recollection

when i was in college i wrote
an anti-christmas song
with my friend peter gross
i thought i was pretty clever back then
peter went on to be a comic book
artist
i'm still playin the blues

insofar as it will
probably never be published
and will never reap anything like royalties
i thought perhaps i might just publish one verse here
to give people a sense of my early forays
into difficult and contrary attitudes in
artistic expression

winter is coming there's a nip (hello tokyo)in the air
christmas songs are playin and i don't care
you know i got them apathetic christmas blues
o i hate you and you hate me
so let's burn down that christmas tree
you know i gots them
weary christmas blues

santa's on the corner with a kid in his lap
santa just found out that he's got the clap
well i got those syphiletic christmas blues
well i hate you and you hate me
so let's burn down that christmas tree
o i gots them weary christmas blues

O EMMANUEL

O Emmanuel
Our King and Lawgiver
desire of all the nations
and their Saviour
Come quickly to bring us salvation
O Lord our God

O REX GENTIUM

O King of Nations
the one for whom they ardently long
You are the cornerstone
that binds the two into one
Come and save all people
whom you fashioned out of clay

O ORIENS

O Rising Sun
splendor of eternal light
and Sun of Justice
Come and enlighten
those who sit in the gloom of night
and the shadow of death

O CLAVIS DAVID

on this shortest day of the year

O Key of David
and scepter of the house of Israel
You open and no one closes
you close and no one opens
Come and lead out of prison
the captive who sits in darkness
and the shadow of death

O RADIX JESSE

O Root of Jesse
You stand as a sign
for all peoples
before you
kings shall keep silence
all nations shall seek you out
Come to deliver your people
and do not delay

O ADONAI

this is the O antiphon for this evening

O ADONAI
Ruler of the house of Israel
to Moses
in the fire of the burning bush
you appeared
and on Mount Sinai
gave him your law
Come with an outstretched arm
and redeem us

O SAPIENTIA

struck as i was last evening
by the profundity in the poetry of the O antiphons
i resolved to type them out this year
for december 17th this is the one

O HOLY WISDOM
You come forth from the mouth
of the Most High
and reaching from end to end
you order all things
with gentle strength
Come and teach us the way of prudence

a poem by clayton eschleman

Imagination has never met
a non-love it did not love, or
a wall with which it did not become engaged.
I am a convict of light
in the suction panic of the sun.
The range is eternity,the focus? The halter of time —
a babe in halter we spring up and down,
restrained, eternity invades our dreams,
spreads across the stone,
form trancing form.
What is is inherent in what is not.
Only in the abyss do time and eternity
dissolve into a sinless source of origin.
The first image was a prompter box,
gesturing to an us spread out like bat wings on
a stone relief. Each second is
vertical with middened hives, I fish for bait trapped in my own line.
Across the stone, the actor hordes a restreaming ochre,
enmassed manganese penetrates their menstrual pour.
The tunnel is enlightenment if
death's lager can be drunk there.
Silo hide, imprisoned sand course my throat,
an appled road rent with all who have responded to daybreak's
roll call of bones.
In the suction panic of the sun, we are
entwisted spectres, our veins
streaming with verdure,
octopodal bursts of infant flowers,tender calcium — in your
outstretched hand you hold our wheat,
in your torso interior a banquet hall collapses,
a Lethe seeping into mist-dead-dusk.
In comparison, all retwists — I watch
a watch-headed serpent
enter your red breast-hung hall —
on the same mobius strip
we act, via awareness of death,
as if we are alone.
Your head disappeared eons ago,
my tombal shoulders, armless, and dimming with
sallow orchards, writhe stilly
as your charge bolts and
makes beaver shapes in Matta's mind. I spot him
at the horizon's vortex where the panic hits
and the sun takes on stick insect
latitude, filmy cosmic trestle
before which we bend and whisper,
green fuses trapped in a summons that runs
through the known,
now picking up some shred turds of
uncharted waste.

I participate, in advance,
in future time. My point of reference is
spherical, amoebic, a chorus of strings. I take my leads from
tunnel intestinal macaroni,
ancestor lines wandering
having left their rear-ending hole—
no one has touched bottom,
bottom is a hole at the speed of
engendering poles. The jungle holds up
a mirror, we see we are chalk traceries in
outer space grasped briefly
as elves under amanitas in the garden of
steel-infested self. Traceries
where armored gnomes slash at
menstrual slits. Right now
this raspberry is flooding my mind, a head of
yellow breasts is wearing a Pieta wig. I
set it aside to make way for
an automobile sprouting towers of enraged Iraqis,
like derricks of vegetal steam
they wave in and out of view.
I press no button
but I'm American through and not through,
mind is a jet engine suctioning
imperial drift, attempting to register
an allegiance to dehumanized Palestinians
as well as to the Daughters of Energy
still viable at Le Combel.
Matta now reveals himself:
red disk painted limestone
with a vulvar fold
perpendicular through his being.
A shift, and he is a flayed dog head studying
a vagina on fire as its soot
surges through an amber emporium of astral scree.
It is the profound and beautiful
femininity of the earth
that is always under man attack.
I crawl toward the mirage of an Aurignacian candelabra
still glistening with cosmic dive.
I eat a leech and watch its Whitmanian suckers
unfold, this is wholeness, or, as close as I'll ever get
to a closure packed with the rubble of rhinocerotic metonomy.

[ Paris, June, 2004 ]

i simply like the words

i like typing out things
whereby i have absolutely no understanding whatsoever
it is a way of knowing
a way of saying
i do not know what this means
and there is a very good chance that
i will never know

a matrix is non-singular
(meaning that it has an invese matrix)
if and only if
the identity matrix
can be obtained
using only elementary row
operations.

this is a principle of
gauss-jordan elimination

i am struggling to know why this could be important

yet i find a strange delight in being able
to articulate this sentence as a poem
and a testimony to what must be
a first principle of epistemology
"to know that i do not know"

the epistemology of waiting

i write with 29 minutes to go
before Mass

this morning about 75 men gathered in the room
we know in the monastery as
the chapter room that room wherein
we consolidate the tendencies of communism and
democracy and benevolent dictatorship

for 20 minutes our Abbot held forth
with words more poetic than didactic
he alluded to this very feminine time of year
the time of waiting the time of shadows lengthening
the bracing of ones will against the dying light
on the horizon come way too soon it seems

waiting requires strength
or does it
people who are really ill seem to have to be patient
and they do so out of complete weakness
people who are alive with the knowledge that
very soon they must die must wait in a state of weakness
summoning all their strength
just to put up with the fact of death
staring one in the face

i stare out at the frozen landscape
stare in disbelief amazed that something
can be so white and clean and yet so evocative
of the mood of despair
my eyes barely able to open to whatever sunlight
might be driving through the grey cloud cover

with 20 minutes remaining before mass
i realize the weight of waiting
i realize my need to know that what i am waiting for
is indeed within the grasp of my soul
that there is the hand the arm the bosom of god's love
and my ability to live into that love

is my will free enough to love freely?

this is what i wait for
this is what i long to see and
this is the test of the quiet forlorness of patience
of advent
this is the urgency of the hearts' true desire

i wait in the dark state of not knowing
with the desire to know
to see the light
and to have it melt the icy winter
of my selfish heart

take a stand

I am not a lover of lawns.
Rather would I see daisies in their thousands,
ground ivy, hawkweed, and even the hated plantain with tall stems,
and dandelions with splendid flowers and fairy down,
than the too-well-tended lawn.

-William Henry Hudson, author and naturalist (1841-1922)

cybershelved treasures

WHAT I KNOW ABOUT MYSELF

I know I have been alive for over sixty years.

I know some people love me and some don’t.

I know I am like all other people because I have
the same physical life – as hens are like hens, dogs like dogs.

I know I don’t know a lot that other people may well know more
about but I’ve got to trust them to help me – as I need it,
and vice versa.

I know what I am, a human,
is more than what I can simply think or feel.

I know I love dogs, water, my family, friends, walking the streets
when things feel easy.

I know this is the one life I’ll get —and it's enough.

ONWARD!

