30 May 2015


“Listen…” and we’d sit
“Listen to the wind You hear it? Listen!”

The sound made with limbs of sanctuary trees in our silence
Where the Hootie Owl searched, calling, hoooo, hooooo, hoooooo, to woke me while I lay sleeping
Listening inside winter’s night window opened up.
Drapes billow, pulls klunk on wall by our cold wind
A snow-dusting on carpet such a fragile snow dust.
Hoooo, hooooo, hoooooo, Hootie Owl calls me, I listen, still cold as the
Wind between whistling sanctuary branches
Klunky pulls kuhplunking,
Bobby Darin callin’ Mack and his knife 'waken me
Someone sneakin’ ‘round the corner, ho, ho,
Bet you Daddy’s back in town.

Downstairs in the living room I held me onto the sofa by our fear and his lonliness.
He in the white wingback slouching down legs and feet out listening to lp and sound, but
“Listen! Listen, do you hear the wind?” And I could
Hear swizzling ice, tinkling in melting water and scotch in his etched diamond shapes on glass
Tumbler he’d stumble and swuzzle when he woke or drop
Off while he drank and sank
Lower and lower down into weary deadened blackout.
I sat and watched and listened and smelled Johnnie Walker
His lower lip curling and pooching down and out
Scared to rouse a weary scared sad friendless lonely ogre who was the Daddy
I knew.

25 May 2015

Left Behind

Left behind is how I feel
Any metaphor I conjure is
Not one I care for
To leave behind.
They just break down and anyway
I don’t believe my words will survive but I like them.

I don’t believe in money though it’s overrated and necessary.
I do believe in music but it takes practice and practice that’s necessary to leave it behind if
A song w’ lyrics is prayer twice told, no matter in a bar, a parlor, a concert, or a church
Heart and mind and voice are engaged and left behind in our hearts, well, my heart.
Do quants leave music behind?
My words are left behind and my children do not see them, do they?

My children do not see the books I like and I read
Like I saw the books my parents did not read but displayed as if
They did and they just showed off.
It may be that what I leave behind will just be
My children as my bio-destiny I will achieve
And I’m sad they might not care for what I found before and after
In my books that I have read and marked and felt moved by
In my books that I have read and believed in and felt as my
Hope so they might know me
In them it will be what I cannot imagine.


I take for granted my hope and my desire just as my children do theirs if
They even know what is now like I didn't know what mine was when
the what I left behind as my parents left me behind and I grew
And lived and loved and became my part of The Way they were in their moments they left behind in their 8mm Kodak 50 foot color movies.
I know my children may never see the I AM that I still am and will never be again and
What may we come to be?

11 May 2015

Speak to me. . .

Speak to me.[1]
Your light shines and I see
and I seek, but, please,
speak to me, baby, louder, I can’t hear
Your light, only yours, speaks to me and I don’t know the words I hear or
I want to say the blood rush, it’s so
Quick, speak to me but... hear the light
Speak to me, baby.

I hear it lighting up my dark emptiness.
Oh… oh, speak to me, baby
I see you rising, falling, pushing your calling into my heart, oh,
speak to me, softly, now, softly, I’m, I’m, I am,
Softly, stop, speak to me.

I feel glowing in my, my… soul…? 
Speak to me, baby, your ligh… ah, ahh, uuuuh, onto me… baby… ohh, speak to me.
Speak your words and I’ll feel
but can to touch to say
Speak to me, baby,
I will wrap you around inside my, they will be my soul
and around my have and to hold you,
your sound, your voice in me.

Oh…speak to me baby, please
speak to me.

The bedrock truth of romanticism, resistant to even the most corrosive modernism, is that consciousness is our participation in the infinite. But consciousness needs found objects---.[2]

[1] Muse by, Moby (Composer, Lyricist, Performer). The Sky is Broken, Play, (1999), Rave New World, under exclusive license to V2 Records, Inc.
[2] Camuto, Christopher (1997). Another Country: Journeying Toward the Cherokee Mountains: Henry Holt & Co. 316.