dispossessed

[[ An ambiguous song about an ambiguous persona imagining a home he (could be she) used to know. Someone else is in the home now. A feeling of dispossession, real or imagined, some sort of revenge planned or fantasized. Fire and smoke imagery, maybe imagining the old chimney smoking, maybe imagining arson, maybe just a crazy phone call, maybe all in his head. The old phone is there for strangeness and to evoke an old time, dialing the number like a secret combination on a safe, with the phone's "cradle" doing double duty for imagery. Senses (taste and smell, fingers, warming, creaking) to introduce an uneasy nearness. And is he thinking of someone else (an invader? just a new owner) in his old home -- or is that "someone" just the persona sneaking back and creepily intruding in (calling on) his old home? It's coming from inside the house! Or not. ]]

smoke will be coiling

over our old home

sparks will be floating

floating on air

someone feels like he belongs now

in our old home

someone tastes the fruit still growing

in our garden

someone smells the flowers planted

by our mother

smoke will be coiling

over our old home

sparks will be floating

floating on air

someone opens creaking cupboards

in our kitchen

someone warms his chilly fingers

round our fire

someone feels like he belongs now

in our old home

now I am calling

dialing the rotary

my combination

into the past

lift the receiver

out of the cradle

lift the receiver

out of the past

fire will be burning

up through the blue air

sparks will be floating

floating on air

to capture our gods

to capture our gods

catch them in motion

drawing on walls

living on the threshold

waiting for rain

wishing the rain away

waiting for rain

cats in the corridor

always wanting in

and out again

always wanting in and out

to capture our gods

catch them in motion

banging out sound 

living by owl-light

waiting for sun

wishing the sun away

waiting for sun

cats in the corridor

always wanting in

and out again

always wanting in and out

to capture our gods

catch them in motion

wearing new faces

living by hoax

waiting for moonrise

wishing the moon away

waiting for moonrise

cast in the corridor

always wanting in

and out again

always wanting in and out

intentional love song 17: the whole bed

he thinks 

she steals all the covers

he thinks 

she takes the whole bed

she feels

like lovers should be lovers

she feels 

alone in her head

she reaches -- 

he slides away

she pulls 

the blanket in like a net 

and finds the net empty again

she is

alone on the sea

cold spell

Push back the blossom
into the bud.

Push back the sea
from the shore.

Coltsfoot and hackberry,
Coughwort and bird cherry,
Back in the bud with you!
Wait for your time.

Silver birch, white birch,
hazel and horse chestnut,
Back in the bud! Do not
come before your time.

Black locust, linden.
Black locust, lime.
Do not come before your time.

Lilac, save your purple.
Dandelion, your sun.
Priest, take your turn:

Corylus avellana
Tussilago farfara
Padus avium
Taraxacum officinale
Betula pendula
Syringa vulgaris
Aesculus hippocastanum
Robinia pseudoacacia
Tilia cordata
Wait for your time.

[[ A spell ]]

[[ Jablonska, Katarzyna & Kwiatkowska-Falinska, Anna & Czernecki, Bartosz & Walawender, Jakub. (2015). Changes in Spring and Summer Phenology in Poland — Responses of Selected Plant Species to Air Temperature Variations. POLISH JOURNAL OF ECOLOGY. 63. 311-319. 10.3161/15052249PJE2015.63.3.002.  ]]

intentional love song 16: everything runs down, everything runs away

[[ from a photo of Appalachia in the paper ]]

everything runs away

down this valley

everything runs away

the railway follows on one side

the highway holds to the other

the river flows in between them

down to the sea

everything runs down,

everything runs away

everything runs down, runs

down to the sea

there's even a mist on the river

who put that mist in the air?

as if someone drew it that way

knew I would need to go

knew I would need to stay

I could take a photograph of you

steal a photograph of you away

I could take a photograph of you

maybe give it back another day

I know there is nothing up above us

but a sky full of chance and blame

I know there is nothing up above us

but people like to give chance a name

Don't say you're going to turn it round

and make it like it was back then

Might as well pull all those trains back up the hill

and push that river back up the valley again

everything runs down,

everything runs away

everything runs down, runs

down to the sea

phenology 3

the velocity (almost 

two miles an hour) of 

spring is accelerating

#spring #phenology 

phenology 2

these long orange legs 

and beaks in the grass

are sworn carnivores

they have dined on frogs 

all the African summer 

while I stood in snow

now they pace the fields

wings behind their backs

watchful and expectant 

#storks #spring #phenology 

phenology 1

Now she approaches,
dressed in birds and bumblebees,
walking from the south.

vestigial virgin

[[ Wordplay on Vestal and vestigial, to begin with, and building on that to make this a woman literally in touch with her vestigial characteristics. ]]

The vestigial virgin

in morning retraces

the route she retraces

each morning she rises.