-robert creeley (died march 30th at sunrise 2005)

written in a poetry class
on the upper west side of NYC
a residency poetry gig conducted by ron silliman
1987 (?)

blog epistemology

found poem

The
reason
you
were
fine
is
because
you
have
(probably the default)
setting
of
iso-latin1
as
the
text
encoding.
I'm
not
saying
this
is
wrong,
but
it
does
enable
folks
who
can't
be
bothered
to
do
the
right
thing
.

prof stu kurtz

airport epistemology

what follows is the narrative of a drama
into which i was cast inadvertently
just yesteday as i made my way
across the western half of the north american continent
through the air

in LA i accepted the offer by the flight people
to "check" one of my bags at the gate
i decided i'd rather take my guitar along with me
so i checked my suitcase
i was told that i'd be able to
pick up my bag at the gate when i
"deplaned" in denver

so i flew to denver
and when i "deplaned" i was informed
that all baggage on this flight goes to
the baggage carousel

so
what to do
i was in a bit of a panic
and i made an unwise decision
i took my guitar to the gate
of my next flight and there was no one there
so i simply set it next to the desk
( i should have written a note or something)
and i rushed off to the baggage claim area
via light rail

when i got to the rail car i was helped
by a pleasant woman
who guided me to where i needed to go
and i was able to retrieve my bag
almost immediately
i then asked a man at the info desk
what
i'd have to do to get back to my gate
he said
you'll have to go through security again
so i hoofed it to the security area
made it through post haste
and shuffled on my way to the light rail again to get
back to my gate
as i walked up an escalator
i passed a guy going down
who was swearing
fervently into his cell phone

i got back to the gate and
lo and holy moses behold me a friggin sinner
my guitar was gone and i was informed by the lady at the
desk -------
your guitar was taken by airport police sir

i had about 20 minutes before the flight would leave
i pleaded with her
to no avail
to allow me to leave my bag there while i went
in search of my companion and beloved
she was less than receptive to the idea
NO absolutely not NO
you cannot now or ever leave a bag here
unattended
( so now i feel i'm on camera as a potential terrorist)
so i take off running to the information booth
a TSA guy directs me to the place
and a policeman and a lady are there
both seem more than willing to help
i tell them my predicament
the cop looks on his computer then asks me the
question
are you john hanson
yessir i submit with eagerness and a smile
you'll have to go down to the police lost and found area
and retrieve your instrument

will i then have to go through security again?

yes you will
so i give him my most distressed look and i say
look here
this is not my fault (OK IT WAS SORT OF)
i have a flight leaving in about 10 minutes
and i must have my guitar
now could you please help me
could you not make a call and
inquire into the whereabouts of the guitar
and see if they could bring it to me here

so reluctantly he did this
and he informed me i'd have to go get it
couldn't they just bring it here
i asked
could i speak to them
so i spoke to someone on the phone and
with pleading tones i asked if i could be spared the
hassle of going through security again
they say OK we'll bring the guitar to you

all the while the lady is already busy
looking at possibilities for other flights
she also calls the desk at gate B27
and askes if they could hold a few moments
while the guitar story gets resolved

the policeman gets back on the phone
while i talk to the lady
and there suddenly
lo and holy moses friggin behold
is another policeman holding my guitar out to me
i look at him with earnest smile
he obviously wants to lecture me
on how irresponsible and dangerous i am
but i merely grab the guitar
smile shake his hand
and say
sorry buddy i thank you
but i have to fly
so with bag and guitar in hand i run
run as fast as i've run anywhere recently
and make the gate just in time
the lady waiting there patiently
i'm the last one on the plane
as i get on the plane i hear the announcement
that there is no more room in the overhead storage area
all remaining baggage would have to be checked below

i look at the steward with pleading eyes
i'm standing right at the door next to the
steward's clothes closet
and i ask
would it be OK if i put my guitar in there
and he said
sure let me help you get the door
so we open it up and slide the case in
and i make for my seat breathing heavily

i sit next to a woman with a child from
redwood falls MN
and i relate my little experience
as we taxi for take-off
and she says you must be the guy
who they were trying to locate on the PA
they said it about 5 times
would the passenger from gate B27
please come to "such and such"
and claim his guitar
right away i had this feeling that
everyone around me knew the
story

thus ms (mizz) loprinzi
had her little adventure

and i think i have the
workings of a new song

in my final recollections i was aware
that people were being
as kind as they could be
in helping me through my travel crisis

i wonder if people in general
are given to kind responses
when a person is showing signs
of intense struggle with
the complicated machinery of airtravel

when i arrived in mpls
i went to the predetermined spot
where i would meet my friend
and as i walked out the door
he was just pulling up to the curb

i thought
lord jesus christ son of god have mercy
on me a sinner
and i knew someone was praying for me

i also wondered if the whole thing was the result
of my coming close to leaving my guitar behind
with my nephew who has expressed interest in learning
and i was thinking i could pick up
my brother's guitar one which he has not played very much

did i make an emotional separation
with something so dear to me
am i tending to do that??

o lord where has my guitar gone

hmnh hmnh hmnh

massage cognition

'the senses are the cradle of cognition' - bergson
and merlou-ponty said as much as well

what is known in the experience of
massage
i guess the best place to start is
the reflection upon completion

today after my massage in an effort
to get at some pain that has persisted for a few months
i was immediately aware of the
pleasant feeling...a feeling that is difficult to describe
a feeling of well-being a feeling of physical relief
i think if i knew about a drug that
could approximate the feeling still i would consider it
a sorry substitute for the amazing feeling
and i think it is important
in my mind it is very connected to
the reality of human touch

during the massage i was aware of hands on my flesh
hands getting very intimate with the reality
of the skin and the muscle below the skin
i knew in the process that the sensation
is one i do not give myself over to very often

but today i stand in gratitude
whatever she did is something i really needed

one of my theories about medicine is the idea
that what most people seek in medical care is
something comparable to the loving hopeful embrace
of mother...the discussion gets compounded
the further we get from that fundamental fact
and it is also important to note that what we refer to
as western medicine is moving further and further away from
tactile forms of healing

as i lay below the knowing and capable hands of my masseuse
i was aware of a certain helplessness
and something akin to the emotions of a small child
who'd slipped and fallen on the road

there were points in my body which she touched
which were very painful
and it caused me more than once to groan a little
and i remember thinking
this is sort of odd i trust this woman
whom i hardly know to touch pain points
in my body
and i'm not always sure if i can trust my good friends
with some of my pain

i'm also aware that the luxury of the experience
comes with a price
i must be grateful that i'm able to pay that price

the prospect of going to bed and sleeping
tonite
appears to me a little more attractive
for i have this sense that the pain
i've lived with
for the past few months
is now greatly reduced

ah the slow calamity of aging

epistemology of war

" A true war story is never moral. It does not instruct, nor encourage virtue, nor suggest models of proper human behavior, nor restrain men from doing the things that men have always done. If a story seems moral, do not believe it. If at the end of a war story you feel uplifted, or if you feel that some small bit of rectitude has been salvaged from the larger waste, then you have been made the victim of a very old and terrible lie. There is no rectitude whatsoever. There is no virtue. As a first rule of thumb, therefore, you can tell a true war story by its absolute and uncompromising allegiance to obscenity and evil.... You can tell a true war story if it embarrasses you. If you don't care for obscenity, you don't care for the truth; if you don't care for the truth, watch how you vote. Send guys to war, they come home talking dirty."

- Tim O'Brien, (combat veteran) ...from - The Things They Carried

the interesting thing about toilets in the vatican is the generous use of marble
and after all ships were made to sail
this creation shines and dims does anyone hear ringing bells
why the distractions and flocking of birds this autumn
a more desperate cry even the soul specked with soil
lingers in draughty attics who will tell after all what vaccuum exits
in the vertiginous rhetoric of insouciant time
one rarely allays the ridiculous so enamored nay innured
have we become of the absurd
and then there's horse racing
and ships upon which we barely ever touch
but otherwise the whirring mayhem of working traffic continues
cyberfools type away this is a frenetic world going going gone
there are warehouses there are parking lots there are parks
there are shopping malls there are tall buildings
all those spaces take on a uselful dimension but social attitudes
are
in the end
ever at odds
in the mad grope for survival
this is a maddash for a game show or another commercial
this is the party
we drain the ditches and filll the holes
rarely do we make a drop of sense
but alas all is not lost for there adjures a more gentle sun
a more warming flower
don't beguile
the will is a tempest
don't disdain
the world needs lovers
where icecream fits in is just after the presuppositions of taste
and even though conversation stems toward the exigencies of traffic signs
and whatnot
we all end up on the same street corner staring at the wreck
the occasional wreck of humanity
so this the whirl we live in whoooo daddy it a strange one indeed
would you rather be out in the high country
where the sun breaks through all day long
monday is a good day to begin
monday is the one day life gets a little incentive
monday is a good day don't fret even hindus transcend
everyone wants to in the end
but will the elephants stampede that is the question
after dilutions and [predictable ))))disenfranchisements
all manner of perceivable justice gone to hell
it may as well be set to music you know the motion of ocean storm
the song of clouds

talking to my father

i spoke on the phone with my father tonite
he is 87
at least tonite he was pretty sharp
he speaks of his life in humble terms
he goes here he shuffles there

i enjoy bringing laughter to my father
i seem to understand what makes him laugh

he asked after my music what kind of music
i'm playing these days
we had a pretty involved conversation
on the topic of music and epistemology

