xix. Pierre Auguste Renoir, "Dance at Bougival,"
oil on canvas, 1883
coveting her music, warm, sinewy
because this evergoing silence is cold & dry—
curves & colors, what remains after
anger—
balance & beauty, pain harnessed to
look ahead—
meaning & truth, for as long as necessary,
til laughter & flight—
courting her music, she heeds only news
which does not break—
receiving her music, finally, one day,
& love the wisest trees praise
& clarity every dream conceals.
******
Six Van Gogh fragments
xx. "The Wounded Veteran,"
pencil, brown ink, black ink,
& wash with white opaque
watercolor, 1883
He misses everything but the eye.
The eye is safe. He knows it history.
Its demise was honest.
The rest drips away slowly. Drip. Drop.
The rest is embarrassing. Requiring a
frequent change of lies.
His remaining eye is widow. A keeper of closed
records—
******
xxi. Van Gogh's Sien (a speculation)
She is nothing between sittings. An old
whore. Unhappiness. With pen & brush
singeing paper, her moods & small tasks
approach meaning. I think sometimes she
understands this.
But I do not know. Perhaps I call it my
secret & am satisfied.
Let her sew. Let her family graze about.
Let her share my bed & us share what
we can.
But always she must pose—my pencils, my pens, my chalk—
******
xxii. "Skull," 1887-1888, oil on canvas
A fragile stone, pocked with useless orifices,
purpose lost, if ever any, organic
material, unsuited to wise or even
meager continuance
perhaps brief occupation as a preacher's
boo-toy, or budding surgeon's study rag
but in truth should be given in bags
to children, the poor & wild ones,
the ones who know that stones are
for tossing in latter daylight—
& smashing when darkness—& mother's calls—
arrive.
******
xxiii. "Self-Portrait Dedicated to Paul Gauguin,"
1888, oil on canvas
There can be no lasting bliss in this
mortal life til nearly everything ever
known is gone, til one's cell is the air,
one's scripture the bees, til one's body reserves
just a little golden moisture, til memory is
nonsense, dreams bunk, all truth & future apparent in
a candle's winking eye.
******
xxiv. "Portrait of a One-Eyed Man,"
1888 or 1889, oil on canvas
"All is grief because we must have
it so. So I learned this & now
I understand. All is grief. Simple, eh?
"You want to ask me why? Of course
you do! 'All is not grief!' you wish
to cry out, tho you do not, perhaps
"out of respect for me but no, I don't
think so. No, it's worse— perhaps
you think I'm right— you fear it"
A new cigarette. Some bread. A knuckle
rubbed against an irritating moustache.
"All is grief. More then this I cannot
say. Whether you choose to believe
or disbelieve, is up to you. A choice."
A laugh. Several. More wine.
"Yes! Quite! A choice you see! Perhaps
you don't need to decide tonight. Perhaps
never. Leave it in doubt, eh? Yes! Good!"
******
xxv. "Self Portrait," 1889, oil on canvas
What's left is not death. No.
Death is for morbid scribblers, for
preachers, for sinners, for believers
in a consistency false to this comic
universe's every obvious way—
No, what's left is not death. Power.
All this blessed power summoned up,
waves of pulsing, potent muck,
scars atwist memories, the pictures!
No! A constant wound! Defacements!
Stars burned down to fagots—
A life's anguish. An apex. A dream.
(of nothing. of something—)
******
xxvi.
I haven't found my home yet so
I keep looking harder & the more
it eludes me the more it seems
I am nearing it—
******
xxvii. Phish concert, Great Woods, Mansfield, MA.
No doubts. Say yes.
Music is truth.
Corridors of rhythm, doors of light
Come on. Leave your body.
Come with me.
I thought it was about someone
I could be wrong.
It could be about everyone
Come with me. You can. We will.
Leave your body.
Say yes. Rain falls in
fireforests of rhythm
Mountains of light.
It's about Someone. About You.
About Everyone
Come with me. Say yes. Here's the corridor. There's the door.
******
xxviii.
Today raise more fires, leave little
protected, someday learn how to leave
it all blowing near the flames, someday
know the freedom of ashes, of feeding
all but one's hands to the blaze—
Today collapsed into tonight, neither how
nor why, perhaps snared in the ugly
or the fear, but perhaps instead the
lasting nude gesture, cryptic twining with
starlight, the new lover who understands
what to burn down, what to preserve, what to renew.
******
xxix.
