” he says, thin-voiced.

But she’s where she’s been all night, at her table,
her cards, her crystal. Bids me sit. I nod.
“My cards know more than your plants,” she says.

“That may be true. But my plants don’t lie.”
Her smile rings & rings of power, enough
to dance in partner, enough to burn worlds.

Our youngest brother goes to look for the rest
& I watch her follow. He’d drunk what I’d given
him first. No time for lies. So many beautiful truths.

I find each of us disarrayed as though
strong, fine, dirty sex but strangely no sate.
We gather ourselves finally before morning’s first light.

Nobody knew of the gypsy at the tavern
that morning, the scarves & skirts we found
in the graveyard were colorless scraps.

Our ship a refuge from that night & what
it told us. We could search for the Island perpetually,
or sacrifice all, finally, each other, & it would reveal.

******

xxviii. Builds the Kingdom (Part 1)

We lay twined abed, as we have from
our first night, & you press me again,
smiling blue stars in the velvet space between us,
what brought me back, & with my bond
of strong brothers, how was it so?

You’d known your own fate from a child.
First a girl bleeds she is chosen by one
or another. They fight, they trade,
one beds me after they drink & hug,
maybe they share me that night
as a mark of friendship. Each vying
to make me moan more helplessly,
cry & beg.

So your sister had told you, & aunts,
& your own mother with not enough words,
& tears. “It’s hard on them, this life.
They need to be brutal to us. It compensates.”
She knew such words & their ideas too,
but died like none of it mattered.
Just the hairy bit between her legs &
his need for compensation.

“Then you came.” I smile. I’d almost forgotten
the scattered tribes of this region. We came
on a clue of the Island. But people knew me.
They remembered me. “And everyone thought
I’d come with a mission of union. My brothers
liked it better than I did. They convinced me.”

“No. I did.” I smack her ass. I could find
this flesh candy in the silence of the seas.
“Tell me.” “I dreamed you.” “Dreamed?”
“It seemed of no consequence, a man’s
yearn who’s smelled other men’s loins
too close too long.” “It wasn’t.” “No.”

Our first night’s camp was near where
I’d been a boy. Some remembered, welcomed
me, us, but some didn’t. I saw you at camp
& I’d never seen such terror in a girl’s eyes.
Such hopelessness. “I told my brothers
to keep the men busy, all night, drink
& fight them, again & again.”

“You wouldn’t tell me.” “ I had no words.
This is what men do. This is what girls are.”
“But still you feared. Your heart fought it.”
“What woman would not choose which man
beds her? By a tribal rule? Or by her own fired loins & heart?”

“I didn’t intend to take you.” “You’d sniffed me
close the first time we passed. I’d already chosen you.
I just didn’t think it would happen. So his
small cock would have your handsome face.”
I laugh. You taught me the heaviness & lightness
of a woman’s wants, of her needs.

“You made me King.” “Your brothers had already
decided that. Just lacking was the kingdom.”
“When they beheld you my Queen, I now had
worth to kneel for!”

She shifts impatiently. Strokes my cock
thoughtfully, if that’s possible. Moves
about in my arms, then leaps back
from my known moves. “Tell me.”
“Tell you what? You feel my hardness.
Shall I beg again?” She laughs. Then stops.

“Why were you here? You didn’t come
to free & unite us. Not originally.”
“Why say you?” “Because girls like me
are the spoils of the last standing.
You hesitated. Gave me choice.”

“I’m not a brute.”
“No. And it takes one to ride into settled lands
& claim them. Fell the men there or worse
let them live servants thereon. Tell me.” I marvel her again &
wonder my silence.

“You sought something. Or someone?”
Silence.
“Should I fear you begged another her treats,
& she lives still in your heart?”
“No. We rode as brothers looking for a home.
We’d bonded by chance, accident, &
vowed to settle. We were ready. Too many
limps among us. Low fires in the heart.
We were tired.”

