With my First Holy Communion
I trembled for a good little while

With my Second Holy Communion
I trembled a little less

With my Third Holy Communion
I trembled not at all

A poem is the possible in material form

There’s the darkness of no light
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Respite from the glare of consciousness
This is soothing imaginary darkness

Then there’s the elective darkness
Of the shades drawn in the nursery
Necessary for naps among the milk-fed
Culpable misapprehension for those having outgrown diapers

Then there’s the abrasive darkness
Of the trough behind the crest
The pit the prison the obdurate abyss
The oubliette where the ennuieux are punished

The biggest darkness is the one assembled in the factory
Where tool and die press out souls
Where qi is excised for demographics
The healing sun blotted out by data

Gather your rosebuds while ye may
Make hay while the sun shines
Let me check your backside for the expiration date
I’ll make you feel good use you pleasurably up

The hardest parts of learning something new
Are first to overcome preconceptions
And then to change bad habits
Which cannot be jettisoned but only replaced

Take the stereotypical image of dejection
Back bent forward hands before the thighs
Fingertips just reaching the tops of the kneecaps
Shuffling with a stride of no more than eight inches

Try instead this exercise from a seated position
Put on left shoe tying it as applicable
Hold right shoe in both hands
Gaze at spot on floor for seventeen minutes

Mere mortals weak mortals I hear my brethren say
My brethren who delight in the savor of smoky hecatombs
And they deride human incapacity
And mock the desperation of mortal importunity
Which is the god of axle grease
Which of diseases of the bladder
And they vaunt that we gods alone conceive
The vast extent of our Olympian powers
The countless elements over which we preside
But as the presider over axle grease I say unto them
That no power on earth or above it or below
Is perfect whole complete or absolute
And your vaunted power will come crashing down around your ears
And the greatest capacity is where
You least expect to find it

And my brother gods are more capable
Than they themselves imagine
For they do not understand
The simple concept of an avatar
That Athena and Artemis are one and the same
As are my fine pupils Hermes and Dionysus
That Zeus becomes Ares when he gets his sword from me
And that Aphrodite becomes Hera
When after all that lovemaking she grows large with child
And only one god I know beside myself is relatively entire
Poseidon driver of horses breaker of cities
Promulgator of storms at sea
Which Zeus then arrogates to himself
In the rare event they make landfall

And in my own human avatar as Daedelus
For yes we gods often take human form
Or less imaginative forms of bull eagle or rain shower
Just ask Aphrodite about Helen and Cleopatra
And all the other belles dames sans merci
But in my human avatar I am responsible
For all the knives crowbars scythes and plows
Bowls skillets sieves fleshpots kneading troughs and winnowing fans
Swords halberds bayonets dirks artillery pieces
Saddles horseshoes bits reins halters
And all miscellaneous articles of equipage
Tools that make other tools
Anvils lathes chisels augers awls vats hammers tongs
Nails pins screws hooks pulleys hoops locks
Tweezers razors and other apparatus of the depilatory and tonsorial arts
And wheels and yes axles wagons chariots dog-carts and locomotives
Stools tripods doorknobs hinges
Thrones crowns scepters medallions and insignias of rank
Necklaces bracelets brooches bangles bells buckles and baubles
Snares fishhooks fowling pieces
Steeples cupolas coigns banisters battlements bastions
Posts lintels casements lath plaster rafters joists cornices foundations
Rods that support
Rods that chastise
Rods that reinforce
All the gear and tackle and trim of every ironmonger that ever lived
Braziers griddles ovens andirons bellows
Campfires funeral pyres torches candles
Lamps magical and pedestrian
And the so-called natural phenomena of lava flows and boiling springs
Zeus will tell you that Athena sprang forth fully armed
But in fact I father all who bear spears greaves or helmets
An Egyptian ape-god invented the pen
And Hermes also first contrived the lyre
Though I’ve heard Apollo falsely claim that achievement
Hera brought to light the feminine lore for spinning yarn
For subtle webs wigwams cunning knot of string and thread
A blanket to wrap the newborn in
My wife Aphrod-Ishtar invented nothing unknown to horse and swine
And Pan instituted the woodwind section
But all other inventions are mine
Notably all instruments that are struck hard or softly
Including the pianoforte
I rule half the elements in the universe
Water I concede to Zeus and Poseidon
But I claim earth and fire

