Did I forget to mention Wayne Shorter
Did I forget to mention Bacchus and Ariadne
Did I forget to mention that dream in which the bridge keeps rising and never crests
Did I forget to mention The Ode to a Nightingale
Did I forget to mention Bessie Smith singing St. Louis Blues
Did I forget to mention Louis Armstrong’s accompaniment to Bessie Smith on St. Louis Blues
Did I forget to mention the harmonium player on St. Louis Blues whose identity remains I believe uncertain
Did I forget to mention On What Matters
Did I forget to mention Django Reinhardt playing St. Louis Blues with his brother
Did I forget to mention Jimi Hendrix
Did I forget to mention a child’s utterance ah swimming pool I swim
Did I forget to mention a child’s utterance upon seeing a picture of an ostrich a goose
Did I forget to mention a child’s response to being wished a happy birthday happy birthday to you too
Did I forget to mention the Buford Highway Farmers Market
Did I forget to mention the births of my children and grandchildren and the range and intensity of feelings that have attended their growth
Did I forget to mention Huy Fong chili garlic sauce
Did I forget to mention the printer’s apron Tom gave me
Did I forget to mention P90s
Did I forget to mention Herbie Hancock
Did I forget to mention Chick Corea
Did I forget to mention The Rolling Stones in Norfolk in 1972
Did I forget to mention Stevie Wonder in Norfolk in 1972
Did I forget to mention The Grateful Dead in Miami in 1970
Did I forget to mention the one life within us and abroad
Did I forget to mention Fleetwood Mac in Miami in 1969
Did I forget to mention Led Zeppelin in Jacksonville in 1969
Did I forget to mention heedless intimacy in 1972
Did I forget to mention Weather Report
Did I forget to mention the Mahavishnu Orchestra
Did I forget to mention The Harry Smith Anthology
Did I forget to mention Big Mama Thornton
Did I forget to mention The Beatles
Did I forget to mention the Lion’s Club barbecue at Homewood Park
Did I forget to mention my mother’s allowing me to add the milk to the cornbread mix
Did I forget to mention Smokey Robinson
Did I forget to mention James Brown
Did I forget to mention Ray Brown
Did I forget to mention Kinderszenen
Did I forget to mention The Apology of Hephaestus
Did I forget to mention Ma Rainey
Did I forget to mention Mississippi John Hurt
Did I forget to mention Dock Boggs
Did I forget to mention Nevermind
Did I forget to mention Dick Justice
Did I forget to mention Hank Williams
Did I forget to mention Kid A
Did I forget to mention Johnny Cash
Did I forget to mention Scotty Moore
Did I forget to mention Euthyphro and the Apology
Did I forget to mention Aphex Twin
Did I forget to mention the cartoons of Tex Avery Bob Clampett Friz Freleng and Chuck Jones
Did I forget to mention Ron Carter
Did I forget to mention Miles Davis and each musician who ever played with Miles Davis and every note Miles Davis ever played not that I’ve heard every note but all the ones I’ve heard were unspeakably beautiful
Did I forget to mention Bob Dylan
Did I forget to mention Mike Bloomfield
Did I forget to mention Aretha Franklin
Did I forget to mention Ahmet Ertegun
Did I forget to mention Mad magazine
Did I forget to mention Quincy Jones
Did I forget to mention The Chemical Brothers
Did I forget to mention Martin Scorcese
Did I forget to mention 2001: A Space Odyssey A Clockwork Orange and Barry Lyndon
Did I forget to mention Aguirre, the Wrath of God
Did I forget to mention The Godfather and Apocalypse Now
Did I forget to mention the crust of Athens Pizza
Did I forget to mention Silas Marner
Did I forget to mention David Copperfield
Did I forget to mention Monty Python’s Flying Circus
Did I forget to mention Dashiell Hammett
Did I forget to mention the eagle’s nest in a whitened tree beside I-95
Did I forget to mention the Smiley novels of John Le Carré
Did I forget to mention the kimono my beloved wore on 27th Street
Did I forget to mention the Bernie Gunther novels of Phillip Kerr
Did I forget to mention all the novels and stories of Thomas Mann
Did I forget to mention Cannon’s Jug Stompers
Did I forget to mention about a third of the sonnets and plays of Shakespeare
Did I forget to mention Sonny’s Blues
Did I forget to mention my heroic parents
Did I forget to mention the beauty of the human form
Did I forget to mention about a quarter of The Canterbury Tales
Did I forget to mention about a tenth of the poetic output of William Wordsworth
Did I forget to mention The Rime of the Ancient Mariner Frost at Midnight and the Dejection Ode
Did I forget to mention about a third of the poetic output of WB Yeats
Did I forget to mention about a sixth of the poetic output of Wallace Stevens
Did I forget to mention Ulysses
Did I forget to mention Anna Karenina
Did I forget to mention The Crying of Lot 49
Did I forget to mention Midnight’s Children
Did I forget to mention Song of Solomon
Did I forget to mention tiny dried flowers that Janice place in the vase of a vanilla bottle
Did I forget to mention Slaughterhouse 5
Did I forget to mention Ann Carson
Did I forget to mention about nine-tenths of the poetic output of Emily Dickinson
Did I forget to mention Jean Cocteau
Did I forget to mention Blind Arthur Blake
Did I forget to mention Marcel Duchamp
Did I forget to mention The Firebird Petrushka and The Rite of Spring
Did I forget to mention Édouard Manet
Did I forget to mention Andy Warhol
Did I forget to mention Brian Jones on guitar harmonica recorder vibraslap or mellotron
Did I forget to mention Robert Johnson
Did I forget to mention the invariably lovely poetic output of Walt Whitman
Did I forget to mention Born Cross-Eyed
Did I forget to mention that dream in which the flying cyclist one of five ignited and the charred bones fell rattling to the ground
Did I forget to mention DK & The Hoop Snakes
Did I forget to mention George Martin
Did I forget to mention Mood Indigo and East St Louis Toodle-Oo
Did I forget to mention a Guinness or a gin snowcone with a fat joint or the Vermont Maid and a 7-Up the day after before I got sober
Did I forget to mention Oscar Peterson
Did I forget to mention Martha Reeves and the Vandellas
Did I forget to mention Art Tatum
