tag yr it

somehow i feel like i've been seduced into
a moment of transparency
one
i have an unhealthy relationship with books
two
most of my books are OK with that
three
i work out life's difficulties by hearing sounds
shaped out of a feminine shaped box with six strings
four
my geographical consciousness is marked with
the place known as montana
five
i live in central minnesota
six
sally mcgill considers me a friend
and i'm cool with that
seven
i perform occasional musical invasions in airports
in unsuspecting acoustic places
eight
everyday i work and pray and read

any more requests for self revelation
must be directed to the editors of PEOPLE
magazine

IN MY END IS MY BEGINNING

slowly quietly in the grey chill of
novembers' waning days
time has come to an end
and time instantaneously
begins once again
like a miracle
we've heard the readings from
revelation these past few weeks
all sort of scary about the end
and the visions
really cool stuff
when properly understood

the umbered sky
impedes upon the mind
the way it should
the way it should

in a new time a mere three weeks
before the darkest day
and the solstice turns and
a new swing through space begins
don't let anyone tell you
we're just a cosmic top spinnin

god has nuzzled and kissed his lover
and she awaits him now for another kiss
another day of sharing the breath
of her gallant beloved

something truly spectacular is about to happen
by all means
remain vigilante
stay awake
i know it's getting darker but the light
will surprise us all no matter what
keep open the eye
keep fires kindled in the heart

sshh
everyone get real quiet

happy new year

a curmudgeon's thanksgiving

what have i to do with
this vile thing gratitude
these sentimental folks sitting about
as if nothing matters but family
and an odd friend
guffaw guffaw
and i spit horribly
at all this mushy banter of love
between mouthfuls of potatoes
screw your flippant turkey
sitting there in ridiculous command
its ass staring you in the face
no good will comes from me
puhshaw i spit your direction
you hideous practioners of tables shared

won't the world be better when
the gripe of life is all we know
won't it all much clearer be when
every breathing yapping human dog
can be the enemy at least suspected
of viscious intent
gaze a severe gaze in the warm bath
of human kindness
breathe cold
it's the only way to be

there is no goodness no hope
no beauty no good food
we choke on the illusions
we gag on the ill got hopes
we spew out every orifice
the bilious vomit of decency

don't give in
don't let anyone tell you
the hearts of men and women can
yield the joy of friendship
hate it all
clothe your wiltering body
in the garments of
indiscrete mistrust
pay for it if you must

the world will be better will it not
the world will
not be will it not be
better will be worldy willful and better
when we all learn to despise with justice
to hate with impunity
to trample the idiotic hopes
for a better world somehow

give the sour sentiment over
to the rancid puddles
drink cheers of that my
laughably desperate friends
ha ha ha ha ha

knowledge from the studio

what does a musician know while "playing"?

this morning i looked into the archives of the blog
known by everyone who matters as
PHILOSOPHICAL INVESTIGATOR
http://billborneman.blogspot.com/
back to the beginnings of that blog
two years ago
and i recollected some thoughts about
the guitarist derek bailey (d. christmas day 2005)
of course i went to google
and accessed some cyberclips
of derek performing and i thought about him
these thoughts followed me to my studio
where as soon as i took my guitar in hand
i began playing with verve and nerve
hacking at the strings
sliding my pick up and down the bass strings
using a rapid action to arrive at a vibrating sound
on one note a sound that also possessed the quality
of plastic scratching steel
and an array of harmonics and percussive sounds
and extended notes bending everything
which began to sound like coherence
immediately attacked with incoherence
and when i had finished i knew
that i had paid due homage to the spirit
of the great exploration guitarists
but it was but a random moment of
articulated noises and notes
and i am no better for having done that
(except perhaps for the thought that occured
in the midst of sonic mayhem
that i will perform this and a few other things
soon in a chapel setting)
but then i played a heavily corrupted
version of DARCY FARROW
a song by steve gillette
and i applied some of the technique
or lack thereof to this song and
i was delighted
then i switched guitars and sought out
some of the sounds of john fahey once again
as i have been doing for the past 30 yrs or more
i then played an extended version of a very
clearly structured compostion that is known in
my mind as FOR SALLY
a piece possessed of 3 distinct sonorities
played four times in consistent order
and embellished each time
and i finished out my playroom activities
with BIG ROCK CANDY MOUNTAIN
a ballade of hobo heaven

for all this i know only that i can go to a place
and allow my mind and my hands to create sound
on a feminine shaped box with six strings over a hole
and it is enough
amid everything else that happens on the planet today
i have made my say
and it is enough
that's all i know