my dad says he uses his cane
when he knows he has to go
more than a hundred yards or so

somedays he just sits and doesn't do much at all

he and my mother go places together in the car

we spoke of the other members of our family

i am amazed to be talking to my father on such
familiar terms
when i was young my sense of my father was
that he was someone taking care of me from a distance
taking care of all of us
mother was the one at home who ruled the roost

most of my really good conversations with my father have come about
in the last 10 years

there are days when i weigh up my gifts
and my burdens

knowing that ones father is ones friend
has a way of lightening the burdens of life

when i think of male love
and the modes of expression
for males to love one another
it would seem that
brothers become friends for life
and fathers become friends
and friends become fathers
i have friends who were (are) surrogate parents

it does seem very odd to me that some people would
claim that the sexual attraction to other males
is also a possibility for males loving one another
it would be difficult to deny that it happens

i'm grateful to have my real blood brothers as friends
and there are friends whom i regard in almost the
same way that i regard my blood brothers

it was said that david loved jonathan
in a way that surpassed the love of woman
and i think that this does not indicate
a genital sexual way of loving
it is the camaraderie of brothers

i could imagine my father being
a very good friend if i weren't related to him
yet the fact that he is my father
makes him something no other man could be

i sit with the realization that
i may never have a son or a daughter
and will thus only know
from a distance the weight upon the heart
of a person who takes his parental responsibility
with utmost seriousness
it is good to be able to say
my father took his responsibility as a parent
as the greatest responsibility in his life
and he still does
his professional life being simply something
which he needed to do in order to be
the best parent that he could be

he once said to me
in a different age i might've taken a mistress
but my work became my mistress
and i gave a lot over to her
sometimes at the expense of my family

such is the price of a mistress

my father is 1000 miles away
he is two days away or about 17 hours
if i drive
at least 10 hours away if i fly
unless i get a direct flight
which is harder and harder to do

that i have a father still living
still someone i can talk to openly
is the gift i hold to myself today

Holy penguins bow into the wind
black and white penguins
wait for penguin friends
tiny penguins with tiny penguin's caps
drink penguin beer from the penguin's taps
grasp a penguins flipper
take her out to dinner
dance the penguin shuffle
hide her in your duffle
bag
and when you both come home
offer her a chilly room
colder than an iceberg
(kept cold by moshe steinberg)
tell her she's a nice-berg
can't think to rhyme with iceberg
none the less
let's hail the penguins' coming
and give them fish or something
something penguins just adore
everybody flop
flop flop upon the floor
let's do the penguin squirm
twisting squirming dancing
like a worm
but do not let them vote
or learn to drive a boat
they will want to change our system
take money from the congressmen
but they will they will they will
they'll stop the global warming
for alas they are our darlings
we love our lovely penguins
and we lovely truly hope
they smoke the very best
lovely penguin dope
so if you see a waddling penguin
strike up a waddling conversation
or roll a great big fatty
say "HEY BIRD I"M you’re daddy"
and do the penguin shuffle
yeah do the penguin shuffle
c'mon now everybody
you ain't alone
hear that saxaphone
do the penguin shuffle
yeah

as editor of this blog i have taken it upon myself
to amend the poem above
knowing the importance of such statements in the world of letters
it was incumbent upon me to suggest improvements
to the overall structure and sound of the poem
i should hope that the poet who submitted this poem
will take heed of my editorial amendments
and consider them acts of friendship
the author of the poem goes by the
very strange appellation
ANON ANONO
whatever in hell that means
anyway
the pome of the day

the morning after

verbiage
much of it indiscernible
some of it clear and potent like russian vodka
filtered over my mind like smoke

yevgeny yevtushenko performed at
st cloud state university last night

he was held out to us by the sympathetic
voices of global awareness at the college
as the necessary rebellious voice in 20th century
russian poetry indeed the whole culture

yevgeny himself lamented the success
of the russian communist government
in suppressing poetic voices
killing intimidating imprisoning
the voices
but he added
russian journalists came through
russian journalists were stronger than the poets

strange to see upwards of 300 people at
a poetry reading

the torment for me was the less than perfect
sound system...it was a curse
ignorance is involved
the irony was that we were kept waiting
in the foyer of the auditorium while
the "technicians" did a thorough sound check

a rabbi read the famous poem
Babbi Yar in translation
recounting the horrendous murder
of 35,000 innocent people
most of them jews in 1941
at the hands of the nazis

accepting the fact that there was nothing to be done
about the sound system i sat back and decided to use
my other senses primarily my eyes
for in the end
yevtushenko is a brilliant actor
he knows the relationship between words
and human gestures
as a way of conveying the sense of words
beyond the sound

his command of the full array of
human emotion was really something to see
from the darkest to the lightest

it becomes apparent while thinking about yevtushenko
that he is primarily a political poet
while not above the sentiments of love
or the inward reflections of the mind
his verses speak primarily to political consciousness
and the desire in the human heart for freedom

if a clear apprehension of the words did not come through so well
this fact certainly did

he staged a duet process with one of his translators
whereby stanzas were alternated in
english and russian
and i appreciated this for the expressiveness
of the russian language perhaps exaggerated a bit
and animated by the personality of yevtushenko
yet still somehow mysteriously pleasing to the ear
even in the event of complete ignorance

the poetry reading was not dry or boring
or marked with some pretense of
well-theorized poetix

yevtushenko is a poet who cannot help
but be engaged in the immediate human context
he solicited assistance from at least
5 other readers young and older
and in his presentation he spoke
at the level of the human heart
a quiet and clownish demand for
adamant recognition of the immeasurable value
of every human soul
and the outrage against those who would
ignore this fact

based on his poem Babbi Yar alone
yevgeny will hold a place in world poetry
of the 20th century
and it became apparent as i listened
to the presentation of the rabbi
that yevtuchenko
while not being jewish
took the step to become a jew
at least to realize his solidarity
with the jewish predicament
in the world as somehow paradigmatic
for all political oppression based on fear
and the dangers inherent in
the pretenses of political power

yevgeny's poetry demands attention
it demands the full attention of the intellect
and the full attention of self awareness in the world
he asserts with his whole being that
one necessary function of poetry is
to
"speak truth to power"
to use a late 20th century cliche'

in my knowledge i have only robert bly to point to
as one who is willing to take the poetry reading
and move it beyond mere intellectual amusement
willing to act willing to prance off the stage
into the audience
willing to act out the words the ideas
the scenery
so that even an unsuspecting child
might look on and understand
something important is happening
there's a serious clown in the room

in the hands of yevtushenko poems are not
cerebral statements
but
the fully charged expressions of dramatic engagement
with others with the world
more like a love affair than a media event

melodic knowing

presently i have two fully worked out
melodies roaming around in my head as it were
for eveyone knows for certain that in fact
the melodies are not in my head although as i type
i am aware of something going on in my head

at some level i am aware that lyrics must somehow
evolve or come to be in singable compatibility
with these melodies
i sort of have an idea
of what the songs could be about

but nevertheless the melodies exist in my awareness and quite possibly
no other real awareness exists for these melodies
which makes them a little suspect a little less than real
for others have not yet attained the ability to whistle these melodies
which go round 'n round in my mind like music attending the merrygoround

one of the melodies is worked out in a waltz meter
in fact insofar as it could be a dance-able tune
with a consistent rhythm perhaps it does not need words
maybe it's just dance music
i don't know

the second melody which actually came first
in my mind is a basic country 4 beats to the measure
song
i somehow know this is to be quite personal
and i even would go so far as to say i have
a clear idea what i want the song to express
the actual words themselves have not become apparent to me

odd is it not to think that we live with songs and melodies
in the mind
and that seemingly out of nowhere
a form takes place and is articulated

i have sung each melody without words
and i know each melody as if i had
memorized it

i'm wondering if i might not need to work with a poet
or a lyricist who can push me to the words i need

strange to think that intuitions of incompleteness
may actually be accompanied by musical sound

ah well
back to the guitar
play that new old melody one more time
maybe the words will come this time