Did I forget to mention Joe Pass
Did I forget to mention Ella Fitzgerald
Did I forget to mention Calvin and Hobbes
Did I forget to mention R Crumb
Did I forget to mention Smarties
Did I forget to mention Lester Young
Did I forget to mention Marian who companions me not without pleasure apparently
Did I forget to mention Billie Holliday
Did I forget to mention Lida May Tucker
Did I forget to mention Graham Nash
Did I forget to mention The Doors
Did I forget to mention Charley Patton
Did I forget to mention the Letter from a Birmingham Jail
Did I forget to mention The Kinks
Did I forget to mention Mayfield ice cream
Did I forget to mention The Animals
Did I forget to mention the noble achievements of those who suffer defects in their private lives
Did I forget to mention California Dreamin’ and Monday Monday
Did I forget to mention 96 Tears
Did I forget to mention Psychotic Reaction
Did I forget to mention Time Won’t Let me
Did I forget to mention Venus
Did I forget to mention Be My Baby
Did I forget to mention Don’t Worry Baby
Did I forget to mention Crimson and Clover
Did I forget to mention the memo from Richard Ellmann requesting to borrow my copy of The Divine Marquis
Did I forget to mention Spirit in the Sky
Did I forget to mention Mechanical World
Did I forget to mention Marvin Gaye
Did I forget to mention Pegasus
Did I forget to mention The Pixies
Did I forget to mention the Rolling Stones records produced by Jimmy Miller
Did I forget to mention Jack Casady and Jorma Kaukonen
Did I forget to mention Lou Reed
Did I forget to mention David Bowie
Did I forget to mention O
Did I forget to mention Mick Ronson
Did I forget to mention Jeff Beck
Did I forget to mention Disraeli Gears
Did I forget to mention Koko
Did I forget to mention The Miami Pop Festival
Did I forget to mention the time I watched Monterey Pop while tripping and wearing a dress
Did I forget to mention the Blind Owl
Did I forget to mention Howlin’ Wolf
Did I forget to mention Franz Schubert
Did I forget to mention the 3rd the 5th the 6th the 7th and the 9th
Did I forget to mention Tannhäuser Tristan und Isolde and The Ring
Did I forget to mention The Marriage of Figaro the Magic Flute and the Requiem
Did I forget to mention Claude Debussy
Did I forget to mention A German Requiem
Did I forget to mention The Three Penny Opera
Did I forget to mention The Mikado
Did I forget to mention La Bohème
Did I forget to mention Camille Pissarro
Did I forget to mention Muddy Waters
Did I forget to mention Jason Thibodeau
Did I forget to mention Augie Meyers
Did I forget to mention Sergei Prokofiev
Did I forget to mention Booker T and the MG’s
Did I forget to mention Wilson Pickett
Did I forget to mention Tom Jones
Did I forget to mention Tom Jones
Did I forget to mention Steve Stewart
Did I forget to mention my hot-rodded Twin Reverb that burned up in a van fire along with the Japanese Stratocaster now lovingly displayed on my bedroom wall
Did I forget to mention A Love Supreme
Did I forget to mention The Fighting Temeraire, tugged to her last berth to be broken up, 1838
Did I forget to mention Elvin Jones
Did I forget to mention Songs of Innocence and Experience and The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
Did I forget to mention birds
Did I forget to mention bugs
Did I forget to mention The Fall
Did I forget to mention crustaceans
Did I forget to mention molluscs
Did I forget to mention Max Roach
Did I forget to mention mountains
Did I forget to mention peanut butter sandwiches with raspberry preserves
Did I forget to mention Manhattan cheese cake
Did I forget to mention Jasper Johns
Did I forget to mention a soft soft steamed reuben with real Russian dressing
Did I forget to mention oceans
Did I forget to mention lakes
Did I forget to mention the St. Johns River and the estuary at its mouth
Did I forget to mention Fernandina Beach
Did I forget to mention Vilano Beach
Did I forget to mention Jenson Beach
Did I forget to mention the wild violets through which my father strolled while singing Violet and lapsing into a whistle after a brief groan when he forgot the lyrics
Did I forget to mention the greasepaint mustache WC Fields wore while juggling cigar boxes
Did I forget to mention trees
Did I forget to mention flowers
Did I forget to mention fungi
Did I forget to mention bacteria
Did I forget to mention the chili d’arbol sauce at Willy’s
Did I forget to mention John Ashbery
Did I forget to mention mammals domesticated and wild
Did I forget to mention Mrs. Farah’s hummus
Did I forget to mention the artistry of sunsets and sunrises
Did I forget to mention Son House
Did I forget to mention skies cloudy or fair
Did I forget to mention stars and planets
Did I forget to mention rocks stones pebbles and sand
Did I forget to mention intricate tracery of mycelia
Did I forget to mention artificial objects that imitate nature
Did I forget to mention natural objects that imitate artifice
Did I forget to mention the meteor falling alongside I-75
Did I forget to mention The Importance of Being Earnest
Did I forget to mention Dmitri Shostakovich
Did I forget to mention Jellyroll Morton
Did I forget to mention My Cat Jeoffry
Did I forget to mention the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath
Did I forget to mention PCOET
Did I forget to mention James Tate
Did I forget to mention the equivocal bliss of effrent
Did I forget to mention Etta James
Did I forget to mention Ray Charles and the Raelettes
Did I forget to mention The Ode on a Grecian Urn
Did I forget to mention Thelonius Monk
Did I forget to mention how Matt secretly attached 20 clothespins to the shirt I was wearing
Did I forget to mention This Land Is Your Land which Karen and I used to play as an improvised piano duet while our parents were trying to listen to Walter Cronkite
Did I forget to mention the musicians on Cheap Thrills as which Hugh told me falsely but generously that I was as good a guitar player
Did I forget to mention Mighty 690 The Big Ape and Station 60 WPDQ between which Hugh and I used to switch in search of Satisfaction
Did I forget to mention Mr Smyth
Did I forget to mention coffee
Did I forget to mention the holy communion of family and friends