Tonight perhaps freedom, maybe
happiness, risk, heavy lights, noise,
warped time, discovered weaknesses
in the wall, push, push, push—
A buzz of mystery, a thrill of energy,
secrets coming visible as the road
approaches extra-dimensionally, ha!
but true, just patience & watch like a net—
If only, reads tonight's scripture, if only
& do what you will, & make bliss &
liberation from will & daring, yes,
tonight the open door, whirlpool, delight—
A choice. As always. The mountains or
the streets. Trees or grandstands. Dream
or more. Starlight, flesh, or newsprint.
Hustle. Retreat. Safety or symbiosis.
Continuous hustles flung from the invisible.
A face. But not yet. She approaches music
often. Yes, & then once, maybe twice . . .
That spawned from the invisible fucks
with rules, lightly, easily . . . but intensely
too, loss, countless, anticipated . . .
Perhaps dream into the invisible, arrive
on the least wispy end of a lash,
just a moment the arc brings you in,
take her. Now. She's yours.
For the least moment. Snarl. Liberation.
What was it you saw? What was it
she felt? Laughter. Plummeting.
Music explodes from streetlamps. Follow her.
******
xxxi.
Evening. Shades. Suffering. Symbiosis.
The least thought matters.
There are no least thoughts.
Evening. Desire. That which does not float,
cannot renew & lift,
must be abandoned. True possibilities
burn, & remain.
There is something must be done, a choice,
a truth, a magick in the night's new
rampage, a gleam, a way. A truth.
Many.
Corrosion. Fear. Bliss.
Something taken while still day while still markless,
now kept at night, pink satchel of wisdom,
shapely wind, movement, no plummeting, laughter.
That which does not float tonight, cannot renew
& lift, must be abandoned.
No assignment to construct or contain the soul—
water, we lash play roll for meaning
for the container, for the outlet, for the
sugar or salt, to give us flavor, instruction.
does this life compel more our madness or
our joy?
The collecting & scattering continue apace—
planting, growth, harvest
fecundity the depthless meister
fecundity growls & flows with wisdom
what watches from within, steers from afar,
prays for the impossible formula
knows answers are for those too pussy for liberation?
Origins. You wish to learn the first note
of fowl & tree. First fire . . . desire . . .
old, old pain. But must existence mean
something to be beautiful? Must words
bead around its melody? What if meaning
glints from texts of water?
All that is, pulses. Something from the past
careens on yet, shimmer-bright &
desert-deep, a chiding energy, a whipping
hunger, the hard fluid of awareness
& regret, child-high with hope, sometimes
greedy, damning, a hollering mist, a cave,
very deep, called Creation, unsentimental seed—
Suffering. Symbiosis. Joy is flaring,
everywhere, always, beyond festival
& songs of dust, pursuit has carried
to another dimension, murders without
bodies, freak concertos mistaken for
walls, rooves, food—
dream of dreams, wake & wonder:
"yes. this is wrong. but what now?"
dream of the heart of the world
watch it breathe, watch it burn,
watch it shiver with ecstasy,
watch it twitch with emptiness
Corrosion. Fear. Bliss. That which does not
float tonight, cannot renew & lift,
must be abandoned. Again: Ask:
Madness or joy?
Or flow, just flow
flow just flow just flow just flow just
flow
release past like chimes dimmed with still &
shun future. shun time. Learn neither to begin nor end.
******
xxxii.
Rhythm of the blossom as she pulses colors innocently.
Color in the cheek of her petals, impatient, blood-hungry.
Writhing, love, writhing, just dreams, hustles for her hope.
Symbiosis, flow, fears, she queries, she twists in light.
Slowly a garden, eventually the sea,
til a nebula bright, at last a spiny dream—
Or perhaps better a shadow, distant movement, but
Love falls, corrodes quickly in the sun.
******
xxxiii. for eleni, October 2000
To begin again, to begin continuously, to learn
how to see full moon always, ocean dawn always,
newly fecund dance always, the moment when
dancestep becomes amour always, begin
again, begin continuously, break open
the egg of laughter, how it spatters over woe!
Will you share your music with me tonight,
new love? If tonight we have but fancies
of each other, joyful clippings extracted
from within our hearts' sadnesses, is
this to you sufficient to architect a
new beginning? What is love?
Flames of intent, sent by music's wide
invisible road, kisses resembling phrases,
smiles bouncing off the full moon,
a hand touches another hand through
machinery, did your heart really
jump? Did mine? What is love?
A new dream. A bigger dream. No longer
a dream at all. Begin again, begin
continuously. Neither awake nor dreaming.
This universe a mist, a light, a shimmer.
Neither dream nor awake. Sometimes a
yes-voyage, sometimes a no-voyage.
Full moon always. Ocean dawn always.
We must be dreaming. We must be awake.
We must be beginning. What is love?