fiesta

from the street i heard
heard a voice
a voice shouting joyfully
into the air of south denton TX
i followed the sound till i found
a gathering of folks
music i'd never heard
indigenous folks
spanish with native language
well mixed in
i stopped i looked in spoke
broken spanish broken english
to two inebriated gentlemen
i went up close to see the musicians
i looked and looked could not see them
then there they were
in full appearance
two saxes one tenor another baritone
and a trumpet
and a drummer hitting archaic wooden hide drums
and a chanter a MC yelling into the mic
as the one minute tirades into primeval jazz ensued
then died down into a sonic chatter of broken dying sound
i saw the orange toss the humorous innocuous innocent
tossing of oranges back and forth and people rushing around getting the oranges
after the tossing
i have no idea
and then as i watched the beginning of the dance of
the bulls i was pushed into the center
and as the music started i was taught the moves
the one fingered horns
the slooping around and steering for the capes
held by beautiful women
i heard the caller sing out
el americano el americano
the sax players winding about in intense 16th note
parallel voicings parallel but distinct
and the trumpet
playing some sort of indiscernible
rampage of sonic mayhem into the air
as careless as a bird singing
the drummer looked to me to be someone
who had transcended the normal trappings
of human expectation
he was someone else to contend with
and a whole different set of values
the caller MC looked like a priest
and there i was in the center everyone clapping at me
smiling like i'd just arrived somewhere
very important
in the dancing i had become their friend
but i had to go
as i left i had the very disctinct sensation
that i had just spent a good deal of life
with a very strange people
20 minuttes seemed then like
20 yrs
life will never be the same again

i inquired into the name of the music
no one could tell me
they looked with indignity and
befuddlement
there is no name one person said
another said
la viento

when i think of life getting back to normal
i am covered in sadness

this headline just in:

st. (that is saint) marianne moore
intercedes for minnesota twins

in a rather startling well nearly miraculous
turn of events the minnesota twins have
captured the AL Central
the words on everyones' lips whether spoken or not
after the game on 10/6 was
"unbelievable" until the rallying record of
the monkees surged into the dome and
everyone sang
"i'm a believer"

i've been struggling with notions
of mystical intercessions ever since
could it be?

i half heartedly requested in a jest really
over on kirby's blog that because of her
deep convictions that appear to be more catholic than
anything else
(although i am starting to wonder if her
concept of liberty was perhaps too protestant...
too lockean
i mean c'mon marianne -
liberty for what??)
i apologize for the digression
i requested that we at least think
of marianne more in terms of
saintliness in strong catholic terms..
and yes
at that very time
i made prayerful petition
to her knowing that
the saints hear about everything
either directly or indirectly
i mean the gossip line up there
is ridiculous

on one hand the almost incredible
march of the twins was something of a phenomenon
that carried with it some startling
energy some truly inspiring
momentum
in the 21 games leading up to last nights
title game
the previous lackluster twins went 17-4
think of that 17-4
to finish off september
so maybe it was more a factor
of basic physics than heavenly intervention
on the part of a pretty good poetess
who so happened to like the sport
of baseball
she saw the poetry in it i guess
an odd thing when you think about it
i mean it is a male game through and through
i am always surprised when i meet women
who understand the game
usually i'm not so sure they aren't conniving
somehow to be in control of men
in the domain of men par excellence
but then last night i was sitting next to two
women whom i took to be spinsters
who were actually keeping boxscores
as the game progressed
maybe marianne moore her spirit
that is
came to a subtle
reincarnation in the two women
sitting next to me

at any rate i am busy writing up the forms
for the vatican office which oversees
these matters and am inquiring with
some of my favorite bolandists
to see if any sort of precendent exists

the miracle at hand is no slight matter
and whether rome chooses to
actually canonize marianne moore
or not
i have begun the procedure which will bring her into
the consciousness of roman saintmakers

cassilla smacks a base hit down the
first baseline and gomez scores
from second to end the game
in the 12th 6-5
after a three inning
standoff tie
and all this as detroit
and minnesota
tied at the very end of the regular season
forced a play-off game
to clinch the division title
then about 15 minutes of complete
dome mayhem and delirium

i will confess that for a good
5 minutes my demeanor was
to be compared to that of a
ridiculously overjoyed 12 yr old
i was beside myself with happiness
along with 54,088 other mortals

i sat with an old college friend
who is a baseball scholar
and he carried on
at least six conversations
with people around us
for the whole game
we actually hugged and danced in the end
we had seats 10 rows up
on the lower level just off
the plate umps' right shoulder
we purchased two tickets
from scalpers
that could be the topic
of another post

the more i think of it
the more it must be true

i don't know if st marianne has the stuff
to help the twins ruffle up the yankees
(this whole thing is taxing my ardent hold
on the faith of my youth...omg a crisis of faith again..
shit this can't be happening)
jeter and rodriquez beat up on minnesota pretty good tonite
the pitching staffs are visibly imbalanced
one mediocre the other
prednear impossible to beat
poetry is tragic when it is best

i know i have a renewed faith in something
perhaps it is 20th century mainline
presbyterianism
i'm not sure i know what that is
but
with a little more help
i may be able to believe

as for surreal
there's nothing i know of
like standing outside the
"hump" dome in
dwntwn mpls
listening to the whole thing
the crowd the announcer's laconic
rant the whole thing
resonating like a big drum
with a radio inside
while standing in the rain
that's how i learned
tigers scored first

still at least one more game
scheduled for the dome
on saturday i believe

i'm almost too timid
to ask
but ahem ahem
i offer up these voiced
petitions for your sweet and most divine
interlocutionary intercessions
that from some nether mist of
ordinary cloud you might
with your powers now gained
in the growing reverence we
keep for you that you might with
all diligent kindness might just this once
OK for the second time
assist us as we you know
you know what we do in our hearts
i mean now you're alive and insubstantial
so i want you to give this message to the
yankees
"you must lose to the twins"
just plant that in derek jeter''s mind
show us your power
o loving spinster saint of all of baseball
yes we will make you the patron saint
i mean the matron saint of baseball
if you could only maybe this once
help the impossible to indeed happen
one unbelievable time more
amen...oh and marianne
thanks

harvest knowledge

amen
so the harvest is all but finished
i was on pause there for awhile wondering
if it would turn cool
and alas the weather did not turn cool
but i had enough red showing in the tress
to move me to begin my harvest
and 'twas a good thing i did
for the day after the bulk of the apples
were boxed and in the cellar
a huge wind storm came up
trees around here were uprooted
branches down everywhere
i'm sure i would have lost quite a few apples
had i not been moved to pick

what am i to make of my ongoing experiment
with non-toxic low-impact pest control

my sense is that it works and it works fine
i estimate at this point that i have 60 bushels
there are still a number of smaller trees
the ones somebody has called connell reds
which i am holding out for a few more weeks
there's another good 4 or 5 bushels there

my simple separation is fourfold
primo = the red beautiful apples one might like to see
on the table and grab for a crisp sweet tart snack
average = are the apples not so handsome
but they make good pies and apple crisp
cider = those apples already on the ground
or at least half the apple would be good cut up and thrown
into the cider press
deer or earth = the remains

so far we've pressed about 8 gallons of cider
two young families joined me last saturday
and the kids did a great job climbing the trees
for an hour
then we shifted gears and pressed some of the apples
into cider
this was a very joyous high energy afternoon

thus i got to thinking
an orchard should not be a place limited
to work and profit
there was boisterous regaling and glee
mmmnhs and aahhhs after gulping fresh cider
work play and the parents insisted
that a healthy exertion of youthful energy
is a very good thing
good humour amongst the adults
some poetry
some other folks stopped by and tasted the cider
and they were not a little overjoyed with it all

i've still a little bit of sorting to do
and i plan to do some peddling
at an upcoming football game

from those folks to whom i've granted
free access for picking i've heard nothing
but amazement at the size (quite few softball sized and bigger)
and flavour of the apples

my measure of success must be calculated in terms
of aesthetics quantity
& human response and i suppose money
will have to figure in at some level

i've some work to do yet
before the orchard sleeps
some tree protection
and some pruning of dead limbs

while i had some workdays in the sun
i am left with the profound realization
that i participated in an act of creation
and it was not I who brought about the yield
not I at all
save for the sweat and laughter

i'm thinking of a name

HOWDJYALYKESDEM
apples

yoga knowledge

i've turned to yoga
for some relief from
persistant ache and pain

a simple form introduced to me
by a friend a rancher in montana
the
sun salutations
a cycle of stretches and breathing

since beginning this i have experienced
considerable relief in my lower back
and i know this
it is immediate knowledge

also my general posture seems to have improved

the other day i went through the cycle twice
and it was a strange stimulant
i was very awake that night
could not sleep
had energy reserves
what was it
it was the stretching
and i know this

i heard parts of my body release tension
i felt ligaments and muscles stretch
and the overall physical sense of fairly well being
returned to me and my mind
and i am not a little amazed

for right now i do not wish to
advance any further in yoga
i am content to do the sun salutations
even on cloudy days like today

next week however i am slated to attend a class
and practice with a yoga instructor
which may be a good thing
for my growing understanding

i could read books
and i probably will
and then i will know more

what i realise from an empistemological point of view
is that i existed in my mind within a box of suspicion
and this is largely because of a book i read years ago
"THE LOTUS AND THE ROBOT"
(and i think i should reread it)
wherein arthur koestler
weighs in rather negatively about the
possibility of yoga being of some beneficial
value in western culture

