-Around and through / one night in a small room-

Hart Crane revealed to us the sweltering rivet-

catcher, then leapt from the stern of the churning

"Orizaba".

During my Plath campaign, "Ariel" strained:

         "Something else

          Hauls me through air –––

          Thighs, hair;
          Flakes from my heels."

before the dry natural gas filled her lungs.

So, it came to me one night in a small room as my ears

and my brain leafed through the music of "Blood On The Floor"

('twas the title grabbed me by the arm, leading me into the nightmare)

to question how it came to pass, that

the needle's flush through the vein of Andrew Turnage 

advanced to his brother in a jazzy dissonance.

Now I'm a name-dropper,

wandering through the stuff of normal life,
some of the time through its mouthy, landscape of keys.

Ephesians 4:29 said:

"Let nothing come out of your mouths but that to build-up

as it fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who will hear it".

                                       
Well,––  there's a mouthful.
As for me, I wouldn't go that far.
As a matter of fact, I wouldn't go so far as any of them.

-Serial-

Milton Babbitt died today.

He was old.

Milton was big on the Princeton campus.

One of the "Brainy American" composers
Of the late 20th century.

Milton Babbitt, Serial composer.

So I listened to “Transfigured Notes,”

Milton's lick to Schoenberg’s “Transfigured Night.”

And I listened to the Schoenberg again, too.

Beautifully "approachable" are
Both accounts of transfiguration

And If you think this missive's approach 

Moves toward defining the complexities 
Of the Twelve-Tone Row, 

You’ve come to the wrong obituary.

Let's
Collect our thoughts, slow to a halt and

Take a listen before we move on.

                                                1/29/11

-track from the beam- 

Sounding—

The line is lyrical.

Sea-song drops by the waterline in drenched 

Academics.  Men sea-salted.

Three of bone shaped of the same 

Romance of the whale.

Sounding—

Deep waters through all the salts of all the seas 

Come to embrace.

Canvas comes to cleat, comes to heart,

Points to weather. 

Shanty:

"It's a-dreaming that I am — fathoms down,

fathoms..."   Now

Strike the mutes, boys!—   Now, crescendo!

Here, hear the clicking strains of the hangman's
Rope strung at the yardarm over the waters where
The whales sound and breach.


                                   of Ben and Peter on Herman

                                                   

                                            

                              

First light / Divertimento:

Morning

Breaks to Clingstone on the Dumpling, then—

The bitter seed which lies in wait

Within the grape's confection 

Kidnaps the sweetness.

Light
Navigates to wood and glass

And blood-red paints

The craggy
Core of the icy peach;

The grapefruit's acids

Go un-learned.

Then the harsh
Introduction of its stinging formula.

Now the morning sky drapes one

Salt-watered house; one

Woman sleeping.

Newport, Summer, 1977

-the sky readers-

the night skies bring a bright procession. then

the ancient Hindu-piston drives the arc where

elephants herald the breaking news from the shell

of a tortoise which supports them as the arc of the Earth

rests upon their backs, and circling the entity, the cobra

holds its tail within its jaws, thereby theorizing a closed-form universe

16 centuries before the Big Bang's entry to the propositions

of stasis, contraction, oscillation, and expansion of the cosmos.

and so, I'll reach to peel-back this primitive dream.

after all, as droll as it may seem to our collective sense of celestial

objects in relative motion, it remains the first step toward the destination.

               

-view to the inside through the outside-

1.

It was called

Red Car in the Snow——   

An activity

Housed in brushed 

Aluminum that when approached, 

Dissolves from the plane.

Realist of the otherworldly
Color runs openly.

This is Taurus in the stars.

I live with winter.

But I live on a smaller planet.

2.

Born of the sincerity of its accomplishment  

Images breach the greyness of all enclosures.

3.

Returning from the drench of its atmosphere  

I take from the experience, a warm revelation:—

This was the first red car in the snow

That I had ever seen. 

                                                for David Loeffler Smith

-Wendell and the egg-

“A horses’ tail is nice and silky,

Lift it up and you’ll see Willkie”

This gem of comic, political opposition 

Was posted in good-humor during
The presidential campaign between
Wendell Willkie

And Franklin D. Roosevelt
In the year of their Lord, 1940.

“He’s not an American like you and me.”

This entry was sown, then cultivated
Before an audience of deep southern adherents
By the Republican Vice Presidential

Nominee Sarah Palin, referring to the Democratic
Presidential nominee, Barack Obama 

In the year of her, and her mobs’ Lord, 2008.

The disparities between the two entries
Are instructive.

I’ve read that Wendell was smart
And usually of good heart. But

He was also funny-looking, chubby
And somewhat awkward.