You didn’t quite believe me. You knew
among us six no longer spoken words,
wishes, remained. You chose, after all,
to love what I could give. Love, loving,
kindness. An especial cruel hand to any man
who’d have a girl like a tankard. To be drained,
bussed by another. I ruled by your lights,
& why you were taken from me is all
keeping me alive.

******

xxviii. Builds the Kingdom (Part 2)

The ancient women have not forgotten
me as I visit their dwelling alone.
They gather around me in their furs
& feathers & finery. The manacle each
wears on her left wrist, as reminder.
“Tell me. We don’t visit for sentiment.”

“There are stranger strengths in this
world than most reckon. Hidden paths
among dreams, & truck even between
life & death.” “Tell me.”

The oldest, three hideous bones of a woman,
eyes me. “Why did you return?”
“I won’t lie. It was chance.” “What were
you seeking?” I look at the manacle
on her ancient crust of a wrist &
try to think of her, girl in new stained
white panties, led off for consumption.

I sigh. “We sought the Tangled Gate,
a bond of men gathered to save the world.
But it was vain. Why gather us & not
reveal the thing? They were despairing.
Becoming saviors to my old homeland
saved them, saved all of us.”
“Now you despair.”
“Yes. And you have help?”

These old crones then spend the last of
their blood bone & magick to answer me.
A bed the size of my brothers’ boat,
fires & stars where ceiling’d stolid stood,
& them too many to count & ferocious
again in their flesh, mouths to be
kissed & sucked, breasts to be squeezed
& bitten, shoulders & stomachs & buttocks
to be licked, chewed, tendered, hips
& maidenhair to be released in happy
moans, laughing howls, & in that night
they showed me, each a witchly piece
to the whole, the route to the Island,
& thus the Gate. Thus the Gate.

I woke by sun, chewed, well chewed
& battered in dust. Of course they were
gone, as though never been. But I knew
the way now. It was no noble task
for us, some great work of obligation.
We’d been wrong. We’d come to save the world
now because we had so much to lose
by its passing. Love fights for its right,
love sacrifices when it must, but love most
seeks to learn best how to live & shows others how.

******

xxx. Falling Free

There is no time. That’s what we six learned.
What we know still. There is no time.
We travel rootless paths. Cling to their scenery.
We mold to sense impressions, helplessly,
& layer upon layer our seeming knowledge.

Our bodies mature like fruit, to new shapes,
to deeper withins. The path to others sometimes
farther, more volatile. Do the lights of the sky
understand? Do other creatures of the earth?
Can our want flare to knowing, stay?

We accumulated, entering the Cave,
filled our bond more & more, seeming,
then a falling back, a rupture. A loss.

So many years to find this Island,
come to its shores. With the wishes
of our kingdom, its worries we be well.

We’d intended no kingdom & yet it now stood,
& those who had raised it were now leaving,
a voyage for all humanity, twas said, & though
the world seemed prosperous & at its ease,
they sailed without further word.

The King now knew the way, he’d summoned
us & said. His great hall, its great communal
meal table, where we ate with all of our
kinsmen, was emptied but for one map.

His eye, his finger on one place, seeming
in the open sea. “There.” We looked.
“In the morning.” “How do we land on water?”
“It will be there.” “How will we know?”

He stopped us with a fist upon the table.
“It’s there. It’s what we seek. Guarded,
but we will be let in.” Then he turned & left,
didn’t take his map. Didn’t need it.

It was our fellowship that allowed us
passage. The King traded our love for it.
For him, twas no longer save mankind or the world.
Save her. Bring her back. Her unknown illness.
Lack of funeral. No gravesite. We sailed.

Other stories tell of our arrival, the dreams,
the dark portents. None tell the rest.
There is no time.

The Island that was not there came into
view the third morning out, & we landed
its shoreless rocky edge. Woods, it was covered
in a unnavigable pale Woods!

But the King had negotiated our passage.
He gathered us the next morning,
upon an unliked night of sleep there,
closed his eyes, & began to sing.
Sing & climb from the rocks & on into
the Woods. We followed him, weapons
but no foe. A silent Woods to enter,
save for the King’s crooning.

