Friday, November 17, 2017

homage to Brian Keane (composer who did theme to Ric Burns' NYC doc)...

...and sort of by surprise, to our country.



the "sort of by surprise" part: seized as I was last night (having bumped into a YouTube recording I did some years ago) by the melody/main theme of Ric Burns' wonderful documentary on NYC - and grateful to Brian Keane, the composer who created it - I emerged from playing it here feeling like I had a clearer idea of the kind of excellence to which this country of ours has in it to bring form. This melody fuels that sense.
 
Reed says it's sort of half-Irish and half-Elgar. Which also contributes to it being American. We melt everything we got into the pot.
 
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jHZFJGUQjGk

'God' bless the America that can do this.

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Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Splintered Light


Shards of shadow on the couch – ragged blades
of dark abrade the bright – arrest: induce a sharp
distress: the thought that this November flight
of filtered yellow-silver might be the equivalent of dust

erased from somewhere – caught, dismissed, discarded –
from and to a void – a vacancy, a senseless scheme:
regarded – seen – by nobody at all: as meaningless
as reflex – empty dream: the splintered light of Fall.




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Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Internal Revenue



Make poems air their cockiest
imaginable points-of-view –
that they so scurrilously
querulously squirrel through

they can’t not rock out from
this rude insistent fro-and-to
some portion of the ecstasy
of the self-evidently true.

Stimulate your life and mind
and body similarly to construe,
and to reveal, what constitutes
the real internal revenue of you.



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Sunday, November 12, 2017

You Revise Me


Like a wise look
on a sleeping infant,
you revise me.

Old ideas forsake –
dry, brittle – break
like thin potato chips.

New opinions bloom
like patterns
in a loom.

A baby’s face –
potato chips –
a tapestry:

similes
mix
unapologetically.

Regard a few
of your bewildering
effects on me.




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Thursday, November 9, 2017

If You Can Shake It, It Will Bake It


Each day produces yet another largely prix-fixe menu
whose particulars you do not learn until you‘ve sat down
in its ever-slightly altered venue – ping the chime you find

in front of you to tintinnabulate the message that you’re
ready for the ghostly cypher of a waiter who (mostly sooner,
rarely later) will lay out the unforeseen repast. It’s unlikely

you would last if there were not an understanding here –
which is to say, a demonstrated reverence on its and your
part for the idiosyncratic and the queer: in fact, a rabid taste

for no holds barred at all. It’s surely your reaction to its
come-ons which accounts for this audacious daily culinary
psychic windfall – if you can shake it, it will bake it: the vast

amassing on the plate of broiled expectations – lightly
dusted with minced bits of love and grated hate. You like
the musk of the arrival – piquant survival – of the plaintive

sigh in broth – with its funky hint of sloth; and savor, when
it’s possible, the jalapeƱo heat of lust, blistering when
impermissible, salted with mistrust. You’ll lick a subtle smile,

though generally not while forking in the load of tasty guile
which bloats you up on every other Tuesday. You’ve come
to rather like the goose that lays the egghead who can’t wait

to crack his shell-y skull into your bowl to ply you with his
intellectually indefensible pedantic bull: you find the whole
thing swell. And all you ever have to do is ring the bell.


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Wednesday, November 8, 2017

Lost in a Quatrain




It’s less the heart of darkness
than a darkness in the heart:
unfathomably pregnable –
impregnably apart.







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Tuesday, November 7, 2017

Everything Turns Out




So a man walks up to a stranger
on West 72nd Street and asks him:
“Have you ever been to California?”
“No,” the stranger says.

“Well,” the man continues,
“from what you’ve heard of it,
you think I should go?”
“Sure,” the stranger says.

So the man buys a plane ticket
and leaves that very day.
And everything turns out
the way it would have anyway.





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