I shall not complain of those eminences who preceded me
Nor shall I wail in envy that they among others
Should receive the fruits of votive shrine and virgin chant
While I bustle about an object of ridicule
A limping cuckold
Liked a little more than temple rat
Loved a little less than Ganymede the Brat
But in this the gods simply expose their ignorance
Whilst I indulge their folly with a mirthful misshapen countenance
That doubtless betrays my inward glee
To be a god of such noble accomplishment
And though temples in my honor are but few
They are not entirely lacking
They still worship me in Al Abam
Now take the one who demands to be called The God or The Father
Who flits about the vaporous element he tries to style the firmament
Object of adoration among those of smug and jejune understanding
Who has shown himself skilled at fornicating and throwing things
Me for example when he shrieked
I’ll drive you into the ground from whence you came
And tore my leg from its socket
So strong and yet infinitely less than almighty
As seen by his base attempt to fob the deed off on my mother
And don’t misrepresent me wrathful fool
When I claim earth I refer to the durable substance
That makes up its great elemental bulk
And obviously I do not mean
The arable land sacred to Dea Mater
That small portion of the earth toward which you have legitimate rights
As memorialized in nursery rhymes
His sweet showers
Have great powers
To bring flowers
And why do you insist on exposing your shortcomings
By inflating your assets

I am an old greybeard
Though not as old as Poseidon Whitebeard
Or Zeus of the Receding Hairline
I speak not of them but will first speak of the younger echelon
Some of whom graciously accept my tutelage
While others like him who calls himself Apellon or Phos Boy
Stay snobbishly aloof in their conceit
We first heard of him when as Aplu he came out of the east
With no more portfolio than to act
As cause and cure of infections carried by mice
Which experience in epidemiology
Gave him a certain arithmetical facility
To divide categorize and torment with plagues
Whole populations and a memory
Never to forget a slight or fail to retaliate for it
There happened to be an opening in our ranks
Following the purge of the elder race
And more specifically the demise of the one called Over
Who had been deposed by you-know-who Mister Sky
Well I made the boy what he became
His bow I suppose he acquired from the fiddlers
Who ply their trade in the deserts of Asia
But the feathered arrows with their adamantine tips
Who could have devised those delicate implements
And I gave him so boundless is my generosity
The most marvelous chariot to traverse
The rising dome of his Father’s dominions
Well lubricated to be sure
And I gave him the triple toolkit
Compass straight edge and plumbline
Which in his avatars as Euclid and Pythagoras
He used to trace the myriad designs
Cast in shadow on the face of earth
Which belongs to me
And the ingrate would exaggerate his attainments
How impressive is it really to slay a snake
Which beast was none other than my ingenious charge Dionysus
And Mouse Boy the interloper in the Wine Giver’s garden
And little did Photo Chrome consider that The Vine
Regenerates after the harvest
As the scotch’d serpent closes
And not content with measure and number
Apollo must claim those other numbers
That make up the scansion of sacred song
And minstrel lay and pastoral idyll and heroic tale
Which had emerged many eons before his own obscure birth

But let me turn to one more appealing than the vengeful adolescent
Hermes first came to my notice as the writing-ape of Egypt
And I was touched by the humanitarianism of one
Concerned to raise those benighted wretches into the light of civilization
They had observed him deep in the Afric forest
Cool as a cucumber sandwich
Probing with a stick in the insect nests
Though the lewdly given called it a stick of flesh not of wood
And he turned and demonstrated with glance and gesture
How to apply the pismire fluid to dried leaves
And better how to use the stems of water plants
Cunningly pressed to work as artificial leaves
For the storage of tallies in grain oil slaves beer and leather goods
And much later to record the genealogies of gods and emperors
Need I add that this same tale
Is repeated in the Panic key
With the invention of the syrinx
The origin of the Dionysian pipes
And Hermes assumes a thousand avatars
Disguised as meteor mote messenger or crewcut college boy
Or indeed any being for which there is a word
So that half the revelations from God-on-High
Are but the freaks and pranks of clever Never Settles
But when next we saw Hermes he stood stock-stone still
At the corner of a field
And this time he truly resembled nothing so much as
A man’s fleshy stick
The organ of generation
A snake or twining of snakes
Not one of us not even Scare Thrower
Could resist a laugh or resist loving the roguish chameleon
Though Herr Flingfling threw a rock of course
So each of the rest of us rolled a pebble
Burlesquing that aggressive act
Off the winsome lad’s smooth round head
Until only his smooth head was visible
Out of the tall narrow cairn
And I fashioned him a helmet
Purely decorative
To defend him I said against boors who throw rocks
And I’ll tell you how he became my pupil
For I named him Mutability
And I showed him how to turn sand into glass
And how to carry a secret in a pouch of tin
And how to free the living quicksilver
From its pulverulent prison
And though I myself hobble
How to run as a sparrow flies
And how to fly as a cat runs
And how to keep two dwellings
One up here in the palace I built
The other a playhouse below for mischievous children
And how to make his way without chart or compass
In the byways of men
To whom he appears a fetching silvery sylph