his thesis includes the observation that
the real practices of yoga have little to do with
feeling better about oneself in the world
originally the postures and exercises were
pointed toward something completely different

that the practice involves some rather immediate
and discernible health benefits
is attested by the hundreds of thousands of people
in USA who practice yoga for its therapeutic value

i'm content to know something
about the therapeutic value

as they say these days

it works for me

namastaeh

road redux

i knew o i knew many things as i drove
i knew the landscape once again i knew the thoughts
of my mind i knew and continue to know
my fascination with our shared life
i met new people and i laughed and cried a bit
with old friends

but now i must go play my guitar at the local farmer's market
and there i will know the continuing journey
the stumbling pilgrimage
of desire

epistemology of the road

what do i know on the road
what do i know about where i am to go

as i sit to type i am already moving
already aimed at the road
already negotiating in my mind
what the road will hold for me
already eager to be companion to the sun to the wind to the road

heading west
heading to the high country
to the big sky

i know thoughts about the reality of the
wounds in my family i know
the anticipation of the warm smiles of people

i know the anxiety of knowing

i know i have some work to do
i know i have some miles to travel
i know i have some good recorded music
for the road
i know i will be comfortable
i will have a good car
i will have security
i will be blessed
i know i will be alone
yet i also know i will have the prayers
of some

i know i will see the world again
and step into the river
i know i will sleep outside under the stars
i know i will enjoy the season

i know i am excited to travel
excited for the adventure

i know i leave behind me
some of the weight of my life

i know i will bring my guitar
and i will sing

journeys are good
because they take you out of
the place of sedentery thoughts
and thinking becomes determined by what is next
on down the road

i will sing another road song

i know now i must go
i must begin the arrangement
of necessities
and the arangements of time
which will have me on the road
in about 2 hours

sally
when you read this know
i will be thinking of you on the road
i'll think of kirby and ron silliman
i'll think of neil young
i'll think of pope benedict
i'll think of stu
and curtis

but i'll be away from the blog world
blogoslaw
so i know i won't be thinking about
what i'm going to type for a few weeks

perhaps perhaps perhaps perhaps perhaps
i will speak of my adventure
when i return

but now i must depart
now the song of the road is just too rich and deep
now i must depart
for to travel and sing
for i know that deep in my heart
i am a ramblin man

sing with me the song of the pilgrim road

yiddish brilliance

With Broken Wings

How have I written my poems?
How have I imagined my poems?
They say: The Shekhinah has descended on me,
And suddenly it seems that someone
is standing over me
With broken wings, in the dark.

-celia dropkin

trans. Kathryn Hellerstein

poem

rain started late in the night
drumming soft
it was comforting and
not a concern
we had a new tent and
its taut nylon held well
but the wind came up
hard and vicious
and with it, hail
it beat with fury
lightening, white flashes illuminating our little fortress
showing every detail of our bodies
snug in sleeping bags
trees bent and singing from their branches
limbs falling near
the hard drum of white pellets
growing with each gust
shaking our little tent
shaking our confidence
we did not speak
but my wife's hand moved over to mine
holding it tight
tight, to ward off the fear
fear from the increasing storm
with huge gusts of wind and hail
now, not a drum, but
a crashing symphonic chaos of nature
powerful and intense, knowing we were not in control
we were spectators, prone and at its whim
its fury increased our thoughts fused with eternity
the river rising with run-off
not far from our shelter
I did not speak, nor did she
we just waited
waited for the storm
waited for the storm

jack kaiser

epistemological doldrums

i was reading in jack kerouac's desolation angels
reading of jack's vivid account of becoming disgusted with himself with the world with everything
it's the last section of the book where he contrasts the simple love and goodness of his mother and the spirit of home she conveys against the rude wrestling for daily position in the world's market place that everyone else seems to be clasping
nothing made sense not the freedom not the drugs not the whores not the road trips not the parties it all became disgusting revolting
as did his perception of all of wretched human history
an existential and spiritual deadend as it were
and he acknowledges rather glaringly that he is destined he wants to find home he wants to find comfort from the storm and uncertainty of the world the drag into decadence the dance into constant deception

perhaps it is the time of year
perhaps the actual mood of things
perhaps there is this radical necessity of having to acknowledge that in fact nothing is going on
nobody is writing about anything important
no statements are being made
the world is in a ship lolling about with no means of
transport no engine no wind in the sails

why this ennui
why these massive gravitational pulls into
the black holes of cognition

kirby's writing about lady bugs
(and presumably about marianne moore)
sally's in the trenches
silliman is gagging about in a political dither
curtiss faville is waxing eloquent about cocktails
borneman is posting pictures of plastic
stuck to barbwire fences in north dakota
singing plastic singing in the wind
or perhaps the previous post which most poignantly expresses
the mood of our reality the collective mood
a photo of a big plastic cow looking at the sunset
in none other than
north dakotah
singing fences singing with plastic in the wind
stu is cultivating a spirit of unity and mathematical probablity
but nobody's talkin
and what the fig am i doing
almost nothing admittedly
nothing of note
a few halfassed efforts at odd poetic styles
and a dedication to describing the doldrums in vivid detail
what else
i visited a few other blogs
liccione is stuck on catholic appearances in the poitical scene
morality and health care
nobody's talkin

my sense is that there's just too much going on for there to be anything really interesting going on

summer seems to be winding down
although i must say i am into summer still
i am into the quiet doing almost nothing spirit
the leisure the books the music the friends
the outings the little goings on around my house

in a world where nothing really happens and everything seems to be happening at once at least somewhere on the planet

after epistemological saturation
what next

maybe the most important work is trench work
digging in the earth
and reading the lines and the cracks and the colors in the dirt
maybe that's where something quite interesting is happening
tielhard de chardin sj
mucking about in gobi desert loess and calling it consolation

let me speak of the meaning profound in the shovel and pick-ax
scrapers and hoes and rakes...

now perhaps we're onto something...

THIS MORNING
I am shaving.
And the sallow-faced man next door is shaving.
And the man whose life will be changed when a girl talks
to him in the subway, and the president of Revco Steel—they are shaving.
And the man who will capsize in a boat today and breathe in the pure water
of the lake and gaze sightless up at the shimmering sun— he is shaving.
And the man who will commit murder today destroying the only love
he has ever known, though as yet his anger is still asleep,
and the man who will return from a day
hunched at his desk,
his hair falling over his ledgers,
and the man who before sunset will slice his wrists over the sink—they are all shaving
—over the upper lip,
under the sloping jaw,
lathered face and razor in the mirror
but no revelations there...no hint today.
We will walk out to the cool morning
where newspapers whirl in the wind,
out to the street that holds the buildings together.
But the premonitions are not quite strong enough—
they rise to the pure darkness of space
or lie beneath the slow wheels of a train.
Dark fears are still asleep in the blood as we walk our ways
and there is no unusual animal behavior
to warn of the earthquakes to come.


-----john dickson +august 1 2009

in order to copy and paste this poem
i was forced to take it out of prose poem copy as it came to my blogspace
and rework the structure in something
of a poetic flow although quite probably not the one determined by the poet in the composition of this poem therefor it could be said i have appropriated this poem perhaps misappropriated this pome
i place it here as a way of honoring
a man who wrote poems lived worked and died
in spite of the linebreak editing enforced by the medium in which i now write i think the pome reads as a good one
and should be read
out loud

near violence

what did i know in the midst of a conflict that occurred yesterday in the hospital where i took a fellow monk in for some emergency care he by the way is OK but the whole affair lasted a long time the wait until he finally was seen by a doctor was 45 minutes the evaluation took an hour and then the wait for the paper work and the lab reports all took another hour and 1/2

i went for walks sat by the river and watched the light and the clouds and the waves wash the wind with whispers of summer nearly gone
i sat outside on a hard bench at one point i walked around to see what was going on i visited the doctors nurses station there was a lot going on there some idle chatter some intense computer works some dfiling of paper some swishing around some overt acts of kindness some ballet with the emergency people i was staying out of the way of everyone
however
at one point a guy who must get paid for intimidating people out of the hall ways and keeping the path safe for bedzonweels came to me and yelled at me that i must get out of the hallway i must either be in the room or in the waiting area there's a security issue he yelled you could be listening in people's rooms
i noticed that the halls were crammed with machines and receptacles and chairs and all sorts of hospital things
i simply need to walk i said very calmly and i will walk right here and i will not be listening in any rooms i replied and with that he backed off but went to the nurse station and fumed outloud with some other paraprofessional healthworkers who saw that if things went any further life could get violent so they just let it all go and i was allowed to walk where i was and wait for the doctor who finally came through with paperwork and the prescriptions