She touches 

the tip of her tongue 

to her four wisdom teeth.

She touches 

her tailbone and where 

her appendix might be.

She feels the hair rise on her skin 

and continues the tour

and comes away pure.

She chases 

a tingle that leaves her 

completely in tears.

She rubs her 

third eyelids and curls and 

wriggles her ears.

She feels the hair rise on her skin 

and continues the tour

and comes away pure.

Bluebird Matchbox

[[ A transformation of an actual childhood visit to relatives in Dundee and Perth. The long wait for adults to finish visiting grows to an evolutionary scale. The Bluebird Matchbox (actually a Corgi, says the internet) was produced to keep me or my brother or both of us busy while adults talked for the last time. ]]

In childhood I am guided in

to meet the ancient Britons known

to other ancient Britons then

as Helen, Bunty, Joe. All gone.

They are all shades of vein and chalk

and pebbledash and cardigan

and close-cut grass and gravel walk

and kindly smiles all wired in.

I play while they discover fire 

and pour a drink to warm their skins,

and ages pass while they admire  

how fingers grow where once were fins.

listening song

[[ Surveillance society. ]]

Do you hear the whir

in the night air, children?

In the glow of 

an infrared picture evening?

The wash of a thousand

watching things watching?

This is the sound of the 

listening.

This is the sound of 

the great going wrong.

This is the sound of

the final song.

Mr Jones 

coils

in your toilet

Mr Jones 

crawls 

up your walls

Mr Jones 

hmmms above 

your love 

Mr Jones

is the whir of drones

Mr Jones
knows your bones

intentional love song 15: they get along (two girls in love)

[[ Just a lesbian love song, or a lesbian appreciation song (written from a third-person point of view. Also, silly jokes on 'they are coming for your children' and 'at the YMCA'. ]]

they get along, 

two girls in love 

with their local library

they get along, 

two girls in love 

with a cat named Harry

they get along, 

two girls in love 

with living 

in this town 

don't let them down

they get along, 

two girls in love 

with music playing in their ears

they get along, 

two girls in love 

at the corner pub with beers

they get along, 

two girls in love 

with living 

in this town 

don't let them down

somebody said 

they're probably sisters,

they have to be sisters,

no one could rightly say

somebody wondered 

where were their misters

a girl needs a mister

I said, it's not like it was in your day

it's not like it was in your day

they are coming for your children

as you arranged the other day

they are taking them for homework help

at the YMCA

they get along, 

like two girls in a song

bad air

[[ This started while reading  Ryszard Kapuściński, The Shadow of the Sun, where he describes the anxiety that comes with malaria. And wordplay: malaria as 'bad air' and even 'bad song'. ]]

a feeling of anxiety

I know no reason

I believe a curse 

has come upon me

I believe a spirit 

has entered me

I am fixed to earth

light is unbearable

the sound and smell 

the touch of others

I am cold as death 

and trembling  

hold me down with

all your weight

You can know nothing

[[ This started from two episodes in Ryszard Kapuściński, The Shadow of the Sun, and his description of how there is little in the way of twilight in Africa -- it is light and then BANG it is dark, and then, twelve hours later, BANG, it is light again. But I have let something of the ambiguous and possible hints of the metaphysical or epistemological creep into it. ]]

You can know nothing

before and after.

On the way to Kumase,

our bus stops somewhere.

A woman gathers to herself her children.

She rests her bowl upon her head

and walks into the trees.

You can know nothing

before and after.

When the sun comes up,

there is no prelude to rising.

This is the old adventure.

On the Serengeti,

our truck has a flat.

Lions rest round shreds of antelope.

They watch us half an hour, then rise

and walk into the grass.

You can know nothing

before and after.

When the sun goes down,

it is gone.

This is the old adventure.

the song of a dove

[[ This started while reading  Ryszard Kapuściński , 'The Anatomy of a Coup d’État', in The Shadow of the Sun. ]]

A peaceful coup,

like the song of a dove,

and the man below

is the man above.

Today is Saturday;

we live in the future.

Today is Sunday;

we live in the past.

This is your signal, 

faithful five:

take them at midnight,

take them alive.

Today is Saturday;

we live in the future.

Today is Sunday;

we live in the past.

A coup must come at once 

from everywhere and silently.

A coup must come at once,

invisibly and deniably.

This is your signal 

at the waterfall:  

stop the five senses.

