Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Bela Bartok: String Quartet 2


You never know where it will lead
and yet, again
you follow around a bend,
along a wall.

you never know who you might see
or not,
or which animal will cross your path,
or which plant will blossom and wither
without bearing fruit.

there is a point where
it becomes clear
that it isn't going to be the way you
want it to be
it never is that arrangement of eggplant, tango and seafoam green

in the florist's window.

there is a whiff of taint.
there is a tremendous pressure.
there is a kind of disquiet , mink and copper plate etchings.
did you remember?
Did you ever remember?

What is difficult just might be.

walking on a sidewalk of keys,
stepping gingerly as to not disturb,
it may turn out to be something completely and utterly different.

skateboard wheels on concrete.
shut up bitch.
the 21.

variegated flax,
recessive flux,
one never knows.

one never really has to question it.
the light reflected from the crystals of the chandelier
is still light passing through and carrying us through time.

Allegro molto capriccioso

you've got me going.
there it is.
there it is.
there is a pounding beat that
runs from the high tone into the
nether region of civilized discourse.

the thing is,
the thing is,

they followed us up the street.
they shouted our names
and defamed our intentions.
we have been called out by the bitches.

the way we ran, it didn't make sense.
it became performance art
it became an excursion
into the possibility that
time is some sorry-assed excuse for a game.
they never told you about that.

they never called and straightened out the rent.
I can and will tell you
that the light shifted from whiter to gray green,
from gray green to something of a violet.

something of a rose,
something of
a cat tearing into the carcass of a sparrow,
tossing and clutching
this gift
this offering to you.
we will.
we certainly will.

post our quarterly profits.
we will declare our assets.
we will proclaim our brand superiority.

we will claim our brand's supremacy
in that critical demographic.

we will.
we will slither and slink
through the garden
chasing a ball with a stick.
where will it lead us?
he will never know.


it just isn't completely right.
it never is.
i could have told you
but you wouldn't listen.

you never really did.

we regret to inform you
that your credit report will post this loss of standing.

it isn't even sunset and the light
has faded and dissipated into this pre-night.

Nobody knows the whole story.
Why wouldn't we?

Is it fair to expect resolution?

Not so sure about that,
Someone might beg to differ.
I have the right.

You have a right to agree to disagree.
nothing is easy.
i fear and i must commend you.

i wouldn't bring it up,
don't do tell.
there is nothing you can tell me that will make me feel differently.

i tried to tell you.
I finally realized
we couldn't know,

nor could you have anticipated,
nor would you have appreciated,
nor should you have been held responsible.

when I leave the ground behind
I become unsure.
creature of habit,


into a place where
it all stops for twenty minutes a day.

leave it
leave it behind and
let it pass
a heron landing in an oak.

Saturday, August 16, 2008

PIT #4

Andate sostenuto - Moderato con anima

A grand address on the effects of repression of feelings
that there is
doubt floating through the alley.
Spectral doubt
ebbing, and rising without ever
going under the surface.

I see dancing and wonder why I have not been asked to dance
It puts me in a spin and then
I rack,
I rail,
I get a grip.

He can work through this.
He can confront
if quietly and dignified.
One must, at all times, be dignified.
You know I never should have been so rash.

He has moments of quieter contemplation.
He has
the possession of his emotions for a moment.
Where does it come from

It returns in an blast,
at once glorious
and filled
in the golden glimmer of these

Realize that black is the new black
Vine creeps up the wall
Leaves flutter in the evening breeze.
The grass is damp
and slippery on his bare feet.
Realize that black is the new black.

Don't ever let him kiss you.

It will bring black and white keys
rushing in some montage
of horses and trains
on the steppes.
His carriage veers in another direction.
You'll never know.

Is this a seduction
I want to dance with him spinning
and spinning in grander arcs
spinning and spinning in wider ranges.
and passion
laugh at your protestations

Spin me again
Take me into the circle

where doubt may be vanquished
and our ardor revealed
as a message in a bottle .
As a message bottled

bursting forth I am.

Andantino in modo di canzona

Dream melody
Dream variations,
you know the way.
Falling to the bed
I begin to undress him.
I caress his neck.
kiss the hollow of his shoulder.
Mouths come together
all becomes details of delight
There is return.
There are variation
There is the light that streams under the door that glows on your face.

Which and whose hand is this ?
Where is this line between his
and mine?

This baptism of congress,
this peculiar fascination,
this scent,
odd and warm
Please, don't stop.

Whenever mouths touch,
there are garlands of spit
that crown the night.

It is all in a kind of passing.

Scherzo (Pizzicato ostinato)

Engaged and penetrated,
the barriers dissolve and become a jig
around the village.

I so long to hold his ass in my hands,
to touch the furthest reach of taint
and pull back to the underneath.

Heartbeats in this dance,
Heartbeats in these quick
flashes of light,
these silken kisses,
being inside of his lips

You may have to call the police.


You are not getting it out of me.
are not.
The pussy jumped in the well
and fell through the other side
into China
He popped a bottle of champagne
and poured it sip by sip into my mouth.
Snowballs chance,
chance of snowballs.

These recurrent sequences and terrifying close encounters
bring us to a precipice
and show us the consequences of repression.

But just a moment,
I might show him instead of telling

there is nothing reasonable about feelings.
None of this is your responsibility.
I proclaim myself
guardian of my own chastity.

i let my guard down for one minute.