as this whole scenario unfolded i became aware of the thought in my mind that there was some racial profiling going on while i was there
my brother happens to be black he is from haiti i found myself imagining that the doctor and nurse were stalling on (they were both male) the paper work or maybe doing an AIDS search
in a sense fully palpable it appeared to me to be outright negligence deliberate negligence

this was nothing i could actually touch but the sense carried with it a palpable level of contained disgust on the part of the medical people and i then understood for awhile that my guilt by association with this man my brother was a reality for them

as we departed i became aware of smugness it was contained in a false presentation of busyness
i was rather amazed looking on the faces of these people now perhaps some of it is just the stress of the job...we were just two more emergencies in an emergency room one actual the other potential

i was also very aware of the personalities in the room all being their own personality
some people are incurable pricks or inconsolable bitches
i find this to be true
and that these very crass negative human expressions can be tempered in the social sphere but are always somehow there to see and perhaps most clearly in a situation where there is natural stress and tension

my friend was completely unaware of the social surroundings he was in too much pain and misery

as we left as i was saying i found myself moving naturally to the point of forgiveness and realizing that to go there is to take the high ground for i do indeed pour glowing coals on their heads

if indeed the doctor was being a illtempered assfor hole
and the nurse was being employed as a sleezy thug
and the hall monitor was being paid to be a intemperate weazel
then it behooves me to simply forgive them and in the complete
disregard for their joined intimidations i force them perhaps if they have the capacity for reflective intelligence which now as i write these words i wonder if this is a flaw of ignorance but i force them to regard themsleves in the light of their actions and attitudes
for i will be moving to the higher ground with a smile
i'll know that whatever chthonic forces mill about in the wretched souls of men and women
are there to be forgiven and by way of them perhaps enlightened to face inherent human violence

as i walked out the door i was able to breathe deeply and just put all the commotion of hospital psychomadness behind me make the gentle ride home through the countryside and return to continual flowing stream of my community enter back into the stream and float along like a happy duck on the river

yet even as i write i am aware of the gut level feeling of horror and a renewed distaste for human foulness even while knowing that in some ways i recognize my sinful self in the ignorance and sinfullness of others

lord have mercy

j

newpost

past font choices styles and degrees
of boldness indentation page layout
possibilities for images and videos
spellcheck
a blank "page" onto which
electrically generated letters
appear on the screen
post options below labels show all
shortcuts press control eight
italics save draft
draft autosaved 8:51
help
the dashboard is sobbing
i should hope not on my acccount
i would do well to sign out
done publish post or save now
check out my privacy report who knows what i'm not doing
double click to change security settings
a little icon of a magnifying glass
just hit 125% and things are bigger
i can see without squinting
bottom line
start
7 dots a small e with a gold ring
clock icon for word
type winds explorer command
size 75 bytes that's a lot of bytes
ouch
date modified 12/19/2007
12:17 PM now that's something they can be that historically precise
an indication of my blog account
a bewilderin... then a long blue ribbon space
then 7 more dots arranged vertically
4 and then 3 right next to the 4 arranged
to be in the place between the previous 4
you get what i mean
actually if one looks real close one sees the dots
have been highlighted with a little halfring of light
a little microphone image
a question mark indeed and a place to restore
one can reveal hidden icons
citrix program neighborhood agent
altiris client services
can't find requested string...
what the hell is this really all about
finally the current time
9:01 click on that and you have the date as well
now i read off the screen onto the plastic edge of the monitor
TCO'03 displays
5 buttons
AUTO
indiscernible icon
-
1 * 2
+
then a little icon that looks like a bowl
with a pistel in it the green light which says the monitor is on then at the far right lower
corner
HP L1940T

i'm hesitant to read onto the hardrive console
i guess the only really important thing is to know
that
intel inside
means the machine is actually thinking

publish post
read move on

j

quick poem

i limit myself to 3 minutes
this poem
what will come of it
i don't know who cares
soon the monk
will......be/////
walkin down the cloister walk
pilgrim pilgrim pilgrim after pilgrim
}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}
graphic design
2 minutes left
nothing said yet
coffee here bitter by my side
i am an addict
i loves my coffee
cool sunday morning with coffee and quiet
1 minute
i will have said nothing once again
once again the effort might have been curtailed
in the beginning
there's the bell for
a quarter after
done
no more
p o e t r y **time**

the songs of dave cofell

i am not one to write critical prose
directed at the elucidation of art

despite this fact i am thus compelled this morning
to pay some attention to a CD
that came into my hands recently
entitled
THE ROAD AHEAD

my take upon listening to this CD in a car
while traveling on the north shore of Lake Superior
with friends must be understood as being
mostly subjective
for i have played music with the composer
and have an intimate knowledge of the
songs and their content as well as their
presentation here

that being said i think it safe to say
that nothing great has been accomplished
by the production of this CD
it is a self produced effort
with minimal technology
processed through one of the programs available
on computers for recording
and this appears to be obvious
the photos attending the intent for
whatever commercial value this event may proclaim
are the work of the artist himself
depicting the back of a man with a guitar
supposedly the artist himself
walking by a portable advertisement
for a performance in a local
St. Joseph MN coffee house
at night
the photo on the back represents the walk bridge
over I-94 between the place where the artist grew up
and the place known as St. John's

the 14 songs presented in this recording
represent the best of the personal compositions
Dave Cofell has penned out and performed in recent years
recent being the last 30 years
for the most part the content of the lyrics are personal
deriving from the experience of a family man
and an artist
there are memories of friends of broken relationships
of joys and disappointments in life in family
there are also a few songs
e.g. TIC and LONGLINE
which represent to the listener
a philosophical bent in the composer

the simplicity of effects on the recording
is perhaps the greatest technical virtue of the work
in question
guitar voice and occasional harmonica
make up the sonic weave
so in this regard a certain admiration might ensue
recognizing the willingness of an artist
to work within natural constraints and not be
tempted to embellish the songs with
extraneous sounds

and most of the songs represent the serious side
of dave cofell
which is a shame for he has written numerous humorous
songs
and the tedium and rather narrow scope
from song to song might have been given more
interesting breadth had he chosen to record some of the instrumental
works for which he is known

be that as it may
THE ROAD AHEAD is a moment in time
and a very definite place
dave cofell writes songs about what he knows
and to this effect it may be said
that he presents himself and his experiences
rather confidently in this somewhat impressive collection of tunes

upon listening to the songs in sequence i became aware of
a looseness and an unrefined quality
that is perhaps distorted in the attempt to record
the balance between voice and guitar seemed to me
to be something that may have benefitted from a little more attention
but then point in fact that is a difficult balance to make
perhaps the presence of a very critical set of ears
might have helped the overall production
but that is a point best understood as moot
pointing to perhaps a different angle on another recording

i was also aware of a self consciousness in the recording
that i have not experienced in playing live with this artist
an attempt to give some sort of added artistic quality
seems to have militated against the no nonsense naturalness
for which he is locally famous
vocal affects and an attempt to refine the voicings of the guitar
in particular struck me as just that "affected"

has anything of importance been accomplished?
is this an important musical moment?
is recording necessary?
one begins to wonder
what is the point?
in a musical climate that can only be understood
as a sea of electronically induced saturation
who will be able to hear dave cofell on this CD?

the work may be admired for its deliberate simplicity
of presentation and the honest expression worked out
in lyrical and sung forms
but the force of the music is lost in the recording
for dave cofell is to be heard live and unplugged
his is a voice and a style that militates against
wanton commercialism

that he chooses to pursue this path could be called interesting
but this critic (and the only one who would ever bother to put out the effort)
sees and hears the whole affair as somewhat superfluous to
the the natural efforts of the artist

pushing the music of intimate personal expression
beyond the parameters of the actual nature of his
informal personal style detracts rather than adds
to the understanding of his art

people who know dave cofell may own the CD
and listen to it once or twice with interest
and friendly affection
but that is as far as it goes

my copy remains unopened
the cellophane still tidily containing
the plastic...the frozen art within
perhaps i will open the thing
at some later time
when i wish to recall what he thought he was doing
and maybe therein i will discern by way of abstract artifice
the intentions
indeed the reductions that came about
in order to make this artistic musical statement

until then i will always prefer to be present
to the live voice and playing of dave cofell
for i contend
it is only there that the quality and ability
of this homespun troubadour is to be discerned

fractorable

log night sounds....(this)
could be
something quite
quite different (sounded in french accent)
nothing like
water
sodden air in a midwest
(;;;behest be...hest)
disjunc --t

clawing into the mind
to find find
questions
questions???
yes
as in what[?] or why{?} or whynot(?)
afterall
it's a freeforall after
all

then give more
or take for that matter
matter like a dirtball
or a derelict
or the same damn thing day after day

yeah it is bad
the red face tells all
tells....more than need be said

contrarian trouble
just trying to make sense
of
the
ar-gu-
ment
(())

playing with shapes
avoiding
pro fund it E
night air hisses and whispers with
sprinklers hissing and sprinkling
like amplified pissing

last light eyelid of the night warbler
poised heart faster than can be imagined
sleeping
sleeping

this is no poem
i merely set out to sort through
the adversities of night
the trials of a slowing
mind

i go "(go)"
to where the hard riders go
i make my way it looks real slow
but i speed
like the heart of the night warbler
humming in a bird dream

an(on)