For David Melnick has died
The angel pcoet of apparitional words
O weedsea
O sordea

Did I forget to mention
Forget to mention woodpeckers
Who crank up their chatters like a Willys Jeep
Exuberant to drum the roof rain gutters
For bird does not live by wood alone

And you just have to wrack your brain
What the hell is a votive lassitude
I know what lassitude is
And I know that votive is an adjective
Related to devote

That’s the thing about poetry
The words can be more or less normal
But they’re going to bump up against each other
Peculiarly
And suddenly cvmwoflux and a hail of pmisti effrent

And you click the link and again and again
Credentials not recognized
And you don’t wrack your brain at all
You just accept your impotence
At least John Ashbery gave us something to work with

Billowing billowing the rise of light
After days of darkness

Quit talking about triggers
Don’t ask why I’m depressed I just am

And grateful however brief
For momentary relief

Out here in the suburbs with my daughters my grandchildren my wife
My sons who come to visit often
Wealth beyond the imagining of a Keats or Chatterton
Poets broken by poverty appreciated only posthumously
Out here with the internet and cable television and streaming services
Trying to raise a lawn from the recalcitrant clay
Because neighbors and culture and self-appointed authority demand a lawn
Trimmed clipped tamed mowed and manicured
While all the time the mocking clay shows its ruddy face
I should import a ton of soil from prairie Illinois

But the azaleas go nuts all on their own
Immemorially planted by a real estate developer’s contractors
While a towering pine sprung all on its own before the front porch
Before my eyes a pine grew towering
And down the street the spreading oak majestic in its symmetry
Sliced open for the power lines but thereby revealing its own powerful limbs

And the birds go nuts the bobolinks robins cardinals mockingbirds phoebes
And the many birds whose songs and colors I cannot identify
That one delicious song five chirps and a trill
The soaring buzzards and the soaring raptors
And the languorous crows skilled and cunning
And the bluejays the call of a crow cranked up an octave
Birds that feed on death like all in the kingdom of the animals
And two versions of the barred owl’s cry at night
Six or eight regular notes or the wild arpeggios of the mating frenzy
A phoebe attacked me once when I was hanging laundry on the line
It too thought me eccentric for hanging laundry on a sunny Sunday

The little white cat with black spots
Timid but a little braver now that its larger rival has gone
It still retreats when I make an overture
They say a coyote mauled a chihuahua
Who nevertheless survived the ordeal

You have to drive a car to get into the city
You could take a bus but the schedule is erratic since the lockdown
Or you could drive to the train station
The suburbs assume an automotively equipped populace
And we have driven a car to many great cities Philadelphia Chicago Jacksonville Orlando Charlotte
To visit family and friends in their respective suburbs
I want to be of the people and not of the populace
But demographics are destiny
We do not create ourselves
Except beloved reader in these dear pages

Sea oats pierce the salmon clouds
Sky touches the land
Sunrise at Fernandina

The tiny rocket lifts off with a quick fizzing hiss
And parachutes peacefully to earth
In a move favorable for entropy
Propellent’s release of energy irreversible

But what is entropy
Something like a gorgon I think
You never see it
But if it sees you you die

Gravitation they say is a dimple in spacetime
An artifact a momentary subtraction from mother earth
Perception an illusion more or less
This poem another Mad poiuyt

I burst into a room and yell
What is this crap
And the multitude in unison exclaim
It’s crap sir

I made an error several days ago
The human population seven billion
What do I think this is 2011
Well one seven-billionth is not a large number
And one eight-billionth somewhat less

And yet this little life seems so immense
The drapes the window the magnolia
Its leaves shivering with raindrops
How could I have wasted so many days and hours
Condemning the little permeable self

It seemed so impressive at the time
So thoroughly suffused with significance
That imitation of indigenous behavior
The profiles of the demoiselles
The enigmatic gesture
Its innate meaning lost
Spontaneous according to plan
The attempt despite itself
To avoid expulsion from light
By seeking crepuscular refuge

But we took up residence in the landfill
And made continents our kitchen midden
We decorate with detritus
The former umbrella its spokes all bent
The dresser of deal lacking the three glass knobs
The rinds of melon and pork belly
The Mosrite down from six strings to two
The timid peroration
In iambickish pentametroid

How many James Bond movies have there been
Batman John Wick Ethan Hunt
Thor the god immortal
Successes nobody can fail to expect

I saw a hawk carry away a chipmunk
They say nine attempts out of ten are doomed to fail
I saw another chipmunk carry leaves into a burrow
Preparing I guess for the spring arrivals

My mother would be 99 in June
If she hadn’t succumbed
To years-long decomposition of body and brain
She shouldn’t have had to suffer like that

But sometimes you can allow yourself to wonder
How will Oedipus accept the truth
Maybe it will be different this go-round
Will Tom Jones settle down with his Sophie

Bacteria exchange genetic material

Some work of noble note
No none
Why should the world note
The work of one among seven billion

Fame resides where the ghost ones go
It rises and falls upon the currents
Of a pear-shaped globe
Trickling the edges of a four-cornered circle

Tracing the frantic oscillation
Of an algorithm
Shooting in waves
From a senile tyrant’s workshop

Warm wet days lurch from lull to crisis
Cumulonimbus blitzkrieg
And mornings absorbed in drainage
And the settling of timbers

As it fled the robin made a cry
That I had never heard it make before
The barred owl called in broad daylight
Cars raced loudly on never-yet trodden streets

Licentious gnats
Gathered in their nebulous swarms
Barely conscious alive and dead before sunrise
Their inert eggs overwintering in the sand

This sickly Spring
This April fossilized in song and tale
Flowers that look like pictures of flowers
Spiky waves of generality

Remnants of flowers
Gelatinous corpses
Curtains for secret ovules
Trees and shrubs festooned with roadkill