That is all.

It starts in IT 

on Saturday night.

It ends with pancakes 

at Mama's Delight.

Today is Saturday;

we live in the future.

Today is Sunday;

we live in the past.

...from everywhere and silently.

where to begin

[[ The destination might be almost anywhere, but I was thinking of Africa, our origin  It started while reading Ryszard Kapuściński, 'The Beginning: Collision, Ghana, 1958', in The Shadow of the Sun. I like the contrast between travel in the old days, when a traveler grew accustomed to the destination on the way there, to travel now, when you hop into a pressurized plane this morning and hop out of the plane on the other side of the world this evening. Also, the typical conflation of all countries and cultures on the African continent into the monolithic 'Africa' of Hollywood. ]]

not the romantic sort,

this is no port-to-port

idyllic expedition

there is no getting used to it, no getting used to it

this is the cheap flight

sleep upright overnight

no acclimatization

there is no getting used to it, no getting used to it

you're still breathing 

your own atmosphere

when they open the aircraft 

find your way through 

strange customs, the frontier,

before you feel the first draft  

and you're out 

in a street

in the heat

this is where we all began, where we all begin 

this is where we strip away and get down to skin  

let's take shade under this tree 

and --  listen to me -- let the continent 

drift slowly away

how many

languages,

cultures, and

kings here?

start by ad-

mitting you

don't know a

thing here

but 

welcome to here, 

welcome to here

one street in 

one city,

one nation 

traced out on 

a piece of earth

drifting slowly away

there is no getting used to it, no getting used to it

start by saying you don't know a thing

an evening of possibilities

[[ from a photo I saw -- New York City, 1943, with signs as described in the verses. This should be big band, jazz, a dance number in an old movie.  ]]

[[bridge, chorus, and other repetitive apparatus]]

night!

night is coming

night is coming on

night is coming on for us all

this is an evening

of possibilities,

my friend

rain!

rain is falling

rain may stop right now

rain may fall forever on us all

we could go down

to the subway

where the parallel
rails never meet

we could walk on

in the rain

where the universe

shines in the street

let's share an umbrella

[[verse 1]]

See that sign?

"Johnnie Walker",

three stories high.

We could go buy

Johnnie Walker

and drink it tonight.

Three stories high,

my friend.

[[verse 2]]

See that sign?

"Saludos, Amigos"

on the marquee?

We could watch

the dancing alpaca,

we could snort

at 'Lake Titicaca',

my friend.

[[verse 3]]

See that sign?

"The Human Comedy"

larger than life.

we could enjoy

the Human Comedy

I can't promise you

Andy Hardy tonight,

my friend.

the weight of the soul

[[ Weapons -- bullets, bombs, missiles -- and the technology of violence, the politics and philosophy of violence, the blinking out of life. And there was the famous (?) experiment in which someone claimed to weigh the human soul and came up with 21 grams. ]] 

how fast they move

these pieces of metal

how hard and sharp 

they make themselves known

the projection of power

is airtight, cylindrical, 

streamlined and modular

how small they seem 

these pieces of certainty

how they disintegrate

all understanding 

the end of it all 

has just crossed the border

and gone underground

how fast they die 

the cells of memory

how the mind blinks out

second by second

the weight of the soul

is the difference between

the body before and after

how small we seem

with no more certainty

how we disintegrate

past understanding

the end of it all 

has just crossed the border

and gone underground

the weight of the soul

is the difference between

the body before and after

we die surrounded,

surrounding, before and after,

feel the weight of the soul

get out of this night

[[ escaping the immediate (literal) or escaping life (figurative) ]]

I'm only trying to get a taxi out of here

I'm only trying to make myself disappear

I'm only trying to leave this city behind

Before I catch that ride

I need to get out of this night

I'm only searching for a crosstown bus

I'm only searching for a way out of us

I'm only trying to leave my trouble behind

Before I catch that ride

I need to get out of this night

I can't walk any further

I can't walk any further

I can't walk any further

someone get me out of here

someone carry me away from here

I'm only hoping for a ride from a friend

I'm only hoping for this whole thing to end

I'm only trying to leave this world behind

Before I catch that ride

I need to get out of this night

intentional love song 14: your eyes are like your eyes

[[ no metaphor, no simile, just what it is: your eyes are like your eyes ]]

love is not something it is not

simple love

no metaphor

no simile

what is it for

but to say your eyes

are not your eyes

simple love

no metaphor

no simile

what is it for

but to say your skin

is not your skin

your eyes are like 

your eyes are like

your eyes are like 

your eyes...

your eyes collect the light and turn it into thought