If humans saw us in our own appearance they would be horrified
No wonder they turn to stone or pillars of salt
When they catch a nympholeptic glimpse
The eyes of Athena for example are often described in human idiom
As lustrous lead but a closer look
Reveals the intricate clockwork mechanism
Of a million million nanogears
And escapements shaped like microscopic siege engines
And connective tissue slipping in lubricious soup of roiling buckyballs
The better to reckon means and ends
Calculate the trajectory
Apollonian cogitation
For bringing down prey or an adversary
And Hera’s eyes really are those of an ox
Though buffalo cow would be a better translation
And my own visage displays an asymmetry
Unlikely ever to join the canon of anthropoid fashion
And my halting speech matches my halting gait
So forgive me if I digress and speak ex tempore

And so to return to my theme
Let me speak of another of my young favorites
Dionysus god of mortality and resurrection
Whom Zeus claimed to gestate in his thigh
Or some such nonsense
The fact is that having impregnated some ninny schoolgirl
As He always does
Zeus tired of the sport vaporized the maid
And left the products of conception on the ground to rot
Until Hermes ever-alert scooped up the protoplasm
For a little mashing together was all the gestation required
And entrusted the embryonic matter
To some kindly childless earthlings
Who raised the babe as their own
And accounts abounded among the credulous
Of virgin birth and novel stars and heavenly hosts
But when his true nature revealing itself
As a toddler he began ripping up forests
Driving leopards into the village
And throwing cars around like Father like son
I collected the godling and settled him in a fruited jungle
He could call his own and destroy to his heart’s content
Where his tendril-like habit of clinging to vegetation
Gained him a reputation as the subtlest beast of the field
For I would not bring him to Olympus
For Captain Terrible to throw around
And to Dion too I taught the arts of metamorphosis
As I had Hermes
And on his own he learned the knack
For turning berries into divine liquid madness
By transfusing his living blood into the fruited vines
For thick blood and not insipid ichor flows through his veins
And he caused the gore to spoil and rot
For he had been born in rottenness
That whosoever should drink of it
Would be filled with the blood of the god
The blood of the new and everlasting life-in-death
And just as I in Promethean avatar
Gave my fire to help the poor manlings
Though naturally somebody else had to call it His
So too Dionysus presented his elixir
To assuage affliction and unleash the truth
Which for mortals is the truth of their imminent dissolution
And in gratitude for his human upbringing
He allows himself annually to be torn limb from limb
Like his foster-father and humble preceptor
And consumed bodily
As a mother gives of her substance to nourish the babe
Until such time in three or four days
As it please him to resurge phoenix-like
Fresh and sweet to begin the cycle again
The face and torso of a woman
A man’s power to fall and rise again
And so Dionysus chooses to dwell among women and men
And to them he gave the inestimable boon of madness

And here’s how fine humans are
Surveying them is like seeing the iridescence of a Damascus blade
In any group of them one or more will have drunk the cup of madness
And the madman will do something crazy
And then drink the cup of hemlock
That unhappy collaboration of Dion and Apollo
Sometimes the madman will imagine himself a little Ares
And start chopping up his hallucinated enemies
Nursing mothers cats and dogs infidels spectators at a foot race
Before falling on his sword
But once in awhile the madness turns to glory
One time in an act of unaccustomed generosity to humans
Apollo gave them his lyre secretly the gift of Hermes
And for millennia men plinked and plunked away
Raising ululant songs to Zeus
Halalalalalu Ya
For the Lord God omnipotent reigneth
How glad we are to be your silly sheep O Father
How you comfort us
When you thwack us with your rod and your staff
Until a drunken madman one Jimi Orpheus
Inspired by me Hephaestus
Put ferrous magnets on a lyre
Making the lyre itself speak and sing
I can’t be satisfied
Essential creed of those who strive and aspire
But still I confess my own preference for pipes and timbrels

As complacent humans alas their preference for Ares
At whose behest I created the sword
Humans so impressed by jerk of catapult
By hail of arrows
And those who survive the carnage
Clink their glasses and sing
We few we happy few
Feasting on the flesh of their comrades

I do not scorn the human kind
In fact I rather like them
Witness the shield I made for that beautiful prince
So much more man than god
To console him in his mortality
The miraculous moving images
The fine achievements of man
And a few of the coarser ones
The crops and flocks
The festivals and assemblies
The cunning of attack and the solidarity of defense
There are two kinds of being in the universe
There’s the kind that’s always the same
Like the simple vengeful sun
But man is of the latter kind
The kind that changes
Like the restless sea
In his communion with the serene transfiguring moon

