-parishioner's psalm of the un-indicted-

1.

notice the enigmatic firmament—

the black 

dome of the city—

the blue

night foliage drop among its stones—

the green-

blooded apprentice on the march—

the red-

knuckled fist of substance at its cheek—

the violet 

night's-wave weaving its way through the brittle

wood-sided tenement houses— 

the grey-

brick stacks blowing 

from their nostrils a terrible

smoke.

2.

how at once one drowns to empty

penance:

through my fault

through my fault

through my own most grievous 

fault.

                           Quequechan

                               

-let's talk-

1.

Let’s talk of lizards and fish; pavement, water,——

the attitudes of cloth;

the merits of subterranean systems well engineered.

You know, there are those who have written volumes on 

Leonardo's conceptions.

Let it all be heard in good company.

Mountains and plains;

stars in the sand—  how steel; the glass

and stone of the cities is ever-changing.

Or have I mentioned these things before?

Now the weathered fishers 

glancing to their beaten smacks for simple relief,

reflect the hands of sea-toilers, and even through rainfall's 

drenched intersession,

continue their labor of salts a leather of skin. 

Let’s keep our options open, our mouths cautious,

and our eyes peeled and ready.

Let's talk about weather.

Other than that, we may not have a clear destination.

Don’t worry. 

The seasons will testify truthfully.

I once asked stone to tell me things.

I was drunk with dreams at the time, following a blind philosophy.

But stone sits silently absorbing inquiries, confessing to nothing.

I was simply introduced as next in a row of fools to romance its council.

Let's consider our places in the category of achievement: 

old philanthropist, young conductor, C student, recurring participant, 

motor-junkie, tin-knocker or slick, poem-writer.

Look:

everything is relative, 

and in the final cut, immediate.  

2.

Thursday last, a scheduled trip to the Fogg Museum was cancelled

as I observed my plumber, elbow deep in his labor, addressing

the toilet's relentless gurgle.

Thursday last, a fat-assed plumber immersed within the simple toilet 

held greater importance in my life than Schaufelein’s penned, the brown,

Adoration of the Magi.

                                                                       City

                                                                 

-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