Who’s to say and who knows know
Who understands intelligence
If the work were noble
You wouldn’t care about note

And thus the busy sulker introverts
The ghostly paradigm
Enacts the immemorial script
Devours the indigestible vague procedures

Not bile more like phlegm
This apathetic phantom cramp
Resinous vaporous accretion
Cooked in a dun tar spleen

These fragments serve no structural function
But only establish the interstices
Wherefrom waxy roots
Draw insufficient sustenance

So keep yourself to yourself
Do not expose your hollowness
Discretion is the better part
Or keep babbling in the rain

I feared the blast of the atom bomb
But I never held my classmates’ hands
Making our way to a nearby church
Our parents waiting to collect
Those of us who survived the shooting

The mystery of the Trinity
That’s the crucial item
In our doctrinal curriculum

And doesn’t your feast day fall during Lent

Here’s me at seven years old
I’ve adopted the habit of running indoors
Whenever a plane flies overhead
A frequent event in the suburb of a city
It seems I spend a lot of time outdoors

Grownups claim though they offer no evidence
That I have nothing to fear
But I have seen the pictures
Of the planes and the atom bombs
And I know that I must duck and cover

The poem in the act of coping
With a glut of depletion
In the act of collecting residue
To assemble into a new
Something

For our newness is assemblage
And not the creation of objects from nothingness
So was it ever but now
Standing atop this repository of corruption
The hoarseness of a howl
The vagueness of a vision
The weightlessness of a sensation
And all mass surrenders to abstraction

Seen of but few
Concealed from the Goat King
Who smokes a cigarette in his Audi

The play has wound down
Done the denouement
Finished the epilogue
The usher sweeps the plastic cups
And we stack them in pyramids

The voice of a decadent age will be decadent
Though some custodians of the regular style
Will persist
Graduates of the programs
But despite their noble efforts
They will not serve as voice

Our memories are distorted
Our expectations small
Though we know a lot of things not taught in schools
Of urges and delights not spoken of
Of violence and disgust not spoken of
We know next to nothing
But there is so much in next-to

Pompous no doubt
Pretentious assuredly
But redolent of a certain askesis
Amid the parasites and the copulating monkeys

Democracy morality aesthetics
These are ideals
And those who speak of them idealists
And we live as you know not in an age of ideals
But of successes
And we who fail can see more clearly
Than whose whose sight is veiled
By little luxuries little appetites little tyrannies

I react anxiously to modal auxiliary verbs
The preposition of gives me the heeby-jeebies
And about is no picnic
Pronouns present themselves as a constant source of danger
With relative pronouns among the worst
And don’t get me started on I

Here’s me at eight years old
I’m going to hell
That’s the way it is
But I can avoid this terrible thing
By just confessing my sins
I know I have lots of them
Grownups people who know
Are always telling me
To stop being bad and start being good
But I can never think of sins to confess
They tell me I’ve done a bad thing
And I see what they’re talking about
But when I examine my conscience
I can only remember getting yelled at
So sometimes I pad my time
In the confessional
With fictions
Delinquencies thefts acts of violence
Such as I can imagine
And they are more or less true in a general sense
No the real catch
The real damning provision
Was slipped into the Act of Contrition I recite daily
A firm purpose of amendment
I wish to amend
But I fail at firm purposes
And the fear of condemnation
Albeit an already accomplished fact
Exceeds both the conceivable pain of punishment
And the conceivable relief absolution would afford
For eternity cannot be conceived
Nor the shame of one condemned
Some time in the future I will ask
Why does God who loves me
Send me to hell
And the answer will return
Ah but you send yourself to hell
With your unrepentant depravity
Oh but I do repent
I do repent

How can this life be gone
So rich so variable
So full of incident
Madly overflowing with superfluous detail

People can accommodate themselves
I’ve seen it
My father so pleased that I’d arrived
He’d been in pain
But morphine made it stop somewhat
He’d begged for morphine
Who’d been blown up in World War II
And I knew that he knew
Bravest of men
Otherwise he would have never suffered such indignity
As to beg

So many memories
And yet when I survey them
So many traumas
So many disappointments
I’ve done some begging in my time
Who am not brave
But then my death isn’t imminent
No more than usual anyway
Maybe I’ll feel differently
As I feel the time draw near

But you can go at any time
Can’t you
And then
Just nothing

Sorry about the lack of images
This just isn’t a visual experience
This isn’t entertainment
Sorry about the lack of rhetorical flair
Other poets speak more artfully than I
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff
Something of significance to leave behind
Where I can’t find it

That unthinkable nothingness
That repulsive absence
To be aware now of being unaware
Unaware unbeing
The icy hand’s encroachment
That’s nothing to

Don’t be nostalgic for the individual
Already so dividual
When we say we go
We mean we go somewhere
Not gone therefore
Not departed
No mere relocation
Not forgotten
Just nothing

The rest of the world will still exist
As it has existed before
Worlds end and other worlds begin
Other worlds

Death is death
Go to hell St. Paul

It doesn’t give permission
This mortality
To treat yourself badly or anybody else
Some people say they have it figured out
I doubt that they do
But it doesn’t give you license to punish

On the contrary
It enjoins the opposite
You must be kind

Again I see myself
On the old boat
Or is it a bus
Laden with the naked
The bewildered
Just as we were when we lived
The ones who forgot how
The ones who die as drooling children
No arrival no destination no eventful journey
Always only the setting out

Two branches up
And then flight to the tallest pine

O fine little finch
Pale gold
Strong to break away

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kim96-B_udc&list=OLAK5uy_lORM1ruWnL8i5rTweDk6fM7kF1LWeQWvw