the epistemological questions involving music
are awaiting some treatment
treat those questions with love and a certain ruthlessness

it is interesting to consider ones mind
what is tracing through the incorruptible substance
while one seeks to give some order to sound

the world is humming with it

on a monday

monday arrives and immediately
the mind is given to speculation
about a full five days of activity
the week days

in this light i wish to speak of an event
which if one is lucky can mark the life
of a christian for ever
that is the opportunity to be of service
to a saint

there is an implicit argument at work
with the whole social construction
known as LUTHERAN SURREALISM
that is: the 2 kingdom principle - the idea
that our earthly life and our eternal lives
are essentially divided and the resolution is
only to be had in death in the hoped for afterlife
the statement is basically
yes heaven exists saints exist but not in this life

the immediacy of the experience i am about to describe
suggests that one's heart can come into play when
considering the parameters of the life one chooses
last night i wandered out in the dark down the walk
upon which many monks tread
at the end of this walk there is an iron gate
and i often arrive at that iron gate
and reflect on the fact that i have chosen
in some respect to live an imprisoned life
even while having the ability to walk through
the gate i still possess the awareness
that i have chosen to confine my life
within a structure of prayer and work
a structure with fairly clear
parameters
a structure in which even the thought
of something like sex comes under
rather serious scrutiny
as do all human relationships
i am fortunate enough to have as the basis
for my choice the context of christian charity
for within the acceptance of that
is the freedom the soul really desires

thus this morning as i brewed my coffee
br urban who for years has been the
resident expert in gardening
who knows both finches and birmingham roller
pigeons and has raised both coqatiels
and doves
whose tomato patches were the wonder
of the whole area
who at one time grew strawberries
and brought smiles to the faces of monks
in short
i wish to make a claim against the LUTHERAN SURREALIST
and insist that Br Urban is a saint
and if the said proponent of the doctirine
to which i just referred
were to meet Br Urban he would no doubt agree

so as i brewed my coffee
Br Urban who is now in his 80th year
came forth requesting that i help him
with a matter having to do with
his room out of which he was set to move

the saint was a heap of misery
the saint was complaining
the saint was whining a bit
the saint was buckling under
the hardship of age
the saint was irritable
the saint was without humor
even my smartass remarks
could not bring the saint to laughter
(one joke did get a smile)
but as i finished the task
his face was so full of gratitude
that i am moved to acknowledge
that in terms of consequences
nothing much matters now for the rest
of the week

i have served a saint
and he said that he will need me again
and i do not doubt it

from this saint i learned the importance
of caring for tools
and accepting the logic of nature
and the importance of going very slow at times
(here there might be some area for agreement
with the Slow Loris symbol)

no
heaven appears here on earth
as now in a glass darkly
but apparent none the less
in the beaming smile
of Br Urban

a monk shuffles down the
cloister hall
at a loss to know his bearings
having lived 60 yrs as a monk
is now being stripped
and readied for the final journey
he gazes into the abyss
there is some horror on his face
his brothers carry him along

the sri lankan franciscan
says in his culture
there is an ancient allocation
for the status of life choice
as life sanctification
the people are more than ready
to acknowledge that a person's vocation
be it in buddhist or hindu or christian
tradition the socially agreed upon role
of the religious person is acknowledged
and thus the expectations for religious life
are defined
and of course the possibility of failing
in that context carries some dire ramifications
most likely a beating and a displacement
if not jail
i wonder what would happen
if we re-established public beating
for every crass sexual infidelity

the weighty reality of christian witness is
that human nature is hard wired to fail
when it comes to living out the life
of virtuous purpose
and while i cannot observe
the failures of br urban
i am aware that his struggle is not over
and that he may even convey
aspects of human nature which
are all too human
none the less
i know i have served a saint

br urban anyway will work out
the earthly details of his sanctity
to the best of his ability
detaching himself from his
quaint treasures
the most valuable of which is
the little wood sculpture
made by his grandfather
a man on a horse
carved roughly and painted with
precision only time on a farm could allow

i dedicate this day to br urban
and to the chance of being his servant

amen

NOVEMBER

Rock fences litter Delaware county,
Driving one sees smoke curl from chimneys into
Necklaces of geese gone south.

The town is empty at 6 a.m.
A lone bundle of clothes
Waits at the red light to cross,
Steam pouring from her mouth.

