Thursday, July 7, 2011

A Tome in the Age of Blind Writers

Who writes symphonies to mourn the closing of American factories?
How can a string quartet articulate the dreadful sound of an Abrams tank crushing 20,000 confiscated Michael Jackson tapes?
Or the mind numbing silence of an office building without power?

It takes more than flowery prose to describe the temporarily infuriating sense of immobility which accompies the loss of a cell phone, or the empty detachment one feels at seeing a video of a journalist being beheaded by militants on a stranger's ipod, peeking over their shoulder in a chicago subway.

We, the auteurs of airwave pollution, sonic outlaws, and n'ere do well wunderkinde of the present are the music makers, and the dreamers of the dreams of this world, and we have taken it upon ourselves to be the nameless organizers of modern noise: modem screeches, chat bubbles, ringtones, lingering in parking garages banging other people's cars, hooting cautiously and clapping our hands. Banging space bars with anticpation in bedrooms. Aural masterbators, digital savants, charlatans with flashes of brilliance. Ignorant composers, yet poets all.

I'll take a moment to nod my head to the sorrows of your true minds and sing a tome in my head for this age of blind writers, because we breath an air that is filled more with sonic debris than oxygen, swimming in a static sea of crossed signal pathways, rich in harmonics guiding the lost through the wasteland of the Now.

Pipers at the gates of dawn,
of dusk,
of mid day,
or endless evening,
and reluctant morning,

playing a music that can only promise a future of the same.

We are the music makers, and the dreamers of the memes.
A sea of faces, without a name.

The Fire of Sighs

The affection held for us,
by those we have scorned
never goes softly from
their hearts.

We hasten to distance
our selves from the
desperation of their care,
from the agency of
their desire.

We hasten to plant
ourselves in places
where they can not find us
where we can despise
them openly among

friends.

The unkind words,
spoken of us in our
absence would fall
on deaf ears should
we hear them.

because our senses have
been dulled as our passions
burn themselves away,
consumed in a fire of sighs.

sxckvjh

Rain water room new method

me though squat ethos retain water

wait stand more methods new rooms

retail chain me to more drops in links

lining square quadrants in rails fir

even lux is a change in link to flux

undulating under wet wood

meaning is emergency calls

and dispatches to rooms where

meaning falls in meaningful

square routes round edges

stop.

jhc,

A lean drying time tied to tally rand

to robin's egg and blue shore

shell pink phosphor where camphor

colored wine remissions continue to

follow through to, too, two, who?

The Mountain by Day

The peaks and folds emerge
unsheathed in broken shafts of
dusty sun-light.

He Stalked the mountain for years
like a beast of prey, visiting it at all
times of the day and night.

His enthusiasm was expressed
in a recorded remake.

'have a good look at this saintly mountain!
What elan, what imperious thirst for the sun,
and what melancholy when all this
heaviness returns in evening..."

These blocks were once fire.
There is still fire within them.

Shadow and Daylight seem to retreat,
shuddering in fear of them.
When large clouds are passing, you
see their shadows trembling
on the rocks as if scalded,
and swallowed by fire.

From a distance, all is calm.
Her foot hills an ocean bathed in light
cast from her peaks where the dark
shadows of those passing clouds are
dispersed and burned away.

untitled Haiku no. 1

Musing on a song,

I try to fight back the tears,

the pine weeps instead.

peace through austerity

In what future will they muse on these
collapsing new structures as the aztecs
did in wonder and proclaim that surely
teotihuacan was built by giants,
by titans damned for their vanity
whose voices and hands can still be felt
in the land that once entrapped them.

What inscription will they find
in empty telephone wires,
and discarded children's toys
and empty graveyards.
If printed word survives,
inscribed upon our temples
of industry and science,
let them be these-

Steel promises strength
and a better future
concrete promises
harmony, and security
glass promises clarity,
enlightenment, and
boundless horizons.

All in harmonious balance,
promise to bring peace
and refuge to the world.