Salt Marsh
When you’ve put aside your creamy candies
Follow the forbidden road
Past the crummy asphalt land
To where the salty rushes grow
The web of roots and rhizomes
Grassblood tangle of weeds and palmetto
The slicing sawgrass fingers
Risky region of fish and mosquitoes
Sand will reach each crease and crevice
Sulfur seasons rack your bones
Can’t you see you don’t belong here
Can’t you see you’re not at home
The wading birds complaining
Moonsong heard where the tides are receding
Ominous sounds of water
Go now leave the invertebrates breeding
Here everything its place of birth
Here everything returns to earth
Here uncanny peace and strife
Go live your little human life
Birth and death must not surround you
These extremes are not your call
Fish and fowl and worm deny you
Seek the comfort of your hall
The smell of decomposing
Tread not here where the bugs are prolific
Boot sucks up marshmud bubbles
Tombgas primitive scent of placenta

Say Ok
One night I was walking cross the Main Street Bridge
I found out I wasn’t walking cross the Main Street Bridge
Well the river down below me was a television image
For the white caps on the water you can hardly see the waves
The algorithm measures and predicts its spiky shape
In the frantic operation comes a message for the age
It says straighten up and say that you’re OK
Everything is telling me that I’m OK
Everything is telling me that I’m OK
Everything is telling me that I’m OK
And a chilly cold wind started up to blow
Such a cold cold wind will chill you to the bone
Yes and when the flakes start falling and you can never never go home
On a nonexistent channel how they hit the icy slopes
You can’t help but see a pattern in the random swirling snow
Those perfect healthy bodies gonna show you what to know
They say join the fun shut up and say OK
Everything is telling you &c. Say OK say OK say OK
See the children dancing regimented dancing
Regulated elbows regulated knees
Well the screen is colder than the icy slush
Nevermore to feel the warmth of your mother’s touch
Never get enough you’re getting getting too much
Oh the smallest things invisible are focused tuned and aimed
The planets and the stars they are commissioned bagged and weighed
The Hitler Youth for Jesus are holding a parade
They say get in line shut up and say OK

Lying Crying
I saw you lying on the floor I saw you crying on the floor
I saw you lying lying crying lying on the floor
That’s when I knew you swore you’d never love me no more
I heard you talking in your sleep I heard you walking in your sleep
I heard you talking talking walking talking in your sleep
That’s when I knew you’d never never be mine to keep
Don’t leave me don’t leave me can’t you see I love you so
Please need me please need me I need to never let you go
I saw you haunting in the night I saw you flaunting in the light
I saw you haunting haunting flaunting in the lights at night
I knew that never again would everything be alright
I love you I love you I don’t know what else I can say
I love you I love you I hate to see our love decay
I’m breaking up it’s breaking up
I’m breaking down we’re breaking up
You just don’t need me

Acrid Putrescence
I detect a baleful presence and it’s something you can smell
Witness thou the rising essence of a disgusting tale to tell
Never mind your childish preference you have joined the judgment sessions
Just as you surmise rising to the skies whiff your own acrid putrescence
On the day of your pubescence when the big decay sets in
Then begins your acquiescence in the dire wages of sin
Behold my obsolescence long since my adolescence
The world I knew so fair and new filled with acrid putrescence
There’s a sparkling iridescence to the fragrant rotting meat
Destiny of foul excrescence to the tasty food you eat
I prefer the moony crescents to sunshine’s incandescence
That opens near so stark and clear the world’s acrid putrescence
All life requires corruption to survive
All life needs putrefaction thus to thrive
So spread the swine manure on your lawn
You too will feed the grass when you are gone
It’s an age of decadescence
There will be no Christmas presents
Gobble down anti-depressants
As you sink into senescence
Feel your body’s deliquescence
Lounge in languid convalescence
And indulge your fat tumescence
Having learned the painful lessons
Of your cheesy concupiscence
You can see the luminescence
Like a blinding phosphorescence
Of the fateful omnipresence
Of your own acrid putrescence

In the Loop
You’re in the loop her wicked loop
Orbit her planetary purpose
You’ll kiss the boot jump through the hoop
Join in her soul-decaying circus
She’s got the noose around your neck
Now you can flop upon deck
Now feel all humble-ing sensations
She’s got the key to all your woes
She got the ring piercing your nose
Disciplinary exaltations
You’re in the loop her wicked loop
Now she controls your life’s direction
One of the group one lazy scoop
She’s added you to her collection
Now let us teach you how to pray
Now let us school you what to say
Now you must beg for her to like you
Now that she’s got you on your knees
Worship her fearful symmetries
Hands on each side ready to strike you
Behold her minions in a row
Behold how we put on the show
Enter and exit at her pleasure
No need to kick and raise a fuss
Now you belong as one of us
One little jewel in her treasure

Losing My Voice
Think I got a blown speaker in the back seat of my car
I can hear it shake I can can hear it rattle
I hear the shivering sounds but I can’t bear to name what they are
When they’re accusing me of negligent excess
I don’t bear burden any time I make a mess oh
But I know it’s just a symptom
A speaker only answers to the signal that it gets
That’s how you know machines they know exactly what you’re thinking ah
I think I’m losing my voice I think I’m losing my voice
I must have sung it too loud I think I’m losing my voice
Now one of the things you won’t be hearing me sing about
Is my personal feelings on emotions
On the subject of the passions I can nevermore speak out about
How you might wish they would evaporate
Lose their effect on you and merely fade away oh
And let you feel alright
Even though you know it’s just a lie
Let you forget it when you made somebody cry
I think I’m losing &c.
A singer like me don’t need to spend a night out in the rain
If he wants to catch a case of laryngitis
He knows a quicker way to reach the bliss of vocal strain
He’s just gotta be a aware how he’s hanging out
Everybody knows exactly what he’s all about
He ain’t got no secrets
He ain’t got nothing nobody needs
And anybody listening out there knows that it’s a fool you see
I think I’m losing &c.