For Artemis my avatar most unlike myself
Gives us to understand if we are willing
My foster-children on earth
Secret minions of the moon
To them as to her I gave a simple stick
Which she immediately employed
To bring down the hind and the pheasant
For she is as the mountain slope
Where the pard dispatches the kid
And like the earthlings she received
From Ares-Apollo the shaft and the bow
Since we have already established the arrow’s head as mine
But as Artemis is a goddess this acquirement
Did not alter her essential nature
Which paradoxically is both changeable and eternally chaste
Whisper of nightingales and embers’ polychromatic glow
But with humans we can speak of a long complex development
We have spoken how my son Hermes
Used his staff to show the primate humans
How to fish for grubs and termites
But know now that unaccountably and on their own
The earthlings enlarged the use of the stick
To obtain more substantial quarry
Small animals little birds and turtles to make into lyres
And moving on to sheep antelopes and others of the grazing kind
And at last alas themselves
But most miraculously they transmuted their dexterity
Into spells incantations verbal formulae
Rhymes instructions recipes and the devices of Mnemosyne
That the fables of their discoveries
Need never perish from the earth
From there it needed only me
To demonstrate the sorcery of metallurgy
For the world to bloom into a garden of artifice

I stand accused of betraying Olympus
By making man the rival of the gods
But I am not blameworthy if such a dire eventuality has occurred
If you consider the case rationally you will see that I am right
Now most of you gods no doubt will grumble
Why should we rationalize like a schoolteacher
A little man with spectacles and a pointed beard
I’m quite sure that you my brethren would be content
If I were to continue assembling your home furnishings for you
And renounce my ties to the pathetic weaklings below
Even as you spread your nostrils
To relish the holocausts of flesh fat and bone
That weak man gives you the strong from my fire
Yes I gave man fire
Though Thunder Toss has invented the fiction
That it was some Titan unavailable to testify now
Suspiciously engaged with an eagle on a mountainside
Does anyone seriously believe that fire came from
A sparkling ephemeral shard of light
When the whole crust of earth
Veritably floats on liquid fire
And even if Metheus had touched a stick
To Zeus’s precious bolt
And who is the god of sticks I remind you
Even if the Titan had used the spark to ignite the rod
The act cannot be called a theft
For how in this has Zeus been bereft of anything
As if that soggy pluvious parvenu has aught to do with fire
So yes I gave man fire from my own inexhaustible store
Man whom you depend upon and fear
Who has more wisdom in his weakness than you in your strength
And what care I if humans seek to profit
From the fruits of my inventiveness
I owe my fealty to Poseidon the Ancient
Chief among those who disdain
To teeter on Olympus peak
And when Poseidon please to break open the earth
I oblige with flow of liquid rock
A change has come upon the earth
Which humans now paradoxically call a planet
For the humans are doing all they can
To raise the level of the sea
Until it engulf not only their own mad frenzied race
But someday soon will drown Olympus too

Sorry I laughed at an inappropriate time
I couldn’t help myself

In youth I hated my own moderation
But I survived the Civil War

We are selfish men
And what has changed since 1802
Only the storage and transmission
Not the content of our knowledge

All can view the mountains
In their disordered counterfeits
And the wealthy regard it a birthright
To be carried to the summit

If only I could open myself
To the here and now
I would hear the Orphic severed head sing downstream
See Poseidon drive his horses shoreward

But thou my beloved art here with me now
In the nakedness past nakedness
In fulfillment of our promise
To share again our blissful dissolution

The utmost felicity which we can ever attain
Will be little better than the alleviation of misery
And we shall always feel more pain from our wants
Than pleasure from our enjoyments

Am I the only one who can say thou in this decadent age

An anole drops his pennant and nods emphatically yes
The finch too nods in a full-body paroxysm
Tabby rubs her cheek first on my trouser leg
And then on the leg of a table

The pituitary flicks the switch on reproduction
The mere sight of a plum provokes salivary effusion
A thorn in the heel takes its sweet time alerting the giant’s brain
Flopsweat aggravates the audience’s rebellion

A diagnostician reads pustules fever the dispatches in stool
The cartographer delights to limn the sleeping beauty of terra incognita
The skull and bones announce poison and pirates
But thine eyes how lights dart about their aspect at bedtime

Louder than dirt consists of Adam Lawsky, keyboards and vocals; Joseph Lawsky, drums and vocals; Julian Phillips, bass and vocals; and me, Greg “DK” Kelley, guitar and vocals.  I wrote the words and music below except for one song, “Nightingale,” by Julian.  I include the lyrics only for those songs I have written.

