-Requiem for George Frayne still among the living, now dead-

8/1:
the new poem, the one about “honky-tonk” music
(generally speaking) is finished, but dated as to subject matter,
time and long distance geography.

the time for moving forward is of my choosing,

so I can stick around for awhile.

George Frayne could be dead by the time I get around to it.

meanwhile, the church grows increasingly impatient with me

like crazy Julius looking up to the scaffolding.

8/2:
I’m told by Donald Trump that my vote might not be counted
because I voted the easy way and the yellow-stained leak started again
without provocation under the sink.

also on the home front, the fridge is empty except for three

individually wrapped and processed American cheese slices

and television’s been a dud since they cancelled Fulton J. Sheen’s show.

8/3:
there's a sprinkling of sawdust in the far corner of the kitchen,
a mystery this morning that wasn't available to me yesterday.
my momma opined at times like these: "I’m a nervous wreck".

I've submitted a request for the right to use this confessor when justifiable.

8/4:
considering my medicine, I see it's five more days to qualify for a refill.
I've swept away the sawdust so I'm on the edge, waiting for tomorrow's results.
who am I kidding? I'm not getting any work done today.

8/4:

I’m loitering in my own house

which to my surprise I’m told is legal.

I've nearly surpassed the cat in lost time and lack of effort,

and "I’m down to seeds and stems again, too."

-leave blank-

the 1976 RCA Red Seal recording of “Porgy and Bess”

sits on the shelf alongside “Lulu” and “Wozzeck”––

fifth in line before encountering the spine of "Der Ringdes Nibelungen"
where therein lies a conundrum for another day.

I’ve read the libretto; Googled what others have said of it;

listened as intently to it as anyone can while doing something else.

that was yesterday during the time between rainfall and breaking sunlight.

yesterday, it was the premiere of George Gershwin's“Porgy and Bess”

between rainfall and into a breaking sunlight.

It’s the only time I remember listening to music in any form, when weather

outside my window seemed to have an influence on the experience, but––

well,–– it's as the grunting Neanderthal the Elder instructed
the hairy youngsters gathered 'round the fire:–– "fear no art"!

First performed in Boston, September, 1936.

First performance of this production, Houston, July, 1976
and New York, September, 1976.

This recording: Houston Grand Opera, November, 1976.

-Tuning-in to Mahler, but daydreaming of Beyonce-

1.

Everything’s moving slowly.

System says: not enough memory.

I need disc space.

Let’s cull some photos from the crowd

squatting in digital stasis.

It's just a quick click, hold, drag, and delete away.

But wait!

There’s Mahler posing, and looking good.

Gotta keep Mahler.

In fact, let’s give a listen, shall we? –– Slip

a silvery platter into the slick machinery.

2.

It’s the “Kindertotenlieder.”

But there’s something curious in Gustav’s pose.

I know this pose. Wait a minute.

It’s Beyonce’s pose! But where’s Beyonce?

My god! What have I done?

3.

Meanwhile, it's the wrenching "Kindertotenlieder" sinking

into the depths of my sensibilities as Beyonce’s image is recovered.

And because I’m listening to Mahler, but daydreaming of Beyonce,

it seems to reason that I can also walk and chew gum at the same time

the fact of which I'll add to my application for a MacArthur Genius Grant.

the morning of: 7/10/20

-navigating the "Arts" section-

In the beginning, God created the Apple and the Earth

1.
In this morning's "Arts" section, there’s a photo
accompanying an article of a young, smiling
Maxine Kumin sitting at her typewriter, and

she’s turned slightly in her chair to face the camera.

It's not the art of photography.
The shutter speed's factory preset is good enough.

I like Maxine Kumin. I read her poems.
I’ve paid money for her books.

The spines are well defined on the shelf;
Maxine in a row, but in no definitive order. 

It’s the typewriter at her desk

which got me to thinking about Maxine,

typewriting poems in her earlier days (not so long ago)
and how easy it was for me as I began to think about poems,
sitting at the luminous screen of God's anointed machine

as it defines proper grammar and corrects misspelling while
I tap its keys, giving me a head's-up option underlined in red.
It's a fast machine. It's a time machine.

Time machine, don't make me lazy:

2.
Yesterday, it ushered me into Charles Bukowski's
cold-water flat in SanFrancisco.
There's Charles at the fridge, beer bottle in hand, a woman
escorted from the bar who's been around the block at his side.

It didn't matter that Charles would've taken offense
at the rudeness of the intrusion.

Time machine, don't make me crazy: 

The slick apparatus has given us an open door
to more efficiently covet our neighbor's goods.
It's like getting a free pass to bypass the 10th commandment.

But eventually poems come out of it just as they did

from the young Maxine Kumin's typewriter, and of those

before her time and long before that, whatever the machinery at hand,

even to the age of the crow-feathered quill.

Acknowledgment:

 John Copley, if you're among the living, I've altered your "Crow Quill" phrase!

epilog:

I hear-tell one could go blind writing nightly by candlelight.

christ, according to past confessionals, I'd have to abuse myself

one hundred sixty-eight more times before I'd go blind.

-The Periods-

1.
Picasso had his share, often classified by colors.

And Bob Dylan had some real beauties.

With me, cataloging lengths of time from start

to finish, it’s often a matter of a day-or-two;

maybe a week; more if I concentrate.

So I’ll grant you that.

2.

In the larger sense of interstellar residence,
a number of stars have been classified as "fixed",
but they’re not really "fixed" as most of us

define "fixed".

The population defines "fixed" as a word,

but cosmologists define "fixed" as a term.

Due to our technical know-how
we can plot their transitions in time
from place to place expanding the pictures

the constellations draw.

(For example, we know what the Big Dipper 
will look like in a hundred thousand years
and not even Ptolemy knew that.)

3.
Well, the bills are paid-up for the month and up to now

the meandering nodules of the virus haven't found me.

Sticky little devils.

7 / 2 / 2020