mindsonsong

Brain

I

The damage, and the skunk cabbage; and the skunks themselves… the rout of the poet.

As I walked, the sun began to set. People were walking by, and walking through: many chance encounters. And then, it all happened. The blues.

I speak in cryptic notes. That’s my way, my style, sometimes. It’s what I like to do, sometimes, when I’m blue.

The sky—it took many colors, not just blue. It grew, grew to the height of a mushroom in the forest, toppling trees and clouds.

And then, the rout. The rout—it was blue. I was blue. All was blue—bedizened.

Irised, if you like. The moon was irised, a big, fat blue eye, right down the center of its brain.

II

I walked to the center of town. What was I doing, there? I thought about it, still think about it now, to this day, as I write.

The right to write: it’s a good one, one I take to the center of my brain.

A Glass of Ginger Ale

A glass of ginger ale for breakfast, all I felt like having. A quarter can of peaches was available, but I opted out.

The fizz—good stuff. The taste, fine varnish, but sweet. Ginger is a root. Sliced, it goes with sushi.

Again, the fizz. Carbonated collapse.

Someone may care about this. That’s why I write. It might make a difference to someone, someday.

Someone, opening up a can of soda, in the morning, and wondering why.

Peaches are good and wonderful, but they weigh down the stomach. With the ginger ale, you could fly, fly like a sparrow, or a robin; common birds enough.

Light fare, light writing, all in order for the day about to commence, still utterly dark at 5:45,

In November, the month just beginning, when I can write anything and say it’s what I feel, and therefore good.

Mist

The mist was cool as I smoked my cigarette. One window, bright orange, lit across the street. All I noticed. There may have been more, to see, but I didn’t see it.

I enclosed myself in the darkness inhabiting me, encompassing my sight, suffusing itself in my mind, my brain.

The darkness—it was comforting and dead, and alive. Living like a living day, bright blue and well advanced into late morning.

It was only 6.

6, and I wasn’t tired. Just enjoyed my cigarette, and glanced askance at the orange across the street.

White Smoke

Red tip atop a radar tower on a Coast Guard station, in the black of morning. Nothing else to see; except, in the distance, if you had looked, the sea.

Just the smoke of a cigarette, white.

White smoke the thoughts that filled the mind; slight, and light, and airy. Nothing to trouble the mind.

Urge to save
bodies from a burning car crash,
money in your front pocket
your house from restitution
by the state…

deep in the burning car,
the bodies charred
a little life left
beneath the charcoal skin

it is enough;
enough for another day
enough to begin again,
if you’re a writer,

writing about the bodies
human bodies
with all their complexity

the organs, down to the liver
and sex, deep brown
and blue,

still vital as you at your table
tapping out the poem
tapping out Morse code
an SOS in dits and dahs

the sound—it goes for miles
power in sound,
power in a pen
pent up like energy
in a storm center
ranging miles wide
raging…

I tore through scripture
sucking it up like dew
on a morning flower

Genesis was nice, and the psalms,
but Isaiah was the best
the flying serpent,
and the vomit on every table…

scripture sucked me wet and dry
and sticky, getting all over
my table,
like Coca-Cola
spilled all over the placemat
on the tablecloth
decorated with scripture
and illustration…

so much to illustrate,
David and Bathsheba
mad lust for a general’s concubine
killing him bloody, and making
him bloody for life…

Jacob with his wives
Rachel dying sad in childbirth
for Benjamin…

Joseph, the dreamer, in Egypt
pulling truths out of the pharaoh
and his file
the whole cartouche of prophecy
and drought,
dreaming of burning bush and liberation
from the boy of the bulrush

raising his hands and arms
to stop the feral flow
Egyptian, from Sinai

Red Sea rout,
flowing waves pouring
like beer out of a pitcher
into a mug

Christ, the true redeemer
making merry with Pharisee
throwing stones at him,
telling him where he could go
and like it is

Adam finding sweetness in the fruit
after his love Lilith,
in the finer specimen, Eve,
showing him temptation in the seeds
growing their beautiful bane
and evil in the soul…