Remember you are beautiful. Begin
here. Starry skies ecstatic, blue moods
rising, remember: it's all good: you are
beautiful. Begin here, return to
your beauty always in the blue-black
midnight of doubt. Remember. Begin here.
Your beauty a new language, a glory rising, full moon
always, ocean dawn always, allow yourself to
be well, at ease, shine: remember.
Shine: you are ready. Release what is
overcast. Choose to be clear. Know beyond awake
the love of your dreams. Mist, light, shimmer.
Begin again, begin continuously. Beyond
awake & dreaming. What is love? I'll follow
you & learn. What is love? You'll follow me & learn.
Begin again, again, & rightly call any beginning
a miracle. Touch me with beauty,
I'll tap you with balance, together we'll
harness pain to hurl our flight from
dream & awake to meaning & truth,
maybe a love the wisest trees praise,
perhaps clarity which does not break.
******
xxxiv. for Leni again
There can be no lasting bliss in this mortal life til nearly everything ever known is gone, til
one's cell is the air, one's scripture the bees, til one's body reserves just a little golden
moisture, til memory is nonsense, dreams bunk, all truth & future apparent in a candle's
winking eye, "all is grief" she says to me, & turns away, waiting for me to defend this
precious yet strangely indefensible existence, I know not what to say save "I love you"
& "I will carry you' & "I cannot give up on you" & "there's more! wait! don't go yet!"
& I turn to my shamans, the trees, wishing so dearly I could breach the chasm of silence between this intense peculiar moment & the wider eternity in which their music may be heard, she turns back to me & we clasp hands having solved nay a thing but on we go today, tonight, on we step to the beach, nearing ocean's exhortations, perhaps at midnight to a moonless field of lillies, now running, running, running toward the glittering music before dawn & all I have is you & all you have is me but if we get that right the door back into the world will open I promise you, my love, "all is grief, yes, certainly, but so much more"—
All this blessed power now summoned up, waves of torrid pulsing, scars atwist memories, what do we have now in this shared dream isle? What have we done in creating this? What do we do now? Neither of us can & yet together we do, see how clear all is at moments, my love, the bells of laughter, the freak tornadoes of Art, here we are, no option but to awaken & once awake to merge what we believe is possible & to begin again, it seems to be what one does, my love, nobody who burns ever brighter escapes the endless reverberation of smoldering down to fagots, & a miracle re-ignition, & the slow rise back to danger & fecundity, all this blessed power now summoned, magic brewed from despairing nights & rousing blood, we must never become believers in a consistency false to this comic universe's every obvious way, no, my young love, we must simply kiss & laugh & flow, grieve & rage, & know that our bonding is a gift not just to each other but also to everything everywhere we now share in the careen of making as it every day wildly eludes cheap & cowardly & easy annihilation!
& our love a fragile stone, pocked with mysteries, how indeed can it prosper when much we carry along with us is burden once dream, when the bastards without & forces within us seem flat the fuck out against us when isn't it possible that some great random machine could blink twice & nip you from me from you, when wasn't all lost years ago along a dirt road with blank signs or was it a night where the very dust of any argument for good or happy or love exited by a puff of false primacy? Our fragile stone, my love, this ridiculous thing come far too little & far too late but no. Insist. Demand. Sing. Come here. On we go. Today was another day. The sweet little things continue to occur. Our hearts continue to murmur the word yes & the word now & the word hereon & the word JOY. Calm me with a shiver, bless me with a moment, heal me when this seems impossible, bring me forth to new colors I know I can never possess & show how they curl comfortably in my hands, nestlings smiling, patient for my next word.
What art thee, my muse, my young love, when I am neither engaged with thee nor imagining thine beauty? What art thee? My pen & ink singe paper composed from the palette of thine moods & thoughts meaning, melody, roaring raving raging tinging melody, you understand this & pose or I suppose you do & am satisfied—but what fairness in this? Symbiosis of heart blood & bone requires you not simply pose for me for balance can only be achieved when your hand grasps my palette too, when I am still to thy mullings & graspings & makings of note & color from my cheek & shadow—& thus, what am I to thee, my artist, when you are neither engaged with me nor imagining mine beauty? Shall we learn to love & create each other in neon simultaneity, mutual gifting, mutual reception, come together, love so fierce neither skyline nor burnished dusk nor landscape a thousand dreams wide can preach on unconverted?
