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.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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