709

Publication --is the Auction
Of the Mind of Man --
Poverty---be justifying
For so foul a thing

Possibly--but We--would rather
From Our Garret go
White--Unto the White Creator--
Than invest--Our Snow--

Thought belong to Him who gave it--
Then--to Him Who bear
It's Corporeal illustration--Sell
The Royal Air--

In the Parcel--Be the Merchant
Of the Heanvenly Grace--
But reduce no Human Spirit
To Disgrace of Price

c. 1863

Emily Dickinson

it would seem that one or two readings of these lines would indicate
no other interpretation than a literal one
miss dickinson
while regarding her work with importance
sees the whole idea of publicaton as a rather crass activity
the power of all art is essentially immediate
to the extent that it is shared
and admired (or not) it is already
being mediated

she must've recognized however the value of books

this is something to consider in our day
of exaggerated worth
on all fronts of artistic endeavor
to presume to profit
or even to aim at a readership
in literature (and i would suggest - any art)
is to have misplaced
the objective

funereal epiphany

what is known during a funeral?
in this community we begin the process of
acknowledging the life of a monk who has died
immediately it becomes first order business
within a few days after that a date is set
and the vigil begins the night before the actual funeral
the corpse is laid in state in the abbey church
and we chant the psalms of hope and trust

i was thinking today as we celebrated the mass of christian burial for our fr. james
that there is only one day in the whole life of a monk
wherein he is the focus of complete attention in the monastery
that day actually happens a few days after the monk has died
every other day in the life of a monk is one of humble recognition of
general insignificance and expendibility
however to counter that there can be significant recognition
of every person in the monastery to some extent
and the fact that we simply show up for prayer
is a note taken at the depths of the shared vocation that is known as christian monasticism

of fr. james i know that he was a great grand nephew
of one of the most famous abbots of st johns
i know that he was headmaster of the prepschool
when my brother was a juvenile delinquent in formation
there
i know that he always had this tendency to wax eloquent about his
experiences and his role in bringing about the right thinking
about any particular project
i know he could be laconic
i know he preferred hands on manual labor
to anything else he did
and he did a lot
he was a good priest he was a good teacher
he was a good administrator he was a good community organizer
he was a good project supervisor
he was a pretty good singer
he was gentle with the most difficult people

as the casket was lowered and we chanted the
ULTIMA ( a prayer chanted to mary the mother of god)
i recognized the likelihood of my own end
that i could one day be remembered as such
that my life may very well pan out in such a way
that i will take my final earthly place
where my gravestone marks the square hole
of final rest

i looked at all the people there were only a few eyes crying everyone else was rather stoic it appeared
and that's the way it goes
a rather intense convening around the gravesite
a reading a prayer a song the lowering
worked out by a mechanism which unravels some straps
to lower the casket to the vault below
the final act is the splashing of some water or
the tossing of a handful of soil onto the coffin

a final act of knowing one day
others will hear the muffled sound of dirt
quietly thudding on the wooden casket top
and i will not
or
at least not in the same way

the funeral is for the living for those who remember
for those who shared in the life of someone
a funeral is for knowing that honor awaits us
even in the event of death

j

what's goin' on?

this morning i mused upon the notion
that has me connected to the blogcosmos
what do i know in the blosgosphere
what is to be known there
here is a summary:
my first introduction to the blog world was over at SILLIMAN"S BLOG
and then the PHILOSopHICAL INVestigator and then i started my own blog
BELWILDERING SEARCH nad then i went on over to visit the
LUTHERAN SURREALIST he is hep and cool even if a bit
lutheran he can't help it and he humors
SILLIMAN is good for the newest and the hottest poets
and good overeviews of the beats and black mountain boys
and what not as well good poetix over there
the PHILOSOPHICAL INVESTIGATOR mostly takes
photos and posts them
his are some very fine photos indeed signifying
everything
for religious content and a god based focus
of intellectual activity i visit
the wondering earthling at
AN EARTHLING WONDERS
she has colored the blogosphere with
insight and geology and music notes and
prayerful insights and wanderings and poems
i don't know why more people aren't over there
and
SACRAMENTUM VITAE
is a place i often go for updates in the
solid conservative philosophically based entrenched catholicism of our day
recently there has been some branching
he's always good for some extended dialectic
i visit and comment over on
EIRENE a peaceful lutheran
not incendiary like kirby olson
no
kirby hurls stink bombs into the blogosphere
and calls it public service
which of course it is
but still
and The Pinnochio Theory is a place where
high quality thinking and writing happen

curtis faville writes some brilliant pieces
on books on architecture on drinks on photographs
on places and people on food
at A COMPASS ROSE
comments there are often spicey but always
curious and thought provoking

i know of some other blogs
a woman i only know as SOPHIA
has grabbed my attention
and some military minded patriots in utah
show up
there's a poet in ARIZONA
named william sigler
his blog POET TREE

has a new poem called
THE GLOBE ROAD

there are 100's of thousands of blogs
no need to know all of them
but i enjoy the minds i visit
on this blog world
it's enough bloggin for me
yet i know
there are other blog routes

of all the blog listings i include
i know only two of the blog owners personally
that is something i know
the epistemological focus of this blog
remains in tact

i have had conversation with people i may never meet

blog sog rog vog quag

blog world days

j

breaking the dobro barrier

i would suspect that there are churches catholic churches in eastern kentucky or in southern missouri or in west texas where the dobro is occasionally heard
but in the church wherein i worship the immense concrete tent
of marcel breuers' imagination today i introduced a sound no one had ever heard there before
of this i am very sure
at one point i looked over at the abbot and the look on his face was utter amazement
he'd never imagined that sound in this church never heard it
but there i was with my dobro twangin away
i accompanied myself and the people gathered on the response psalm
then i played a sort of abstract tone poem during the preparation of the gifts
during communion i played a basic gospel hymn structure over and over
for some reason the sound of live steel strings in that space
is very powerful live plucked steel strings

i was conscious of myself as presenting something completely new
most people there probably didn't even know the name for the
particular resonator guitar known as the dobro

there is definitely something earthy and primitive about the sound of the dobro
the phenomenon of bending the notes is readily apparent on the instrument in question

if you happen to be someone who is hearing about this instrument for the first time
i would highly suggest listening to the music of alison krause and union station
jerry douglas is a powerful study in understanding the instrument

it was a coup d'liturgie
sometimes i get excited like a kid knowing that
i'm doing this in a particularly unique way
perhaps never to be heard again
or at least not for awhile

i am always exploring new sounds of the guitar
that can be used tastefully within catholic liturgy
it is a serious study in stylistic aesthetics
i tell you what

you betcha

knowledge and music

what did i know last night while playing
dobro at a CD release party in a coffeehouse
in st joe here's what i knew then
here's what i am thinking after now
looking back to last night

the place was loud people were talking one had the sense
that somewhere in the room there was music and with a little more effort it was possible
to discern that an actual person was playing guitar and singing
and people somehow were appreciating him being there
but it was loud

so what was he doing there
casting out his songs to a loud room
talking and singing into the mic as if
people were actually paying attention

i did notice that when the songs finished
people clapped so some form of listening
was happening
we knew the man was in the room

i sat with a couple listening
and we ended up talking
about music and how it gets heard or ignored

i am conscious of the fact that for 4 or 5 songs i tried to accompany the performer
i playing a dobro and
i trying to make a momentary sense of
what the hell we were doing
it seemed like playing into the mayhem
of human mental disturbance
it seemed like a storm of deafness
was 10 ft away

when all was said and done i don't know what happened
it was a performance
people stood around and talked loud
music happened in an all but negligible fashion
i guess that's a good thing

i don't know though
what is music how should it be heard
how should it be experienced

to me it seemed like the raucous
gathering of locals was simply a
way of being with the musician
the music was secondary
it was enough for the folks gathered
to be in the presence of the musician playing
even if they were not fully conscious of
what he was doing

what does it mean to try to play and hear
music in the midst of a noisy crowd

the dobro had such a piercing effect
in the sound system the feedback started
and could not be contained it just kept humming
so i played with feedback as part of my sound

from time to time i am given to comment on musical performance
with the idea in mind that somehow our understanding of ourselves is
tied up with our understanding of music
so then
music as an avenue to epistemological insight
is legitimized

we've yet to fully explore the possibilities of
playing music only against a backdrop
of complete quiet
in a quiet place with merely a few listeners

i must now to the role of cantor
attend

O HOLY GHOST

i became acquainted with this poem
rather haphazzardly
i was reading in a book
"creative intuition in art and poetry"
by
jacques maritain
and this piece of paper slid out
from between two pages
handwritten there was this poem
acknowledging the author as
John Donne
the script indeed the piece of paper itself
were very old
fading to tan around the edges
in fact i could not read some of the words
and i tried off and on to see
if simply living with the poem
and glaring into the illegible scribble
would elucidate the whole poem for me

i will never know who copied the poem
but i am grateful

in a little moment of frustration and clarity
i googled the first line of the poem
and voila!
right there before me was the full text
in clear legible digital print
and i learned then that in fact
the copiest actually misspelled a few words

so the connection between John Donnes' pen
the publication of this poem
the copying of the poem by
someone who read the same book as i
and finally the retrieval of the full text
via google
has resulted in a cosmic transference
of exquisite art
so now i offer the poetic text

it perhaps stands in comparison to
my immediate previous entry as
an aesthetic distinction
between great poetry
and mediocre poetry

