six a.m. seance

a dim and glittering ghost of light
glowing with integrity, fading fast
...
yeah it's enough to make me shout, it's enough to make me pout
all infected with a drought save a spout of gout that trickles so
you know we walk so many fields, fields of grass, grass of leaves
the stuff weaves through my bones and my hair
nowhere, nowhere but the air for my shell home
cracks and all, no walls, only small lines to hold me
the sounds of home enfold me
murky depths, cold as steel
or as hot, sometimes the feel
can be different
the husk of my body my skull my crown
is all there is to keep me from drowning
a life buoy, or spar
not far from the stars that entangle my mind
to find what's mine in time
sublime
I yearn and wait like a schoolgirl
to take on gravity, to absorb the ink of the world
and wear it on my pale spotted skin
I like a heart of and mind of muscles and quick spastic neurons
but should I change them to metal?
the lightning would come quicker, with blinding speed
to lick my thoughts
thick white and instantaneous
at once my soul on fire
burning like the cold flame of Moses

tabula rasa

just arrived in portland. read about patti smith the whole time in mark paytress' wonderful chronicle of her early years, break it up. now is a time to be constantly reinventing and redefining. wiping the slate clean over and over again until new compassion and new truths finely begin to bleed through. in honor of all the courage and fire she gives to me, I'll leave you with some of her fine words.

the plot of our life sweats in the dark like a face

the mystery of childbirth, of childhood itself

grave visitations

what is it that calls to us?

why must we pray screaming?

why must not death be redefined?

we shut our eyes we stretch out our arms

and whirl on a pane of glass

an afixiation a fix on anything

the line of life the limb of a tree

the hands of he and the promise that s/he

is blessed among women.

charms. sweet angels--you have made me no longer afraid of death.

patti smith

Spots of Sunlight on the Terrace, Maurice Denis (1890)

what has been lost or neglected? what is slumbering away? what has to yet to come alive?

owl eyes II

wastelands and tundras

permafrost leaks through the icy dirt

crystalized air, too cold to breathe

cautions the precociousness of life, brazen and bold

no hearts glow there--

save yours and mine

how different are we, you and I?

we howl at the bitter the light and the gray

you, a fowl, with your feathers and your strange lonely eyes--

but I? what have I?

the same atoms you have

and the same scorching blood

your wings beat and my feet walk

along a lone path, separate lives

but the crack we leave behind in the glistening serenity

of a vacuous land are the same

name your price, old friend

give to me those strange lonely eyes

so that I might rise to such an ancient calm

I got a crow

a claw comes crushing claw claw claw

crow crow crow crow caw caw caw caw

nevermore/forevermore

clutching a spine breaking within

many cracks open and bent awonk

awaiting the glare

hot eyes melt into the deep

the depths, lone depths

scorch the deafening bound

found the lines that emanate,

illuminate the sound

it's only sound--left

///

root boot fruit

shoot a loot

the vines pluck rhymes

give what has been stolen

///

rocky road red rickety rugged

knotted stubborn stones

harsh dust rubs you raw

skin slicing blood bearing

majestic formations are simply fingers

twisting upward to the cool depths of heaven

it's a musical life

Excellent progress with my banjo today. Learned a new tune, "The House Carpenter." Aching story. Another modal song, similar sounding to "Shady Grove" and "The Cuckoo." For some reason songs in modal tuning sound ancient and pained. Full of unrequited love and far away sorrow. The hills of Appalachia seem to be filled with that sort of sorrow. My very favorite is "The Blackest Crow," also known as "My Dearest Dear" and "As Time Draws Near."

As time draws near my dearest dear when you an I must part

How little you know of the grief and woe of my poor aching heart

Tis but I'd suffer for your sake, believe me dear it's true

I wish that you were staying here or I was going with you

I wish my breast were made of glass wherein you might behold

Upon my heart your name lies wrote in letters made of gold

In letters made of gold my love, believe me when I say

You are the one I will adore until my dying day

The blackest crow that e'er that flew would surely turn to white

If ever I prove false to you, bright day would turn to night

Bright day will turn to night my love, the elements will mourn

If ever I prove false to you the seas will rage and burn

Blue Veil, Morris Louis (1958-1959)

Splashing, Richard Serra (1968)

Male and Female, Jackson Pollock (1942)

Glue Pour, Robert Smithson (1970)

Detail of Connection, Eva Hesse (1969)

texture

a cockamamie scythe it tumbles fumbles mumbles bumbles crumbles, even, into the ground the metal all broken, splintering away, the earth has spoken licked the ore with its fiery tongue and scooped it up into its belly of a mouth, the ore greets the oil as it floats in black oceans of saliva / no signs no time seems to have passed, every once and again needles probe the oil and little bits will spurt up into the cold (or hot) air above

the mouth is a hot home blood, sweat, and tears have seeped into it for milennia, placating the hungry groans of the belly below

Drip Drip Drop

Pat Steir, 1990.

towers of strong

towers of strong

built upon stringy chaos

noisy ice makes bright the gray

while water laps midst the decay

you stay, hanging by a mere thread

the tooth to my gum

whet the trances of mighty men

come out and out, unravel again

swallow your pride, the bride of decadence

and swim in the bleached sweetness of surrender

Sound Drawings

'I Love It, In Space there Are No Limits, I Love It.' Graham Gussin (2001)

ink on wall

Rebirth of Slick

a fire

rosy red

the flames travel cross the silky air

holy hearts

hang from empty man's eternal stare

deadly days

seep forth from the intestinal glare

foolish fears

incinerate all hope of a repair

cave

caverns, catacombs, cisterns

dripping solitude and ebony

filled with the blood of the earth

lid after lid, layer after layer

of dirt and damp air try

to contain the chaos

but cracks find their way

to the surface

and fire licks the passersby

note bene

create lines words moods skies

beaches fools tongues lies

languages beauty truth decay

illusion/disillusion matters astray

obsession regret love (both known and unknown)

an elegy for ideas never allowed nascence

a resurrection and a carnival of haunted thoughts

fill the lungs with new bright air

a shy eye

concave recessed cool hard

dry hurt aged weak

inept and scorching

these holes are empty

interior holes

radiating sorrow in and out

back and forth

here and there

nothing to trace

nothing to soak up

a hollow hole is all it is

an invitation

sinews tendons and bones are meant for all, for bodies, for lines, for light

sometimes my soul know things I don't

sometimes nothing is fine enough

sometimes trust/truth is altogether different from what I had imagined

stars see everything I cannot see

release the glue and let it spill

let it drip and fill, let magma drip

let fleeting atoms fester and fuse

and become ink that flows from this pen

to grace this page with black stillness

ten

tendrils taking time together

touching teething tackling turning

telescoop the burning blood

conch shells drip and blow and crack

dusty birds with feathers fly

in the ground and through the sky

hollow beaks and porcelain feet

the earth has air and fringe both