- Kirby Olson (the Lutheran Surrealist)

this poem represents a first a first the first time a poem has been sent to me by email
a really fine poem
i think it is information
for a painting and nothing more
the aspect of the poem which carries
the sense off song
is in the ending of both stanzas
in order to print it here
i wrote it out on a sheet of paper
and now i have the sense
that the poem will remain with me forever
it is a poem
that speaks for itself
not even the poet himself
is evident in the picture
except for the fact
of someone having
seen something
should you be the soul
who comes across this poem
take the time to read it out loud
the overall sense
at least for this reader
is the haiku
that sense of stoic observation
this poem was published in the
South Dakota Review
or something like that
and i present it here
as a gratis offering
to the indifferent world
save for a pleasant voice or two

jh

november snow

grey rust dark green white
black shadow of branch
against the grey sky and crystals
fall as silently as death
nothing will change the day
the sidewalks have taken
their patina of white
and are now a threat
for snow is slick
we walk dangerous paths all the time
rarely do we know it

human color is different
in this light
the various pinks of caucasians
the dark skin of indians
the beige tint of orientals

the light is tinged with grey
and nothing else speaks the day

leftists oppressors

so i ask myself
what does it mean today
to live in a country
with its first african american
president
i've been wondering about
political emotion
that now very openly
expressed area of life
thanks to the feelings sages
of the last 50 yrs
now what does it feel like
and can i say soemthing about my feelings
regarding a leader
whom i trust and for whom i voted
and is this a way of knowing

there were i will confess
a few moments over the past
few days
when i was sharing in the tears
of amazing hope
in the faces of people
people obviously moved to tears
tears of joy
at the outcome of the election

so in this regard i would have to say that yes
i know something by the fact
that i share in the emotion of others
when i observe it
i am moved as they express
the emotion of tearful joy

and now i am thinking that to
a large degree the political game
is an emotions game
knowing the image helps to
assure the emotion

it is grey day where i live
a rather grim cold late autumn day
wet and cold
nothing about the day indicates hope

yet i have self awareness
that says
because of my knowledge
that a man has been elected president
a man for whom i voted
i am happier than i was two weeks ago
certainly two years ago
two years ago i was thinking
i got to get out of this country
its turning into a fascist police state
i suppose the left political world
can push forth its own agenda
which might indeed look like a
fascist police state
we'll have food police and behaviour police
and language police and media police
and police everywhere
all people assuring us that yes
we will have freedom

there is one political theory afoot
deriving i think from the novel 1984
that the hidden monster of the left
is the ardent desire to organize
and manage every aspect of living

but i am more concerned with
a view which grows out of the right
the view that government must manage
the populace that the cameras and the
security and police and the homeland security
agenda in general is the technique
for assuring freedom for the people
the CIA and the FBI
are the big personel management teams

i ask the question
would human beings left to their own wiles
perhaps forced there by circumstances
excercise the virtues of patience and charity
would people learn to grow gardens together

perhaps the largest political questions
on planet earth for the 21st century
the most pressing the most urgent
the questions we can unite behind
and strive to address
are the questions of survival
and peace
can we disarm
can we bow in honor
of the differences
can we speak with our neighbors

and i am wondering today
how the man on the street in baghdad
the man struggling
to get some food for his family
the man uncertain of every car
coming down the street
the man with vague hopes of rebuilding his life
does this brother of mine have hope
in his heart that barack obama
can serve to make things better

i suggest homeopathic diplomacy

has the shock doctrine worked in iraq?
are we now strapped with a patient
whose appearance remains almost comatose
shuffling down the corridor of the world
with a cigarette?

i am curious to know the
statements and the path
to be set forth in the mideast

i know that i have political comfort
i feel good about obama

the tone of his voice is confident
the task before him is big enough
to break any man
and i think he knows this
in his bowels

j

to vote

well over 100,000,000
voting ballots will be cast
today

the word vote
comes from the same root
as the word vow

so there is something
very serious about all this

we want a say in who
and how and for what purpose
we will be ruled

it is hard to claim
that then we can speak
as one country
for the differences
are often stark

the wind changes in the sails
the tack is on
the rudder is being pulled
the flag is changing

the winds are changing
the times are changing

vote veto tove tevo
ovte otve oetv oevt
evto etov etvo eovt
eotv vtoe veot voet

vote for kindess
and decency and hope
and a better world
for those aching for it

j

THE MAPLE TREE

The maple tree that night
Without wind or rain
Let go its leaves
Because its time had come.
Brown veined, spotted,
Like old hands, fluttering in blessing,
They fell upon my head
and shoulders, and then
Down to the quiet at my feet.
I stood, and stood
Until the tree was bare
and have told no one
But you that I was there.

-Eugene J. McCarthy