01 No Easy Way
Don’t you look at me that way John Dillinger
I’ve seen you smiling stretched out on the street
Well you really gave ‘em hell gave it to a lot of men
Now they’ve all come back to pick your body clean

No no there ain’t no easy way to go
No no there ain’t no easy way to go
No no there ain’t no easy way to go
But when I’m gone I won’t be round no more

I’ve spent a lifetime chained down in the cave
I’ve spent a lifetime on death row
Where the dead all drop like lead while all the living weep and wail
Where there really ain’t no easy way to go

No no &c.

So stop your silly grinning now John Dillinger
You think you are the master of the game
Well you were the biggest member on the ten most wanted list
But now you’ve shrunk right down into your name

No no &c.

02 Auditory Man
I am an auditory man
I do not understand the optical machine
I am not present in the scene of being seen
I am an auditory man

I am a listening device
I hear what you’re saying you don’t have to tell me twice
I name the numbers from the rattle of the dice
I am a listening device

Oh but I am one for whom all sounds make sense
Sizzle of a steak and the clatter of the bones
Grandfather clocks tell tolling out like Big Bens
Distant chime of power saws and diesel on the roll
Hounds that howl in answer out sirens on patrol

I cannot she what dress she wore
I can’t even see the flowers hanging in the trees
Facial expressions to deny or to displease
I cannot see what dress she wore

Oh I am one for whom all sounds make sense
Big hall hollers and the noble saxophone
High bird callers and the voice that calls me home

I am an auditory man
I love you talking dirty on the telephone
I love to hear my baby make delicious moan
I am an auditory man

03 adagio (Instrumental)

04 Stupid Song
Stupid feeling stupid song
Stupid singer stupid song
I got no feeling in my tongue
This is the worst song ever sung

Stupid feeling stupid song
Stupid singer stupid song
I got no feeling in my brain
Not smart enough to go insane

Stupid feeling stupid song
Stupid singer stupid song
Stupid song stupid song
Stupid song stupid song

05 gigue (Instrumental)

06 The Ballad Of Briarcliff Road
Up in Atlanta stands a stunted pine tree next to Briarcliff Road
But upon the pine wisteria all riotously grows
Its flowers clustered like the grape but hanging empty hanging dry
As the wisteria flourishes the Georgia pine tree dies

And right up to the ruined KFC all gutted once with fire
Through the pine and the wisteria runs electrical wire
And a mockingbird alight upon that Georgia Power line
Flings his soul abroad in strains of unpremeditated rhyme

You people cherish every failure you think each sin makes you more human
See yourself see yourself

No joy no sorrow yeah but only naked triumph tells me that
The little bird fancies himself an aristocrat
He looks so strong he looks so dapper in his uniform of grey
And it was given me to translate what I heard the singer say

You love your jim crow republic you love your rotten old lost cause
Your wretched oaths and hateful contracts your filthy bills of sale
See yourself see yourself

The cars swerve by they’re all sealed up they neither hear nor do they see
The pine tree or the singer or the ruined KFC
Or how you’ve got to kill the past before the future can arrive
Or how all smothered up in beauty Georgia pine tree struggles to survive

07 Nightingale (Lyrics by Julian Phillips)

08 tarantella (Instrumental)

09 Hey Jo (Gin Sno Cone)
Hey Jo I pressed you a twenty in your hand
Hey Jo I just pressed you a twenty in your hand
You know that’s legal and it’s tender everywhere across the land

Hey Jo take that pipe out of your mouth
Hey Jo take that stump of a pipe out of your mouth
You better pass it on around Jo baby before you’re all run out

Jo’s got echolocation always knows where you are
Telescopical vision Jo can see from afar
Jo can pick every lock always get you inside
Keep a truck in the lane Jo can make a lane nine miles wide

Hey Jo don’t forget to bring the snacks
Hey Jo don’t forget to bring the snacks
Once you let go a twenty you can bet it ain’t never coming back

There goes Jo searching all the pastures all around
There goes Jo searching all the pastures all around
He’s never satisfied until all the fungus be found

Hey Jo Where you going with that fungus in your hand
There goes Jo there goes Jo
Taking all the the fungus in the land
Hey Jo there goes Jo

I have tired of envisioning a time without trouble
No help that we’re stuck with metaphors like heart feelings abstraction
Sorry about the lack of enjambment
Legs always get stuck at stopsigns
Waiting for them to change
Get up and dance to the dm dm dm bmbm dm dm
Pocka donatad errearsement
You might like an item or a quality I recommend
Carrying the corpse of his daughter and saying howl
I hardly think multiplication is the problem
Logarithms maybe