Torna (Falling)
You may find yourself yearning
To the earth to be returning
For the rest you have been earning
All the days you’ve been awake
While the day is calmly ending
Nightfall gently is descending
Light and dark lusciously blending
Mingled fragrances ascending
Toward decline your thoughts are tending
Old Decay you are befriending
To him songs of love you’re sending
Quiet breath away to take
Do not think you’re leaving
No one here is deceiving
Let be no grieving
Do not fear falling down
All of the bridges they are falling down
The London bridges they are falling down
And all the bridges down in Jacksonville are falling falling falling down
All of the skyscrapers are falling down
All of the palaces are falling down
Don’t give your heart and soul to things material things falling falling down
And all the lovely things are falling down
And all the ugly things are falling down
And all the secret things you covet falling falling down

Make It, Dirty
It’s a mighty long road
The world is old and getting old
And this country’s seen enough to make a blind man walk
Yeah we’re living in a junk pile
But there’s a rhythm in a junk pile
You got plenty here to make what all the hell you want
Pretty soon I’m going to tear this building down
And every time I see the sun go down I’m going to dance and howl
And sing make it dirty make it dirty
Tell me a story and make it dirty
Take a good old song and break it up
The feeling will find a way
Don’t you love that woman dancing over there
She’s dressing out like the county fair
She got lights all around her and her mood ring glow
She’s put together like a royal crown
She won a million in the lightning round
She was in the paper on the counter at the grocery store
Pretty soon she going to make her lights go out
And every time I see the sun go down I’m going to dance and howl &c.
Making something out of something else right now
And every time I see the sun go down I’m going to dance and howl &c.

Not Just Any

The dish not just any dish ran away with the special spoon
Not just any spoon ran away with the dish
My love not just any love ran away with the special guy
Not just any guy ran away with my love
Not just any not just any you’ve got plenty you can choose
Not just any not just anything will do
Something special just don’t settle for just any
Not just any not just any not just any
The cat not just any cat sat upon the special mat
Not just any mat was sat on by the cat
My life not just any life isn’t worth a special damn
Not just any damn is not worth my life
Not just any &c.
I I I I not just any I feel like I’m fixing to special die
Not just any die I feel like I’m fixing to
Not just any &c.
The end not just any end of the song is the special this
Not just any this is the end of the song

Word Talking
I am word talking man I am word talking man
I got words louder than actions gonna make everybody understand
I have seen the end of the world I have seen the end of the world
Oh the sorrow and the suffering little girl little girl
I am word talking man I am word talking man
I got words knock down palaces knock down empires where they stand

Decay
I am Decay
The lord of all the things that decompose
All that which opens comes to me to close
You know me
I am the wheel of life’s downturning side
Where soon you will abide
Come dance with me
I am Decline
The blessed sun himself falls in the west
Leaving in darkness you and all the rest
You know me
I am the destiny of all that stands
All matter in my hands
Come dance with me
I am Decay
I am the force that dwells so deep beneath all lovely things
For without me the sweetest blushing flower never springs
I am Decease
You know from story and from song of old
Things fall apart the center cannot hold
You know me
All beauty fades all love must breathe its last
Affections in the past
Come dance with me
I am Decay
I am the spirit of the compost pit
The essence of the fertilizing shit
Come dance with me

Head Explode
You keep telling me I can’t
You don’t know me well enough
I start dropping things when you talk like that
Everybody has got their stuff
Don’t burden me with no heavy load
I will not let my head explode
‘Cause I break it up when my head explode
You got a million rules putting me in debt
Nobody gonna make me multitask
I don’t live my life living under threat
I can’t do my thing and watch my ass
I do not honor your honor code
I will not let &c.
I try to drive my car take it nice and slow
Everybody else fast and furious
Trying to gain attention so everybody knows
Neither life nor death is taken serious
It’s nightmare out there on the open road
I will not let &c.
Everywhere I look it’s a vision of hell
Broke up skulls broke up leg bones
I saw woman’s face look like an empty shell
Nothing can be seen if it isn’t shown
Everybody reaps what they have sowed
I will not let &c.

Breaking It Up
We are breaking it up
We break it up so we can break it down
Returning all the good stuff to the ground
The world keeps turning turning round and round and round
Turn over a log
Now see our bustling community
Down here’s the hub of all activity
The bugs and fungi we’re a happy family
We’re mixing it up
Terrestrial crustaceans in the house
The rolypolies party and carouse
Spiders and worms they’re dancing with that old wood louse
Cockroaches cockroaches
Superheroes of the dark
Cockroaches cockroaches
Always going to leave their mark
We’re mixing it up
The beetle grubs working their implements
And all the molds they spin their filaments
Earwigs and ants consume the tasty condiments
Cockroaches cockroaches
Can’t you see they’re having a ball
Cockroaches cockroaches
Going to outlive us all
We’re breaking it down
We break it down so we can break it up
Keep out of sight we keep it covered up
We put the wine back in your loving cup
We’re breaking it up
Making decomposition at the molecular level
We break it down before it burns up like the devil
We break it break it break it up &c.

Any Eye
Everything’s just a little worse than it ever ever used to be
It’s just decay as far as any eye can see

Notes by Greg “DK” Kelley

DK & The Hoop Snakes: Decay

March 2023

01 Salt Marsh

When I was a kid I worked for my Dad, a chemistry and bacteriology professor at Jacksonville University.  He was an enthusiast, not to say a mad scientist.  One of those guys that used to be called in German a Schwärmer and in English a projector.  He pursued a project over a couple of decades devoted to the aquacultural production of fresh-water shrimp of the genus Macrobrachium.  We used to ride around in a boat on the St. Johns and on rare occasions even venture into the estuary, where the shrimp bred and which exuded a distinct aroma, not unpleasant but–distinct.  I was aware that this was the scent of the “primordial soup,” rich in nutrients and teeming with tiny prey, such as shrimp larvae.  Any environment enacts the cycle of decomposition and renewal, I came to understand.  When many years later my wife gave birth to our first child I detected a slight redolence of the salt marsh.  After all, amniotic fluid is basically seawater.

As I composed the lyrics to Salt Marsh, the theme emerged that although we humans love to visit natural places, we should stay away lest our big boots (or worse) damage the environment.  The lyrics consist of a list of non-human things that do not welcome our incursion.  This list-like quality makes the lyrics difficult to memorize.  (I’m probably influenced by the patter songs of Gilbert and Sullivan.)  Poetic composition, like other creative endeavors, requires method.  I learned the method of list-making from Wordsworth in poems like “Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802.”