Helpless we followed. Our King blindly
sang & moved forward, not a stumble,
unlike the rest of us. He sang us along
a seeming invisible path for hours
& impossible to say it led, & yet did.

It should have been night when we came out,
& beheld the Tangled Gate. Should have,
wasn’t. It was taller than a castle
& seeming ageless. Was ageless. There is no time.
We’d yet to learn.

We remarked its legend above us:
“For those lost.” Were we? We passed through.
There a Fountain, carved fanatically
beyond the mortal skills. Its waters
an invitation. The King gestured us drink.
There seemed no choice.

The passage through the Gate was only
partly physical. It’s this the myths
cannot convey. There were no days or nights
in the Gate. There is no time.

We did not come to the Cave of the Beast
by a path, or several. It was arrival
without intention. Were there even
the paths told of, made of vines & stones?
Had we left the Fountain, or the entrance,
or had we even left the shoreless
rocky lip of the Island?

The King roused us. As a group we’d been
slumped. “This is why we were brought
together. To come here & enter this Cave.
We’re here to save the world by our
worth as men. Our willingness to enter
this Cave.”

I entered & found myself of a sudden
by the shore of a pond at twilight.
The pond was covered in water lilies,
& the insect hum rose to my ears.
I sat & did not know. There was no
way back. This is what was intended for me.

I entered next, seeing my brother in the far
distance, by a place he’d mentioned having seen
once, called it a living painting. I could not
retrieve him, & despaired, when I felt
many arms embrace me, touch my face,
join my beating, my breath, my brothers--

And I came, though what separated one
from another of us I could less & less tell.
I did not need aid to sleep & wake both
for here in the Gate it was this forever,
it was source, before sunshine, before soil,
all was music, all was flow. I smiled.

I came to know & saw the living canvas
of my brothers & how I’d come to paint it
& I yearned my place! Please let me
consume in the this canvas finally
& know more than painter & subject,
let all be one, let all be one.

My King I came last before you &
something in this welcoming goo
was wrong. I loved my brothers so much
but I was trained by Creatures
far wiser than we men to sniff
& know. As I entered the Cave
I sniffed to know & the pain seemed
to rip me wide. I sniffed again &
again, to calm. My brothers were not
in that Cave. Not dead but gone.

When I came out you shrieked wordless
at me. You ran past me into the Cave
& remained within for three days.
I was compelled to stay vigil, no more.

When you came out, that third morning,
you were not as I had known.
We returned to our ship, unhindered,
no path needed. You told me only one thing,
“There’s no need to mourn them. We know
there is no time. So there can be no death.”

All I felt was the falling back,
the rupture, the loss. I wondered the Gate,
then the Island, then the sense
of everything.

I broke with you, my King, when I sunk
to my knees one night & cried for help.
Cried for help a man could conceive
& use. A Savior, to comfort, to explain.
A Savior, whether he had ever existed,
could now exist. Could comfort & explain
hereon. Could bring me along with the rest.
Where you, my King, my brother, had denied
when you willing sacrificed us all in the Gate.

The emptiness possesses me, even now,
as I saw you divide from your kingdom,
as I saw you reach back to the Island,
as I saw you come to believe
there was something there after all
to save men, a bargain to be made
with whatever Eternals had built that Gate.

I arrayed against you, my King,
that others would not follow you,
across the waters, on the path
that had taken our brothers from us.
A path you had designed because
there is no time & she had not died
& you could save her even now. You could
still save her & our brothers. The Gate
could save us all. The Gate could save the world.