Nature just does its naturey magnificent thing
And the accomplishments of genus homo seem paltry
One does stand above however
Communicative reason
And yet people continue to blend hate and desire
Violence and love
Oh well, that’s just a bunch of pretending to know what you don’t know
Like what will pay off in the end
Or that you can control conditions
Ultimate superstition the pathetic fallacy
Camouflage for a taste for pain
When there are so many other tastes to sample
For consensual sex for example
Or learning from children
I’m 611 in guru years I’ll be 612 in October
So I’ve seen the meretricious incitements
But you seek pleasure elsewhere than in the hurtful
Beethoven, van Gogh, The Ramones
And six hundred eleven others one for every year of my guru-life
Starting with my father
Hero of war, science, poetry, sport, and the arts of private life
And moving on to mother’s laugh
I almost wrote mom
Who’s mom she’d intone
And next my lifelong lover
She who says yes at the right time
At three o’clock in the morning and I’m singing my song for you
Say yes now and I’ll shut up
And I wish to keep all those selfish thoughtless people away from you
And my other friend who taught me what a person is

And then I return to that other truth
So often blamed on inert physics
But is really a deliberate attainment of many maybe even most
A commitment to unreason justified as belief
As if your believing it makes it true
Or that the highest and only attainment depends upon my believing
I can’t concern myself with pasterns or return merchandise statements
I oscillate between confusion and ennui
More ennui really for there are resources for confusion
Ennui is as frustrating as confusion
But it’s not like you don’t know what up
So you resort to things of beauty
And you try to transmute your feelings into a thing of beauty
But I suffer a thousand annoying maladies
And most of the time the very trying
Obstructs a full achievement
And to ask what’s full is a copout if you’ve ever had a good time
Which I endeavor to do as often as possible

Sing a song I heard you cry
I sing a song I heard you cry
Wounded me to dying to hear you cry
Ain’t no use to seeing ‘em cry
I ain’t going to fling no tears
Out on the dusty ground
Viva happiness Viva
Not something that happens one morning
Kinda sneaks up on you
You gotta have virtue and know-how mostly virtue
But you really can’t do without know-how either
But knowledge is always limited
While virtue being simple never ends
But what exhilaration what spice in complexity
Such as contradictory advice
Or how such a slow movement after such a fast one
Kinda like you meant it
But that’s the trick
Hide the seams make it look effortless
Hoodwink the crowd with humility
No credit to me
But don’t suppose that there’s one truth for the rubes
And another for the cognoscenti

The artist has two convergent responsibilities
Personal and cultural expression
See the flowers the moon the triangles the misty forlorn rooftops
Pare the pickle Weezy I’ll have another bassoon solo
There is a logic to buffoonery as there is for melodrama
The human capacity for self-deception that ricochets off other people
One thing I do know something about is fucking up
And the tricky task of recreating it er them in material intelligible form
But ah the achieve of the mastery of the thing
When it happens
When somebody makes it happen or allows it to happen or gets it to happen
As it has about a jillion times
How do you account for the effect of a voice rising an octave
Or any great interval
Or the friction of pose and suppose
Or a painting of a brushstroke
Or of a wheatfield with crows
Or of a group of people maybe family members
And maybe they’re having troubles
For there is no time without troubles so far as I can see
Which isn’t far
So since troubles are already there don’t add to them
The modernists scorn the didactic
So I guess I’m a damned decadent post-modern
But people were damned and decadent a long time before the modernists
And there were moderns long ago

Distorted mental states and pathological discourses alike
Would be reprehensible if one knew how to recognize them
Much less prevent them
So if the river was whiskey and I was a diving duck
Well I would dive to the bottom
Then would I come up
It’s bad enough to have a false belief
But to act upon it to the harm of another
Nope
I got so many troubles I don’t know who I am
I feel that jumping on me and out of me
Some people say them oh these blues ain’t bad
Well they are
Worst damn feeling I most ever had
The blues is a part of a philosophy of life
As big a part at your pleasure
If it takes rubbery devil masks
Or unh hit it on the one

Talking ‘bout DK’s faves
DK he like good music
He like to have a drink
He like to have a good time
Every chance he get
The machines grow like a hedge
I used to get from here to there
You can’t tell me those possessions don’t hem you in
But I’m hacking on my telecaster
Note the lower case it’s a variety not a brand
Even so an idiom or an accustomed variant sexual position
Bridges rivers and copilots
Put back on your headphones Charlie
I said what I have to say
But I’m glad you turned me on to this groovy tune
Now’s the time for headphones
That cost seven dollars
Living cheap but good
Cook for yourself roll a fatty