Scripture: it’s fine stuff
goes down like a glass of port
after a go at game
and stuffed grouse
tasty as all you could dream,

as Joseph dreamed
running away from pharaoh’s wife
lusting after him

lust runs high in scriptures
as it does in woman’s body,
or man’s, as much

both loving purple stuff
all over their beds
the color of warm blood
flowing through the veins

it made me what I am and want to be,
a writer suffering guilt,
taking a lifetime to undo
the self-blame:
but there’s the game

the fort-da, the now you see it
now you don’t, of lust and love,
justification and Jove

the flowing forth of interest
in banks both feral and mean
that come from the body
making fruitful man

the game: it gives you name,
style, and a sense of being
well in the world
in a well of a midst of trouble
the well: it’s where Jesus
met the woman, Samaritan,
of six husbands and a lover
telling her she’d never worship
Father: good, or bad?

you decide, it’s up for grabs
as she was, sexy woman

Samaritan: he drove a brother home
told others to do likewise as did I,
taking a homeless man into my arms
one night in winter,

nothing on him but an empty wallet
with license: “McLaughlin, from
Charlestown”, when the cops
and ambulance found him there
with me, and the woman who called them

almost didn’t do it, seemed so helpless
and hopeless, me without a phone
no means to set him right
just lifted his head off the street
where it dangled from his body on the sidewalk,
as he wheezed

—but I remembered the scripture
Go and do likewise,
and I did likewise
and it saved my day

Anton Webern, 1883-1945

Tobacco just off the farm
Before it has been cured,
A scent only just rising

From its veins, graceful as notes
on cream staff; the good stuff,
What you’ll find in your cigar

As evening curfew comes, say,
In Vienna, after the War,
So rich is the temptation

To fire up in the fire of the sun
You risk gunfire from American son
For feel of flow down lungs

The dissonant dream it brings
Firing up a vision of a song
Lost like the smoke in the night

–September 11, 2012

Forbes So Quiet

You can’t hear him plugging up the bell with rubber mute stopping pausing again going lower pigeons and flies in the garbage in the alley rose and golden light rising in a gust of wind auto engines start and rev jets in the sky and the like even power boat motors in the harbor

Furtive upward glance still still on the mute upswing and downswing so light and slight pottering puttering sputtering lips making popular love with the silver mouthpiece high on pips and pops now just like Pops speaking and squeaking talking in melodic tones pulling out a lovely tune peppy and poppy

Racing on three valves Valvoline pumped like a race car at Indy 500 stopping in the pit for a second and back on the road a million miles an hour but a delicate pace gentle melody again tune rolling down the stream flight of a bee in the nectar blooms of the lilies of the valley and the mumbling dark of bears who can’t get enough yet quiet in the peaceful vale all is peace his golden wedding ring shinier than the trumpet his child on his mind bright as his newest song with Lillian sung together in the park at noon soon the whistle sings the tea is ready
 
Bell

Bell struck blue
With song
And gold
In the sun

Tree in light
Reflected as air
In the shine
New breath
 
Gazpacho

And egg and eggplant sandwich
from the clover truck

afternoon still early and fine
as morning, beautiful and slim

and sexy Japanese girl ahead of me
in line doesn’t notice me as I try

to look in her eyes; I look at her
sneakers, small and blue

on small feet… So much to notice
as I gulp my gazpacho in paper cup
 
A Day’s Reflections on the Night

I’D M, Crank, Andrea, giving up
grinding electronic steam

left to device of voice,
and voice of the other

phantom voices of friend
in the dark of Saturday night

as it closed: I’D M gave away
his “BLOOD” sign to me

scratched in marker
on lined paper

I coiled in like news in my hand
for the walk home

with Andrea’s Latin ecstasy
as she ended the night
 
Girl in Dress

Black dress palmettos
And crazy patterns
Bursting over black
Recorder and thumb

Piano over slick
Electric guitar
Ocarina even
Child’s toy
From Spain

Symphony
By a state house
Sounded by the passing
Church bell
Scrambled by the boiled

Egg slicer she gets
The lucent tones
Of steel from
Boiled and crazy

Thumb piano darker
Bubbly and watery
Waves washed up
On Cape of Good Hope
From Red Sea