******

[Cenacle]

*** Many Musics, IX, Flutter (i) – I was not sure how to follow up the Tangled Gate Series, so I began with uncertainty, & some dream material . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, By (ii) – more dreams, some narrative, & mention of the Gate . . . easing back into myth I thought I was done with . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, Empty Ballpark (iii) - Again, playing with dreams, feeling out this new character, unsure where bound . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, Big Dreams (iv) – He’s sad, he’s remembering, getting a better feel for him by digging into his biography . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, Guerilla (v) – Who is he? What is he to the larger story? . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, Burning Man (vi) – I realized this is Dreamwalker, from the TG myth, & so his story is continuing more now . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, A Man of Dreams (vii) – More of who he is, with his Hekk stick (a dream image of mine) & his travels across the Dreaming . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, A Chair is Like a Stump (viii) – He finds a traveling companion . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, Take Back Your Mind (ix) – This is Dreamwalker walking a dream, haunted . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, There Were Birds (x) – This concludes this section, somewhat mysteriously, of his story, for now . . .

[Cenacle]

*** Many Musics, IX, xi, "Some Strange Remain" – This sequence is the story of a girl who is called a demon by some, but her story is more fuller & stranger than that . . . the rolling restaurant from a dream of mine . . . I wanted to find out who this girl is, who appeared briefly in the TG original narrative as the Princess's friend, King's whore . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, xii, "Happiness" – time period of these poems somewhat ambiguous, their setting drawn from dreams, gaining a sense of her by where she is, who she mixes up with . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, xii, "Big Canvas, Empty" - "Love will warp your path . . . it's all warps in the end" . . . this is a love poem, but it also points to the love this girl wants, what it will do to her . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, xiv, "Wilderdays" – This girl is remembering through dreams the girl she loved, and this is a reworking of the TG story, telling it differently . . . time and special and multiple iterations of character become more important . . . the game complexifies . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, xv, "What Isn't Left" – Diving deeper into her story, into her travels, how she is seeking the girl from her dreams, whom she loves . . . she is a strong girl, on her path . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, xvi, "Cackling" – "There is cackling.There is play. All a game, all illusion" . . . this rather sums up my thinking on most things . . . but now the girl has made a friend . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, xvii, "I Killed Someone" – She becomes a whore for the money, but has visions that drive her on, this poem is now deep in her story, her pursuit of her dream lover . . . The poems more fun to write as they went on, better, weirder . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, xviii, "I Follow" – She finds another friend, a mystical figure modeled on a mystical friend of mine, now passed on . . . she is learning, growing stronger . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, xix, "Come the Island" – She has come to the mythical Island of the TG, & is comforted by her cackling friend . . . she must be strong, very strong now . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, xx, "Nearer to You" - Last in sequence, leading up to the TG sequence, we now know who she is, although her later fate is unlearned at this time . . .

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*** Many Musics, IX, xxi, he Are Six, These poems are about the six brothers who came to to the Island to save the world, and how the Tangled Gate broke their fellowship . . . I am still working on this part of the TG myth, but these 10 poems delves levels deeper than before . . . this youngest brother is told of first . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, xxii, Dreamwalker, he is a strange figure, moving as easy among dreams as waking, mystical, seeing, powerful yet vulnerable as the rest . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, xxiii, Lovers, "all flesh needs love" - that's what this poem is all about . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, xxiv, Dreams the Island, the making of a King who did not start life as one . . . who became one by force of his personality, & life's chances . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, xxv, This is the plants-&-potions brother, & his ability to talk to nature, to listen, there is more of this to come . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, xxvi, Unexplainable Spasm, this story of the painter brother, & how his magic canvases summoned them all together, it is a strange, 'witching poem, one I still like, the power it gives to Art to summon, to teach, to change . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, xxvii, The Gypsy Girl, this is a more light-hearted episode, a way of slowing down the narrative for just a little while . . . but still there is more to this, if I take it up again sometime . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, xxviii, Builds the Kingdom (Part 1) . . . How the King found his Queen, & why he is so haunted in the original TG series . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, xxix, Builds the Kingdom (Part 2) . . . wrote this and the previous one in a now-gone all night joint in East Village NYCity . . . we learn how the King finds the route to the Island . . . & now ready for this sequence's finale . . .
*** Many Musics, IX, xxx, Falling Free . . . This was the finale of this sequence, & I wanted it to be big & revealing . . . I think it is, & it covers a lot of ground . . . yet I think I'll return to these scenes again, to delve in more . . .

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