I want you to know
What makes me think I know so much
I don’t know art but I know what I like
And I like a lot
Blow your horn
Meanwhile back at the chicken shack
An organ and a lesley and a guitar and an amp and a PA
Pour some liquor on the floor and dance in it
Honor the dead with a monstrous party
Drown your sorrows in insensibility
In the right light my bod’s Herculean
What’s the opposite of irony
Straight-on-ity
So yeah when remembering the dead drink heavily
Shine on the one that said goodbye
And enjoy the living
Live a little
Take it as it comes roll with the punches
And again with the red rubber mask
Provision yourself for the long haul
With skill and competence
But make it through every moment with virtue

Sometimes a pickle is just a pickle

Let go of me you vile perpetrator
Where did that shit go

If you practice for ten years
You may begin to please yourself

After 20 years you may become a performer
And please the audience

After 30 years
You may please even your guru

But you must practice for many more years
Before you finally become a true artist
Then you may please even God

God save me from the clever craftsman
I cannot sheath the antic pen
The swans are property of the crown
In an act of protest I gaze at them

For Rachel Gruskin

The welcome poet wrote that nobody knows what they’re talking about
And accounting for a little hyperbole this statement is true
He later counseled to remain in light
But it wasn’t he was it in either case

What is this troubled relation of truth and poetry
Is it a long marriage that settles into lowgrade tension
Is it a brotherhood of a guitar and a keyboard
Is it a ceaseless battle of vicious antagonists

Or is it a fish and a bicycle no relation at all
For poetry comes from spontaneous neurological eruption
An ecstatic preacher mad with eternity
But truth is a chip of glass on the floor under the bottle opener

1
I want to write a poem.

2
I won’t know whether I’ve written a poem until I have written it.

3
Knowledge, in the case at least of having written or not written a poem, is not terribly important since I want to write a poem.  I am not particularly concerned to have written a poem or to know that I have done so.

4
When I have written a poem, I will have written a poem.  Whether I know I have done so is a matter of little concern.

5
These numbered segments are sub-objects of a greater object, a document entitled “In Favor of Modality.”  I shall call them apothegmata.

6
I presume the word apothegmata to be the plural of the word apothegm.  I don’t know Greek, so I can’t be sure. Whether I have used the correct plural of apothegm is a matter of little concern.  But how do I know whether a matter is of great or little concern?  Surely knowledge is a matter of great concern.  But is it?  Apothegm 3 seems to assert that it is not.  And surely “seems” seems to cast doubt, to undercut one’s possession of knowledge.  And if my lack of knowledge of Greek undercuts my presumption as to the plural form of a word, does it not undercut other presumptions of knowledge, as, for example what the word apothegm might mean?

7
I’m not sure what the word apothegm means, but here it refers to these numbered segments.  Why would I employ a word whose meaning I have not mastered?–There are several reasons.  One might be that I wish to employ a word that has not been the object of much definition–note the contiguity of define and confine.  Indeed, I wish to remain unconfined, as much as possible, even by my own mastery, such as it is.  Moreover, I wish to employ a word that, by virtue of its denotative indeterminacy, remains (again, to the extent possible, i.e., might [remain]) connotatively unconfined, that is, relatively free of social-emotional baggage.  Finally, I wish to address my reader with a certain rhetorical circumspection.  I wish to address my reader less as a (political, instrumental) audience to be persuaded and more like a child to be taught (as a child might be taught) or a lover to be wooed (as a lover might be wooed).  And I expect that my reader will understand, or come to understand, the limits of these analogies.  I intend to address my reader like a child or lover, not as a child or lover.  Do I need to add that I am well aware of the difference between children and lovers?

8
Since the numbers merely designate and differentiate each apothegm, the sequence of the apothegmata is a matter of little concern.  The reader, if any, of this document might find it amusing to scramble the apothegmata and judge how their effect is modified by such disruption of their sequence.  A more likely eventuality would seem to be that the reader, if any, has already tired and has put this document aside.

9
What effect would understanding modification have on our understanding of modality?  What is mode or mood? How is it that when I ask a question, I include an assertion?  For example, in the question above, I assert that understanding modification would have an effect.  The assertoric quality of the assertion is not diminished by the fact that the modal auxiliary would implies “if any.”  If the condition that we understand modification should obtain, [then] such an understanding would have an effect on our understanding of modality.  But everything depends upon the unusual and inelegant expression “should obtain.”