Friday, August 15, 2008

Rosamunde (after FS)

1. Allegro ma non troppo

Questions in the wake from a passing boat.
The surface, once calm, is broken
and each ripple announces another variation
of a ripple that is a question.

The cottonwood casts the initial shadow into the water.
Reflected and absorbed
as shadows breaking through cascades of light
and bits of cotton
announce shadows of answers.
Sparkling waves of heat rise into the atmosphere.

Dotted dark and light,
annotated and inconsequential,
forming and reforming the
silhouettes of the leaves flouncing
against a sky going pink.
The boat pulls into the dock.

The question is
what is it that swims
with red ear turtles and sturgeon?

As it is below it is
not always the same above.

The idea of desire
(not a fish coming to the surface and
breaking into the air,
catching a midge)
is not always in the heart.

The heart is the reflection of a red ear turtle
passing through the shadow of cottonwood leaves
and the interplay of
light and shade on cotton dust
floating down the river.
A sunflower drifts by in the reflection of a cloudless sky.

Sometimes it can take an afternoon to see reason.
And, can only bring more.

Another day in a different light,
(Is the question light or dark?)
silence is the space between notes
(of a score)()
and the space between breaths
(held, silent and inhaled)
becomes a kind of deep fried,
a kind of silken,
(cream puff dick)
a once and a while spin,
(I do not know where to go with this.
I do not know where this is going.
I do not know.)
a once in a moon some time,
(the moon comes up behind the levee
and wakes up above the trees)
once in a lifetime when
I place my feet at the edge of the boat
and dive into the river
coldly and knowing.

2. Andante

That you do is understood.
Dancing into the space between
the possibility
and the day
that the rays of light
fell onto the wall
through the Venetian blinds.
Lines from a song
yet to be written.

to others
than tell to others.
Listen to the light
and shadow on the sandbar
at the confluence of the Feather and Sacramento rivers
on a Sunday afternoon in July.
The sun burned a wife beater
on my shoulders.

The one thing
that i need is,
the one thing I hear is
the slice of zucchini on a grill.
All morning
the hummingbirds
vied for territory and
red sugar water.

Do I want red sugar water?

A red ear turtle
on the reflection
of the memory of touch
on an old iron bed
is the bed
reflected in the mirror
above the rust stained sink
in a hotel room near Termini.

The light and dark reflections of
one afternoon in Rome.
You are standing at the window
looking out into all this bright sparkle.

3. Minuetto, Allegretto

Do I want to dance?
I do
want to dance between
the lips and the rest.

I want to play the violin?
Instead, I play maracas in the church choir
at the Altadena church
of Ecstatic Revelation
in the Holy Spirit of Understanding the Body,
(the heavenly and holy body
in which my soul resides).
But, do I want to dance?
I do
and lower myself
to my knees.

Dancing is a prayer
in praise
of this story

trudging knee deep up river
into current.
Pushing enough to propel forward
and knocked back a little sometimes,
we are wading
and moving towards a log.

It was very slow going.
We persisted and delivered ourselves one step further.
One never knows.
The flow is stronger
until we release our feet,

floating away into the current
I feel hope when
I forget how it is all put together
and trust love
from ghosts and the grieving,
from births and rejoicings.
I feel hope when
I can touch my feet to the earth.

4 Allegro moderato

I never thought it would be
the interior of Ste. Chapelle,
cool stone and glitter glass stories.

I never thought it would be
the first Vatrushka
or merguez,
or store bought butter in France.

That balcony overlooked the rooftops of the Marais.
Those interior walls were covered with grass cloth
and foil backed wallpaper.
The double glass door in the bedroom
opened out over the courtyard four floors below.
Covered with ivy,
The sky was perpetually gray
off the rue St. Paul.

I never thought it would be
walking down the rue de l'Odeon
between Sylvia and Adrienne,
when I knew you would die before me.
I knew I would be bereft
and that I would walk into
the Memorial to the Deportation
and each light would
flicker, one by one
into thousands.
I knew I would take your ashes
and released them into the Seine.

But, did I know
that one day I would
see that you are always here.

It comes and goes.
The river rises and bends.
The leaves rustle in a breeze.
The heron flies across the sky and lands in that oak.

You are and are.

Sunday, August 03, 2008

The River

Refreshing, not icy,
plunging into the water,
not shocking.

I am floating on my back.
Above, a turkey vulture flies
from one shore to the other.

Puffs of cottonwood,
a light snow, bob on the
wake of a ski boat long past.

Buoyant, my arms outstretched,
eyes closed, I see him floating
into my welcoming arms.

Two partially submerged logs form a V above the water.
Two red eared turtles lounge in the afternoon sun.
The dog approaches and the turtles dive into the water.

I jump off the side of the boat
seeking him in the clear water
and come up to find a sunflower floating down the river.

The yellow petals take me back to the porch
where moments after sex we sat together
quietly looking at a bouquet of hydrangea and sunflowers.

The flow of the water,
the change in temperature
from cool to cooler surrounds and passes.

The contrasting temperatures
of the water and the air
bring touch

and images of his mouth on mine,
his hand brushing the inside of my thigh,
his shoulder resting on my chest, in memories

Floating up and through
the water as currents that envelope
and embrace memories of other afternoons.

As memories are liquid,
and touch seemingly solid,
and taste evaporative,

I am floating with time.
I am floating with the hot sun above
and cool water below.

I am floating in time
from when we touched
to when again we will