O Holy Ghost, whose temple I
Am, but of mudde walls, and condensed dust,
And being sacrilegiously
Halfe wasted with youth's fires of pride and lust,
Must with new stormes be weather-beat,
Double in my heart Thy flame,
Which let devout sad teares intend, and let -
Though this glasse lanthorne, flesh, do suffer maime -
Fire, sacrifice, priest, altar be the same.

i learned that a lanthorn is on old english word for lantern
the "horn" part being that ox horns filled with wax
were used as lanterns in those days

Different Places To Pray

Everywhere, everywhere she wrote:

something is falling -
a ring of keys slips out of her pocket

into the ravine below,

nickels and dimes and to do lists;

duck feathers from a gold pillow.
Everywhere someone is losing

a favorite sock or a clock stops

circling the day; everywhere she goes

she follows the ghost of her heart;
jettisons everything but the shepherd moon,

the hopeless cause.

This is the way life unfolds:

decoding messages from profiteroles,
the weight of mature plums in late autumn.

She'd prefer a compass

rose, a star chart, text support messages

delivered from the net,
even the local pet shop - as long as some god

rolls away the gloss

and grime of our gutted days,

our global positioning crimes.
Tell me, where do you go to pray -

a river valley, a party tray?


a poem by SUSAN RICH



i know nothing of this poet
this poem was sent to me
by a gentleman with whom i
shared a bottle of wine
and some conversation
a month ago or so
one saturday afternoon
i don't know what to think
of this poem
it hangs together nicely
and the internal rhymes are attractive
and it at least alludes to
something interesting by way
of spiritual struggle
in a world unstable
like the one we all know
so
thank you
SUSAN RICH
for this little poem

because of the line break restraints

on this blog template

i am forced to turn a series of couplets

into a series of quatrains

i should hope the poet will not be

too awfully offended

subjective epistemological follow-up

thinking more about friendship

an elucidation here might be of some value
how have i personally experienced friendship?

thus i will articulate in the comments that follow here
some of the characteristics of friendship
in my history of living in the world

my earliest awareness of friendship
was determined within my family
my older brother Dan and i were
virtually inseparable on the social front
until he went off to prepschool at the age
of 13
i was 12
we remained friends but his life verged off and away
and the relationship was marked by only
some subsequent efforts at my trying to
know and understand him again as my friend and brother
in my early days in the monastery
we had a habit that seemed to happen
twice or 3 times a year
of talking on the phone for 1 or 2 hours
and my recollection of that is:
these conversations were consoling
and the intensity of care seemed to carry me for days
he died in 2002

the friends from childhood
i still remember the names of friends
i had in bismarck north dakotah
my family lived there until i was 7
for five years
the names have remained
but the persons have faded in the distance
of time
when i was a freshman in college i was stopped
by a fellow student who asked me
if i had lived in bismarck
it turned out that we had been
in kindergarden and 1st and 2nd grade together
and he remembered me
he only went to college here for one year
that experience at least tends to make me think
the individual character of people is discernible
through time
we know persons even despite growth and physical change

when i turned 50 my family threw a little party for me
in montana and a woman appeared
whom i met in 5th grade
she stood out as the friend i've known for the
longest time
we were 10 or so when we were lumped together
in a catholic school in helena MT
on one occasion when i was passing through
bozeman some 20 yrs ago i stopped to see her
and since then our friendship has grown
and it seems i cannot go back to montana
without stopping to see her and speak and smile
and share meals with her and her husband and son

5 friends from the gang i hung out with
in junior high school arrived
and they all remain friends in an interesting way
what i enjoy about being with these guys
is the immediacy of recognition and acceptance
despite time and distance when we are together
there are no hurdles of reacquaintance
and our conversations do allow
for some rather deep explorations
into the mysteries and trials of life
we have shared our joys and tragedies

in 9th grade i became friends with 2 guys
who remain near and dear to my heart
they both live in seattle
we don't talk all that much any more
but when we do it is obvious that
whatever was forged in friendship in those
years of formation in the ranks of adolescent trials
it proves to be something rather durable

let me focus on women
the girlfriend phenomenon is interesting to me
it seems that the women with whom
i experienced the experiments of intimacy
while in adolescence and into the years of young adulthood
have fallen away from my life focus
i still think of them
in some way my heart still pines for them
i still bear in my soul the memory of joy
and sadness that only these attempts at love
can bring about
however the nature of the involvement seems to
militate against the possibility of continued friendship
for to know someone intimately
to have kissed and felt the flesh of another
is in effect to have entered into that place
that allows for only the security of
marriage
or a life of superficial exchange and delusion
in a drama of sexual mayhem
i can say i loved these women
whom even as i write
emerge in my imagination and memory
the trajectory of our lives
more perhaps given to 3 dimensional articulation
thus allowing for divergence within the parameters
of the universe at large
gave way to the natural tendencies of time and space
they each of them are still
still vivid in my being
if there is sadness associated with the memory
it is the sadness of not being able somehow
to establish the trust of friendship
a trust that endures through time and circumstance

it is a distinct pleasure for me
that today i can say
i know women and the luxury of being
intimate on intellectual and spiritual levels
with a few women
it is a gift invaluable to know in my heart
that i have recourse to the smiles and thoughts
and emotions and in truth
the essential expression of life presented to me
in the friendship i have with women
thank god

some friends have fallen away
i recollect with some pain
a friendship which began in highschool
a friendship which carried with it
all the attributes of longevity
of lives shared in trial and in joy
and in the knowledge of temperament
and interests
---this friendship in question reached a point
where it became apparent that
there was no longer a basis for continuity
the thing ended with a phone conversation
after the national tragedy of 9/11
i was expressing discontent indeed some real
moral trepidation about being an american
in the atmosphere of ensuing war
it was his judgement then that i was
far too liberal in my attitudes
his last words over the phone before the
fateful CLICK:
"you're nothing but a fucking liberal coward"
this has neither changed nor bolstered my political views
it simply stands out as a sad moment
and in the wake of this event i have had to
reconsider what is meant by friendship

i have another friend who
was a significant source of consolation
while i was a sophomore in college
we have remained good friends to this day
he acknowledges that i am politically to the left
of his position in american affairs
and that even as i stand in the midst of church politics
i inhabit a place which is something to the left
of his stance
yet we can be together as friends
we can share meals and conversation
there is a spirit of mutual forgiveness
something in friendship must transcend
political and social attitudes

i will bring to a close this discourse
with mention of my father:
in recent years
mostly since his retirement from medical practice
we have become very good friends
when i visit we are given to taking long walks
although now his strength is limiting this
but we can sit and talk for a few hours
and it seems as nothing
it seems as natural as breathing the same air
and i have taken great delight in the weekly
phone conversations over the past few years
our common interests are the family
people we know in common the catholic church
his status as father in my awareness will always be there
and it is a matter of profound respect
in so far as i am not a father
i must only imagine the extraordinary mental
physical and psychological demands placed upon
a person who dares to bring 9 new human beings into the world
and
ultimately i realize
my knowledge of myself is intricately tied up
with my knowledge of this man
and it is more than simply a matter
of genetic contribution
i have glimpses now into the genuine character
of my father and it is cause for fascination
and gratitude

i wish i could say something to compare with this
about my mother
i live with the painful fact
that my mother is temperamentally incapable
of friendship
i will leave it to say that i have a similar
position of insight into her life
and it is one that is tinged with deep sadness
and marked now by a shared incapacity
to acknowledge friendship
at least with one another
c'est la vie

perhaps as i continue
this more personal exposition
of knowledge within the context
of friendship
i will state more clearly what is meant
to live in this world
and be able to say to oneself
i am blessed with friends