02 Say OK

When I was in graduate school I was enthusiastic about the theories of the Frankfurt School.  One of their ideas, promulgated by the most accessible of the group, Herbert Marcuse, was that of the culture of affirmation.  Capitalism, with it’s “just do it” ethos, does not exactly incentivize social criticism.  This is especially true of mass electronic media and the constant bombardment of attention-demanding advertising.  And so in this song I imagine myself “walking across the Main Street Bridge,” the one bridge in Jacksonville that admits pedestrian traffic, while nature itself, represented by the mighty St. Johns, transforms into a video image.  Social media takes this totalization to another level, hence the regimentation of children’s dancing in a video clip.

03 Lying Crying

I must confess to taking advantage of an old person’s privilege of cantankerousness.  Or perhaps I’ve been a curmudgeon all along.  In any case, I’ve had the sensation shared by many people that since the pandemic (which I guess we’re still in?) “everything is just a little worse than it ever ever used to be.”  So I grouch about social media in Say OK and about our environmental carelessness in Salt Marsh.  As a lang-and-lit guy I perennially lament the irrepressible fact that language changes.  I particularly regret the extinction of the word farther, for example.  As I contemplated that complaint one night, I recalled my objection to the misuse of lie and lay.  (Please don’t imagine that I approve of the pedantic streak in my character.)  The confusion is intensified by the homonym pair lie/lie.  It struck me as funny that since we seldom use lie to mean recline these days, “lying on the floor” could mean “attempting to deceive while in a supine position.”  From this comes a jump-and-jive breakup song in which we hear, as usual in such pieces, only one side.  This collection of songs treats the theme of decay in various moods, ranging from celebration of the possibility of regeneration to, more commonly, mourning over the fear and pain of dissolution.

04 Acrid Putrescence

Decay in a comic tone.  The title and refrain comes from a remark of Thomas Carlyle to Alfred Tennyson decrying the atmosphere of London.  I don’t know how I hit upon the somewhat heavily metallic tone of the song, but the whole thing is parody and satire.  I think it’s cool that the tune is three-piece live-in-the-studio with only some vocal overdubbing.  My favorite couplet on the album is: “So spread the swine manure on your lawn/You too will feed the grass when you are gone.”  For the most part the lyrics of this song play the game of “how many words rhyme with putrescence?”  I had a lot of fun compiling that list and working them into sentences.  Upon hearing the first verse, my elder son quipped, “Is there going to be a flute solo?”  The ending parodies “Sgt. Pepper,” of course. 

05 In the Loop

Part 2 of Acrid Putrescence, and again, comic decadence.  In the European Decadence of the late 19th century the misogynistic image of the femme fatale was a favorite.  In this parody, La Belle Dame sans Merci is transformed into a dominatrix.  I love the idea of the earlier (and willing) victim inducting a new recruit.  I also like the theatrical dimension of fetishism, although I’m not an expert.  Lida May Tucker’s backing vocals are apocalyptic, Bee Tee Dubs.

06 Losing My Voice

Inspired by the “Dejection” ode of Samuel Taylor Coleridge.  That poem begins with “the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes Upon the strings of” a wind-harp placed in the window frame.  My remake begins with a blown speaker, shaking and rattling in “the back seat of my car.”  It’s the beautiful paradox of the poem about an inability to write a poem, the song about an inability to sing.  Now, Bob Dylan seems exempt from the feelings of guilt and poor self-esteem that have afflicted Coleridge and me.  He also never had vocal problems that I’m aware of, or if he did, he blew through them with characteristic self-assurance. And since the song is my attempt to imitate a Great Master (Coleridge), I thought it would be cool to arrange it like a Dylan song performed by one of his imitators, of which there were many, but none more devoted than the Byrds.  In the event, I think it came out more like Crosby, Stills, and Nash.  Which is not the worst thing, especially Nash.

07 Torna (Falling)

There’s this great old Sicilian song, Torna a Surriento, which I believe is out of copyright.  I’ve converted it from ¾ time to 4/4, and made some other changes in a attempt to do a surf adaptation of “classical” music a la the Ventures’ “Stranger in Paradise,” itself an adaptation of “The Polovtsian Dances” of Borodin.  The lyrics derive in part from Keats’s “Ode to a Nightingale”:  “I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath.”  The second part, Falling, is a tune of my own composition.  (I call Torna my own composition too, but it’s obviously an adaptation/parody.)  I like to make private jokes in word play to myself.  We Americans sometimes suppose that the nursery rhyme speaks of London Bridge in the plural: London bridges falling down.

08 Make It, Dirty

One of the cultural efflorescences (I could have used that word in Acrid Putrescence!) of the second half of the 19th century was Britain’s Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.  As a late flowering of Romanticism–that manner never dies!–these poets and painters took as their motto, “Truth to Nature.”  Now, how Arthurian Knights or Ophelia floating downstream exemplify truth to nature, I don’t know.  So since I was a kid, my motto has been Truth to Imagination.  I think this is pretty much what practitioners of the arts do: an idea comes to one from who-knows-where, and you let that inspiration guide the development of the piece.

In the 20th century, Ezra Pound, Modernist and traitorous (capital-F) Fascist, created the motto Make It New.  Total nonsense, totally in keeping with the mental defect that Pound claimed after World War II, which spared him punishment for his crimes against humanity.  I’ve always been impressed that when we invent something, we do not create ex nihilo, but assemble (something) out of already existing parts.  (Coleridge would call this the exercise of only the secondary (i.e., materially contingent) imagination.)  So my motto is Make It Dirty.  I demonstrate this principle by decomposing “Hey Jude”: “take a good old song and f— it up.”  I emended this lyric (some would say bowdlerized it) because decomposing–breaking down or up–is not merely breaking or attacking.  Indeed, we only bother decomposing that which is good or at least has some good in it.  As the bugs in Breaking It Up sing, “returning all the good stuff to the ground,” where it will nourish new–or rather cyclical–life.  You know, “feed the grass.”