Metallic clang
Burst by slim
Black flute
Resistance
From transistor

Radio scratchy
And silver
Slick electric guitar
Pushed to pieces

With pedal
Warping the aggressive
Sounds pouring out
Like sea salt
Out of fish gills
 
Random Clan Performance

Sound spat out of tapes
Radio reports
Siren sounds spun
On high

Man in black
One in white
Hovering over orange tarp
Like helicopter

Sounds grow strong
Buzz in beelike signals
Dance directing traffic
To the hive

Copper offering bowl
Cupped in Vela’s hand
Receptacle waiting for
No offering

Board erased of symbol
And sense each time
Every effort spectator makes
In speculation

Tapes replaced in players
Random voice of child
On phone
To wooden toad rattled

With stick
As serene and eerie
And seductive
As sound in woods

In summer night
Adams sliding
Like shortstop for a ball
Down summer grass

Or loping like gazelle
Round orange tarp
Vela tucks back in black bag
Leaving Adam following

Absent Sounds

Betty hopping twisting hip quick flick of leg arms in air pas de deux the two alone with Joe she pulling wrists back gracefully going in suspended crawl position back up Forbes popping bites of brass Joe shaking stepping stamping mime at play Steve sweet slide down clarinet Betty rocks hard sensually ascetic Shoe keeping the jazz balance

Betty is star here lotus position suspended by sprawled fingers balanced as a slide rule on ball of foot twisting into Noh stance samurai ready at the sword all imagination is here in her play she slaps her thigh up and kicks and taps Joe shimmering like jello to the woman’s hard edges
 
Libras of Sound

Bongos and bear drum go slow patter rain and acorns falling chocolate lab scratches ear adds to rhythm that picks up like a rolling river floating river boats down the amazon pumping funk soft as a dog’s furry back polyrhythms start the crowds walking at different paces down the afternoon ave herds of bucking water buffalo

Mini clarinet comes in like a tumbler of rum poured on a table dripping down the cloth onto the African floor shimmy shaking drums lifting up the liquid like a wicker basket hard songbird call free blow mellow chugging bongo slapping clapping water music wood on plastic skin on skin bloop and glug in tandem and cross weave
 
Low

The priest and the yogi
secular atop the hill,
the Common hill
solider and sailor
monument

The gentleman
smoking a marijuana
cigarette mixed with tobacco,
I with my book of poems
and he with an interest

so I shared in return
for a smoke, my poem
“Philosophy”, on Heidegger,
on time and cause and the will
homeless he was,

this Indian, intellectual,
versed in material philosophy
“not to be caused, like the weather,”
he said; “to be your own will,”
I returned… and then we left
 
Woodstock 43

Every year it happens,
the anniversary
of August 15, 1969
this year on 18
crowds scattered scant

and mellow on grass
round snare and cello
or lazy guitar and voice
no thousands in rain
seeing Hendrix

burn his brain…
it’s all about the interlocking teams
let me help you help me
help you, as Forbes says,
piping his popping trumpet

to Betty and Joe,
and it is as good as gold
as gold slicing down the sky
as lightning on 20,000,
the rain as real
 
Andy Allen

Friendship Ceremonies Evan Parker wariness on tenor sax tremor fire rolling up in a ball tossed slow through space splayed sound flayed like meat flesh hard expectation surprised tremolo urging anger in a sea of peace all comes out right under the rainbow slow like a river boat on Ole Miss the muddy sunlight pink with promise prowess pushing the growth out strong John Butcher style self echoes ultimately Urs the bear in space dipping the ladle into scream screaching away into distance quieting quitting gone
 
Veils

Withered bud in evening
Still wet with afternoon rain
Bells going soft in the loud
Distance, crinkling
And wrinkled into nothing

in memory of Paul Celan

In the ovens, charred remains

Broken bones of a lamb

Cooked to a crisp

Experimental surgery of the mind

Stillborn dreams and sour ecstasy,

Dead race in the throes of a dead heat

Between the Bible and tradition

The Euro-Christian one that brought it down