Where I Stand

Paul gauguin, one of my favorite painters,

once said to intimate friend on the eve

of his last departure for the south pacific,

"I stand at the edge of the abyss...

yet I do not fall in."

These words stick to your soul

like napalm when you see the world

that he painted for the folks back home.



He painted them a world of

half naked serene and more

primitive people

living in a magical

time before the advent of taxes,

crime, and the plague.



He painted them landscapes of reds and blues

and violets, and in its people, he

saw the land reflected in their

eyes trained; on one another

pouring the tahitian sun light

azure crystal blue sky onto

their soft thighs, and exposed

chests.



He saw himself there as well

hunched in the background.



Sitting below the canopy

with another set of eyes.

Not soft and brown,

but cold and steely blue,

with hair like fire.

A predatory intruder

not native to this world.

Though he sits with them

and minds his business,

the natives should know

to flee from him

or bury him in the forest.



On the edge of the abyss

is where I've found myself

as well, but it is not into 

paradise into which I've

been cast; but a world I've

seen every day of my life

since birth, but only the lightest of shades.


I've stood at the edge my

whole life, being told, and daring not to

look back and see what

may be lurking there in

plain sight at the edge of the

side walk.



But the 'others' can see it,

and they have warned me

not to come too close

for fear of losing myself

along with my innocence, should I fall in,

should I be pushed forward,

pulled back, or stumble carelessly.



Now that I have turned,

I've found that this something

black, not a hole. There

is no light to it's rim but there is light

coming from within.

She is the queen of all

colors. She swallows my shadow,

and gapes wider and wider,

until my feet have touched

its surface.



I stand at the edge of the

abyss, yet I do not fall in.

The ocean will not claim

my bones on this middle passenger's voyage.

Should I perish, I will be buried

in the land of my birth;

be it midwest, south east,

or outer space.



When I scrutinize it's depth

it's hard to tell how deep it

is, and it seems at times,

as if it has a surface,

a matte surface struggling to

catch light, but failing for

trying and trying too hard.



I stand at the edge of

black and I put a foot onto

it, and I leave it there, and

I feel at once as if another life

is beginning within me, or perhaps resuming.

An easy swagger,

and a feeling that the sun-kissed

ground is hot, and the dark

black circle is cool,

as long as I keep cool, I can stand

there as long as I like,

and my friends and relatives will

see me to their horror not suspended

above it, upon that horrible mark.

Blackness.

That desolate, vacuum of a surface.

Black.

black like the night

black like a horsefly bite

black like the cough syrup drop

black like tar,

black like iron,

black like a man who lives

surrounded by it, but not within it,

only above it.



Black is deep and wide and sees

nothing of the sun,

there are no children here.

As I stand and look down

into the abyss onto which i stand,

I see it's surface is not a uniform

a cold monolith. It undulates

Sweet and sour, hot, breath

being gasped, creeping up my legs,

snapping at my pockets with

claws and whispers

of a thousand years of humiliation

sadness, and murder.

I stand off

the edge above the darkness

and it's inhabitants see me

as their own as long as I keep

my cool, and don't let the light

shine too brightly within me.

The White light, given to me at birth,

to keep me planted firmly on

the ground outside of the darkness.



I never look away, I never seek

a thing from that cavern.

The citizens of the cave know

where all things lie, and they see

the light outside blinding

and terrifying and they see

themselves cast their shadows

against the wall as if it's all they

have, and is all that they are,

and I struggle to see mine among

them. And they laugh at me

and say "Brother, light does not

have a shadow. The blessed walk

as the blessed walk and not as

the damned can dance."



You're in the wrong place,

and you'd better be thankful

that you're a big man and that someone

misses you.



And so I emerge, to concerned

faces who trace my image

for tarnished broken thoughts,

they scan my face for

unknown sorrows, and unrequited anger.



And they ask me plainly, where

I have been, and what I have done

in their absence; and my reply to them comes

with out a pause, or a sigh of relief.



I have stood at the edge of the

Abyss, yet I do not fall in.