Something good that I broke away from the Modernists was their systematic, permutational method, not unrelated to list-making.  So the chorus of Make It, Dirty enacts a permutation of E, D, and A chords.  The superfluous comma in the title comes from the Rolling Stones: “Paint It, Black.”

09 Not Just Any

In a universe parallel to that wherein DK resides, I’m a schoolteacher.  Over the years, many of my students have been persons for whom English is a second language.  And I’m no ESL teacher–I don’t know how those worthy practitioners do it.  It’s super hard to teach something that is second nature.  One of the difficult features of English, apparently, is our use of articles, a, an, and the.  I can’t explain when to use one, when the other, and when none at all.  And it strikes me that narrative, at least when it doesn’t commence with exposition, uses the definite article as if we already know which falcon cannot hear which falconer or which dish ran away with which spoon.  Not Just Any exposes this mechanism: “The dish, not just any dish, ran away with the special spoon.”  The exhaustive/permutational method is also in play here.  Half of each verse is English language instruction, “The Cat and the Fiddle” or the phonics of -at words (“The cat, not just any cat, sat upon the special mat”).  The second half of each verse is a lament for things falling apart, breaking up, or otherwise decaying, for example: “My love, not just any love, ran away with the special guy.”

10 Word Talking

“Truth to Imagination” no doubt exposes me as a Romantic, epicurean and decadent.  But I am also a stoical (Neo)Classicist.  I believe in Keats’s “negative capability,” the power of remaining in doubt and uncertainty, the better to open the doors of perception.  But I also believe in the imitation of the Great Masters, many of whose names I have dropped hitherto.  Now, anybody who claims, as I do, to perform or enjoy rock music must begin with a genuflection to the blues.  One of the glories of African American culture, which has been the cultural bastion of the world for well over a century, is the supplementation of a distinctive and towering musical manner with words that express, in James Baldwin’s words (in “Sonny’s Blues”), “how we suffer, how we are delighted, and how we may triumph.”  The world stands in awe of the joyful confidence of Bessie Smith, Muhammad Ali, Muddy Waters, Beyoncé, and . . . too many to count, much less list.  Before the revolution that these myriads effected, and still today in more reactionary quarters, Western culture might have dismissed proud utterances like theirs as the petty vice of braggadocio.

The prejudice of Western, instrumental culture to against language itself is reflected in the proverb, “Actions speak louder than words.”  My remit in Word talking was merely to reverse that priority.  Hence, words have the power of breaking up and breaking down palaces and empires.

11 Decay

We have a problem.  When we contemplate the past, even in its “Monuments of unageing intellect” (Yeats), we see that those who lived before us were human, all-too human, as we are.  Consequently, our enjoyment of even the greatest achievements will be vitiated by the fallibility of their creators, which their creations inevitably betray.  Racism and misogyny were never okay.  It is a depressing fact that even people of good will emerge from the attitudes characteristic of their place and time.  None of us are causa sui.  And the good will even of creative people is often stunted.  Thus, W. B. Yeats, who was buddies with Ezra Pound, wrote some good and indeed inspiring lines in poems contaminated with hateful inclination.  A couple of lines from one such poem, “Lapis Lazuli,” could serve as the epigraph of Decay: “All things fall and are built again And those that build them again are gay.”  But these lines reflect an evenhandedness that is typical of neither of Yeats nor of Decay.  We tend to emphasize only the “downturning side.”  Hence the line, famous to the point of cliche, cribbed from “The Second Coming”: “Things fall apart the center cannot hold.”  Yeats was lamenting the decline of a suppositious aristocracy.  Funny how anti-democratic the Modernists were. I try to put Decline in its cyclical context. For without it, “the sweetest blushing flower never springs.” I admit, however, that the emphasis is not on the spring, but on the fall.

On the other hand, the principle of individuation–cherished in democratic societies–is grossly exaggerated in modern times.  On the third hand, death, which befalls individuals, is not a pleasant prospect when you’re the individual who’s dying.  Hence the one-sided, funereal tone of much of the album.  (The note of regeneration does sound, but it’s close to a compensatory gesture.)  The Yeatsian and Keatsian (“all beauty fades”) motifs are pretty plain, but I do want to acknowledge the source of one of the more pleasing moments in the song Decay.  Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard” deserves a quotation: “Full many a flow’r is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”  I’d like to talk about the Holy Grail of guitar tones and the exquisite talent of vocal tone (my daughter), but the current document consists of “notes” not “essays.”

12 Head Explode

Another song in which I have expurgated, this time at Rick the drummer’s suggestion, the f-word.  The original lyrics aptly expressed a feeling–of anger–but I have come to agree with Rick that individual expression does not justify abusive language.  (I hope I’m accurately representing Rick’s position.)  More to the point, “Truth to Imagination” can’t possibly end up with one note.  So I think the new lyrics express more complex, if negative, feelings than just anger.  And I think “bums my head” is more truthful in my case than “pisses me off.”  And street racing really bums my head, as do superfluous systemic mandates. The new refrain emphasizes self-control against violent outburst.

“Truth(fulness)” causes me considerable ambivalence.  I can’t be a phony.  But I am well aware that the portion of the truth that I tell is one-sided (or at best lopsided) and hence deficient and, frankly, a bad attitude, a bad example.  Note how often in this album the words everything, everywhere, and everybody occur.  I think this is the symptom that the cognitive behaviorists would proscribe as “globalizing.”
 

13 Breaking It Up

The album ends–or nearly ends!–on a cheerful note, which Bill and Ted might endorse as “most triumphant,” though it’s more Motown than Metal.  The album opens with regeneration, the “invertebrates breeding,” albeit amid “the smell of decomposing,” which humans find repellent.  It closes (or nearly so!) with decomposition as reconstitution.  The invertebrates, together with their allies the fungi (depicted on the album art), “put the wine back in your loving loving cup.”

14 Any Eye

The album really ends on a note of global despair.  That’s all. I’m all alone, me and my Hammond. But, you know, the rest of the band is still there, and you, Dear Listener. Thank you.

She was going 104
When she crashed