Sacred, but no high priests —
only novices.
Begins as routine,
becomes ecstatic.
A bloom, a spike, a rolling boil,
a helter skelter scream.
Tapping deep river, following its course
along dark banks.
A dance taught
by the sway of wind-sweetened woods.
Assumption, ascension;
no savior but the moment itself —
ritual burst of joy,
usually, at the end.
As kids our noses bled on winter’s dry indoor heat
and then ran with snot in the overpowering cold.
As teens, we couldn’t find a good place for our hands.
They flapped in public; in private we stuck them
into our pants until we were caught and shamed
for that too. As adults we hold our tongues and minds
tightly, feeling free to loose them only when we lose them.
There’s a prohibition against us being ourselves
in every place we are. No wonder we’re sneaky
with our bodies, knowing that too many disappear
completely into the folds of this smothering world.
I am in need of craft and care
most days, sadly enough;
I thank God she’s beside me.
If I wake up roughclad in bark
she whittles me clean, shapes me
into something useful.
If morning is a minefield,
she tosses stones across it
to blast a path for us.
If the day threatens hate or gloom
she’s the Armorer Against,
the Illuminator.
What I would not give to be
the man who will not flinch!
But I do, and she does not.
What she gains from me,
I cannot say. I do my best
to be present for her; maybe
that’s enough? I ask, but
she laughs it off. I wobble along
fearing that maybe
we’ve gotten this far
on something I don’t even know
is happening and that I will
trip and break it apart
without realizing what I’ve done.
I’m clumsy that way
but she seems to know that —
so we go, and sometimes we go slowly,
but still, we do go on.
Fresh from
the outdoors,
from the battlefield,
he came. He looked
nervy, currents on his bare arms
and sparks in his mouth.
He must have had a lot of nerve
to dare to come in
here. It was our home and we
scare easy. He must have known that.
He must have been cold and
not cared.
We watched him sit in the back
of the cruiser. The cops said
that during cold snaps, on the nights
when sleeping outside is a suicide mission,
they get at least a call a night like ours
of someone breaking into somewhere warmer
to sleep.
“At least he’ll be warm in jail,”
I told the family. Everyone
tells their family that.
We tell ourselves
that and whatever else works
when the truth is
that seeing his cable arms
and their electrical sketchy twitch skin,
his gun-blue cheeks and his jaw set hard,
reminds us of how close to us
the war rages, and we
shame ourselves but have to admit
we don’t care as much for him
as we do for how close he got to us,
and wish
that however cold he was,
he’d just kept it to himself.
They say
you are talented
and I believe them
That you work hard
I believe them
That you are acclaimed
and I believe them
That you are becoming known
I believe them
How could I not
as I trust them
and know them to be
fine judges of such things
I just don’t find myself
liking
any of what your talent
and hard work
have produced so far
and am thus unconcerned
with your acclaim
and fame
I don’t think it’s me
and I don’t think it’s you
It’s just two
not meshing
and that happens
more than now and then
so
stop calling me out
stop arguing
and
stop trying so hard
to convince me
I have carried
no ill will
toward you
till now
Let us keep it that way
Be well
with yourself and
forget me
and my opinion
if we do not suit you
sharp toothed cold
biting into your lungs
when you step outside
on the way to the funeral
of your last remaining uncle
who you hadn’t seen in years
who once gave you a trumpet
you did not ever play
not even once
whatever happened to it
is it at the bottom of some closet
some river
some trash heap
did you sell it
in a moment of need or frustration
over how much space it took
in a corner of your room
after having trucked it around with you
for a long time swearing
one day you’d learn to play
you know he always liked you
you suspect you were a favorite
you used to shovel his walk
after winter storms
the hair freezing in your nose
sometimes so cold it hurt to breathe
he always had hot chocolate after
played glenn miller while you drank
and fidgeted
where is the trumpet now
that your uncle used to play
where is the shovel now
you used to use for him
where did your uncle used to play
was he any good
what bands was he in
or did he just play solos in his basement
when no one was there to hear
who was your uncle
who’s going to be your uncle now
or ever again
in this sharp tooth everyday cold
that never seems to lift
I broke the chain
which held my medal of
my patron, Ganesha,
lord of learning, letters,
success, of taking it all in —
I broke that chain.
Now I’m lying here, turning blue;
I have worked hard to earn that hue.
I’ve become a fat
gap-toothed man like him.
I don’t need to carry myself
everywhere, and no one
would mistake me for him
but still, I took heed of concerns
for over-identifying with him,
and broke that chain.
When they find me, when they
rescue me, surrounded by books
and past due notices,
the last thing they’ll think of
as they trundle me off for repair
is Ganesha. I’ve broken that chain
and if at the hospital they ask me
what spiritual path I follow, I will tell them
nothing at all. If they can’t tell it by looking
at me (gap toothed, blue skinned, long nosed,
fat necked and full of useless books)
then it’s nothing they should know. I broke that chain
anyway, like an elephant gone rogue.
They ought to do me like that,
and shoot me.
Hokum
they called it
lowdown pun-funny blues
about
putting fruit in her basket
or
grinding his meat
or
how much she longs for
a little sugar in her bowl
Tampa Red said
it’s tight like that
and Ma Rainey agreed
and just this side of all that
even Robert Johnson
had hot tamales (they’re red hot)
for sale
and people smiled
and some no doubt got laid
though no doubt
few got paid
Got to trust the hokum
to pick you up
on a Saturday night
Way back then
a couple of White boys
called the Allen Brothers
liked what they heard
laid down a few songs like that
They did a fine job
So fine a job
their songs were released
in their label’s
“race records” series
by mistake
They sued
for damage to their reputation
and left their label
I read a scholarly article
on hokum once
that said the best of the genre’s lyrics
compared favorably to Chaucer
Some comparisons
evidently
are more favorable than others
While dining with assorted friends
and near friends
at a private dinner party,
Professor Alternate Jones,
“Al” for short,
announces to those of us
by nature or profession inclined
to listen to such things
that “upon reflection
on the things of this world,
the only right, righteous thing to do
is for me to spit, hard and often;
the taste otherwise is too rich
and I am so easily overwhelmed.”
Several at the table laughed
and offered similar cavalier thoughts,
but I stood up and sought and found
the view over the salt marsh, looked out
at a marsh hawk hovering, so still
over the tips of the yellow
shore grasses; saw it
taking everything in,
waiting for prey, waiting for
a sign of weakness, a flash
of motion arrested just long enough
for it to drop and rise
fulfilled, with a victory
in its talons.
I turned from the window
back to my friends and near friends,
back to the learned professor still talking,
my mouth drying up as I did so,
feeling the sharps so strongly
I had nothing to say.
The Hammond organ:
wet wide brush,
thick colors. Warm
tones.
Fender P-Bass:
smacks down dark hues,
richer, deeper, rounder
shapes.
Telecaster:
pointillist stinger
chattering spatter
patterns everywhere.
Ludwig kit with
an old Gretsch snare:
possibly, under the paint,
an ancient figure rising?
Let the baritone sax
call it out,
all-dimensioned,
sketching then filling in details.
Remind me, please:
why do we need a singer?
Why frame this work
that already works so well unframed?
Dark Matter 