Love. Only love. We have only love. Only love between us is good at times. The rest drips away slowly. Drip. Drop. The rest is embarrassing. Requiring a frequent change of lies. A golden-haired maiden. Her fire-eyed suitor. The music in their clasped hands perfect, played for a thousand empty seats while they laugh. They know how to play. They remind each other what joy looks like. Empty beach utopias. Deep forest snow mannequins. Secret family, our romance, fearless & fine, lovely, funny, silly, ten thousand empty seats now, each adorned with a white lilly, we wear masks every night in the final act, masks & nothing else. Love. Only love. We have only love. The rest falls away when we debone its power, acknowledge the foolishness it truly is. A million empty seats as we open every door to every possible dimension & in this exquisite moment we've built receive all existence has to offer with neither fear nor remorse. Love. Only love. We have only love. The rest falls away.
You turn back to me & we clasp hands having solved nay a thing but on we go today, tonight, away we pass from the ocean's exhortations, from the moonless fields of lillies, walking, now slowly, now slower still, "All is grief?" I say, tripping, nervous, "I choose not to believe this." Wordless, breathless, you listen, wondering if this time I'll hit the note for which you've been waiting, I've hit it before, yes, this is why you're here with me tonight, but can I hit the note & hold it & build you the castle & the tree & the garden & the island you need, of which this note is capable if I can hit it & hold it & press it toward fuller & fuller existence, earth air water fire, make our new love a thing tangible, a beacon, a crucifix, a magick tablet laden with instructions to build up the new world within which you wish to dwell with me, symbiosis, synthesis, happiness sans hysteria? I hit this note now, hold it, shape it, pain burning my every maneuver but I hold it, higher & higher deeper & deeper, gesture toward the manifesting door, there, & another there, & many more above below around & within us, I become now the living note my love & am ready to receive your harmony, do not be afraid anymore, ever, you'll never walk alone again, come, let us begin, again.
******
xxxv. For Leni, three weeks known
I hadn't found my home yet so
I kept looking harder & the more
it eluded me the more it seemed
I was nearing it—
"I am the sand, you are the sea,"
she wrote with flickering quill,
"A sea of love washes over me,"
she continued, raw with want, with
pending culmination. She approaches music
often. No doubts. Say yes. Music is truth.
Doors of rhythm. Corridors of light. She
hadn't found her home yet so she kept
looking. Harder. The night clings always
to us. We agreed some woes back &
so've neared each other. "I am the
moon," she scribbles, "you are the sun,"
we are becoming puffs of hand approaching
each other from across dream isle,
the night dawning, trees grooving, younger
critters eager to hustle from nests & covens—
Rains fall on fireforests of light. Mountains
of rhythm & I say to her "I thought
it was about someone. I could be
wrong. It could be about everyone."
A buzz of mystery as we converge, a thrill
of energy as the pasts & futures of
I's commingle the feathery flightful
intent of We present intense I cap
her shining locks with whirlpool, she
makes bliss with my young kiss we vow
to teach one another what to burn down,
what to preserve, what to renew— Now.
She's yours. For the least moment. Snarl.
Liberation. What was it you saw? What
was it she felt? Laughter. Expansion.
"Our love unites us as one" her quill
flitting again, she is unable for long
to block the flow within, without,
& I say "It's about Someone. About You."
We near nearer. Mountains. Cherries. Mist.
"Come with me. Leave your body. You
can. We will." She nods. Child. Maiden.
Matron. Crone. Artist. Healer. Dusk &
door. Street becoming mountain. More
ground into dream. Starlight. Flesh. Newsprint.
As goddess, hustles. As acolyte, retreats.
Wed to me but not for safety, mated to me
to purge hunger, begin symbiosis.
Carnal greed for a new kind of freedom,
happiness flayed of remorse, burbling risk, heavy
lights, creating noise, discovered weaknesses
in the wall, she honies me with her
touch & together we press, press, press—
(It's about Someone. About You. About
Everyone.) (Haven't found home yet so
looking harder & the more it eludes
the nearer it seems blah blah blah)
I am the sand. She is the sea.
I flow dry & lingually into her &
she trembles a dram of power through
me until I scream fragrantly,
thrash historically, orate menstrually,
expire in regressive phases, now
only her smile, I am crayons & candles
crushed in the dirt. "You are the
mind, I am the heart" she chants
while remixing me from autumn leaf &
dwarf star. Cryptic twining. Mist & maypole.
I am now raw with want, pending
culmination. "Too," she murmurs, now gentle
after breach & lesson. "We will never be
too far apart." I ask again for the kiss
she has already given. Dream isle princess,
dream isle prince. Corfu of the sea.
Oz of the desert. Our home. The least
beginning of a joined scripture.
Cherries. Mountains. Mist. Our blueprint
modelled in six dimensions. Six thresholds.
Earth. Air. Water. Fire. Spirit. Art.
Sand. Sea. Moon. Sun. Mind. Heart.