But Sarah’s got legs

And the gathered pant over them
As they prance skirt-over-knee
Entering stage left to the far-right’s din.

There was nothing to pant on
In Wendell’s persona.

But a thought is advanced which serves
To close this historical political thriller:

Wendell, during a campaign engagement
Was bopped in the head by a raw egg
Tossed with great accuracy by someone
In the crowd.

But Sarah’s legs are silky,— 
As is the tail at the ass of the horse.

-from across the street-

I tried like hell. But I couldn’t read the windows.

I don’t know what it is they're selling inside——

But I’m sure that they want to sell something.

When they open for business, that is. The stores are waiting,

Closed and important.

Today, nothing’s open for business.

The street’s row is light-covered. Not bathed. Covered.

A convincing, early light. Too early for anything.

Not a cat in sight. Maybe there's no need for one. Nothing's moving.

Funny, how I thought of a cat from across this street.
I don't know if a cat's omission lends itself to the stillness,
Or if a solitary cat's introduction to the plane
Would somehow add to the nature of the stillness. But,
I'm thinking cat.

It’s tempting. But you can’t get a haircut.

Not today, anyway. And it's the one place clearly recognized.

But it’s there, waiting for you. A haircut is waiting.

Go inside, it’s okay. But not today. Tomorrow.

It’s Monday tomorrow, then off with your hair!——

You can actually sense it. Feel it. Everything's just waiting.

Then, the barber's-pole will turn its stripes to the street tomorrow, 
And tomorrow, you'll get your chair.

You can buy a parakeet next door.

A table-saw, maybe. A simple battery-run toy for the kid.

Arrange the trip you can’t afford to take. It could be travel-oriented.

But that's on Monday. Not today. Today nothing’s open.

Except the light.

Work tomorrow. But you’ll find some time.

Get that canary. The kid’ll like it.

But it’s you that’ll end-up walking it. 

You’ll find the time to get it tomorrow. 
It’s Monday for the parrot, the barber and the other things, too.

Maybe next door, after your haircut, you’ll buy that book. 
The one you told everyone you'd read. 
You can get the book on Monday. 

Maybe even read a paragraph or two. 
That way, you’ll be telling them the truth as you see it. But no.

Looks more like apparel. A clothing store, I think. Not books.

Not even on Monday. And I wanted that book. Would’ve read it, too.

The important parts. 
I need a pair of trousers, anyway.

Haircut,
Canary. Trinket for the kid. Some sort-of tool. 
And I need that book.

I’ll get a pair of trousers, too. But that's tomorrow. 
On Monday.  

I’ll have the time on Monday. Yet,

Still. The light.

                                                           for Edward



                                      

-love by a count in syllables-

(evening and then)  

its moonlight injects

a night’s ink brushing itself

an indigo stone

(and over)

the sweep of her knee

an infinite wave drops drenched

little sea turtles

(as to a heart)

this drug of the sea  

pressed into her atmosphere 

its lifetime of salt 

(half-sleeping she murmurs)

notice the insects

scurrying over the earth

eating each other

(but even)

the shining firefly

dancing across the moon-face

dies in the moment

(yet she whispers)

into this winter 

as snowfall strikes silently

it strikes anyway

                         newport

                                        

-beauties of this life-

Arc in the blue weaves

green translucent 

light in the lift of its wave.

This light drifts clearly

over the tiller and into the hand at the wind-

kissed

weather helm.

In the distance,

the sterns of the fishers 

lean in their slips at the docks 

on the point of the coast.

Here, the study in rain-

fall—— flesh of the water,

drives its drenched resolution 

to challenge the depth of its salted

conclusion.

Here, the depth of silence

is moved through the stillness,

  

and into the sweeping  

perfume which covers the distance—

the distance engaging the salt of our blood

in its dance with the water.

                                 aboard the sloop "Cormorant"

                                 Westport Point, Massachusetts.

                                 for George Hughes

-the fire this time-

1.

dart of the world
through the nozzle’s blue-

strike; 

a spark to cause the wound
to fire across the nature  

of its guilt. 

granite surrounds us. 

then a weave in grey 

casts a crooked smoke. 

by water blessed by fire denied— indifferent
pigeons take to flight through mid-

day’s ribs. 

headless deity—

father to arthritic steel.

who now will mend this fishers’ net?

2.

an open morning's wound

reflects across the pool’s 

spent resource.

idle of waters 

patch the street—— sober

inspectors map their

examinations to a fault.

flat fire-

hose exhausts its hydrant's final drop's

drip——

dead, stony- 

turtle.

     

                     Notre Dame de Lourdes burned by fire

                      Fall River, 5/11/82.