10
Words mean nothing outside their contexts, but context expands infinitely from each word.

11
I want to limit context to immediate context, as I define it, but this desire cannot possibly be satisfied since by its very nature context is illimitable.  Consequently, I have resented modality and suffered as a consequence of my resentment.  No doubt there are many steps between my desire to limit context and my resentment of modality.  Moreover, no doubt “consequently” is an overstatement.  Perhaps I fear expansion more than I fear contraction, or indeed, vacuum.

12
On certain occasions I am ready to accept the truth of the assertion that there are no firm boundaries.  On other, more frequent occasions, firm boundaries assert themselves with distinct preeminence.  I can’t be sure of the truth of either of these assertions.  As for the second, I must entertain the possibility that firm boundaries are not asserting themselves but that other agents might be at work, including my own readiness to accept them.  As for the first, I know what neither readiness nor acceptance has to do with anything.  Nor do I understand why readiness or acceptance might obtain only on certain occasions.

13
Lovers and children hate firm boundaries.

14
A professor of language, presumably a grammarian, once explained that mood in grammar resembles affective mood.  Hence, when I’m in a bossy mood, I use the imperative, and when I’m in an iffy, uncertain mood I use the conditional.  Are affective mood and grammatical mood merely homonyms, or are they the same word used in distinct senses?  Perhaps one mood is a metaphor for the other, but which one?

15
Blake employed grammatical mood masterfully, and in a way that shows the complexity of modality, at least in English:

     What immortal hand or eye
     Could frame thy fearful symmetry

and

     What immortal hand or eye
     Dare frame thy fearful symmetry.

The first example employs the modal auxiliary could.  This auxiliary verb is extremely ambiguous, with a meaning ranging from used to be able to to able to under certain conditions.  The verb in the second example is in the subjunctive mood, which, rarely for English, does not employ an auxiliary but effects a transformation of the verb directly.  (In the indicative, the phrase would be “hand or eye dares.”)  In the first example, the verb is frame, modalized by could.  In the second example the verb is dare, and frame is reduced to an infinitive acting as direct object.  To dare means something like “taking a risk without regard to its consequences.”  Daring thus involves both knowledge (of risks and consequences) and affective mood, namely daring, audacity, the willingness to take a risk.  Could might involve affective mood if affect is among the conditions under which one is able to.  But what does able to mean?

16
What is fearful, or rather fearsome, about modality is its capacity to obliterate firm distinctions, as for example, of true and false.  Or rather, among the fearsome qualities of modality is its capacity to obliterate firm distinctions.  But what is capacity?

17
I think I’m writing a poem right now, but I won’t know until I (might) have written it.  I truthfully do think I’m writing a poem now, but it looks like no poem I have ever seen before.  It looks a little like “On Certainty,” but that’s not a poem.  Or is it?  How do I know what a poem is, particularly one that doesn’t exist yet or exists only partially.  (I have a few more apothegmata in mind, which I haven’t written down yet.)  What “mind” might mean is a matter of little concern.

18
What a word means out of context is not a question.  Why do I concern myself with this non-question?

19
When I write, I am unconcerned whether I can write.  However, when I am not writing, the question of whether I can write is matter of great concern and indeed of profoundest dread.  No, that’s not true.  I do not fear whether I can write.  What my writing will turn out to be is the source of my anxiety.

20
Among my greatest fears is vacancy or emptiness.  For example, when I’m not writing I fear that I have nothing to say—or write.  Naturally, I overcompensate with logorrhea.  Or do I fear repletion?

21
We do not fear the unknown, but rather we fear what we think we know.  If there is a tiger in the hallway and we do not know it, we are unafraid.  If, on the other hand, we think there is a tiger in the hallway, we are afraid even if there really isn’t one.  Knowledge and affective posture are thus closely intertwined.  Both knowledge and affective posture are inclined toward something.

22
If words without context are meaningless, what did I mean when I employed the sentence in parentheses(!) “I have a few more apothegmata in mind, which I haven’t written down yet”?  Was I lying?  Spouting nonsense?  I certainly did not have them “in mind” as perfectly formed sentences ready to be written down.

23
“I’m ready,” like “I’m certain,” has more to do with affect than with knowledge.  Affect and knowledge are intertwined, but they remains distinct properties.

24
So far, although sequence is supposedly a matter of no concern, I have been summarizing my fear and antipathy to modality.  When will I make the turn that I promise with this document’s title?  And if sequence is a matter of no concern, why numbers instead of meaningless sigla?

25
The assertion “No firm boundaries exist” is nonsense since it claims a firm boundary between existing things, with firm boundaries, and inexistent things without.  No doubt the assertion “All things have firm boundaries” is also nonsense.  Perhaps only a few things have firm boundaries, and perhaps these things are a matter of great concern.  Perhaps among the greatest concerns is the interplay of things with firm boundaries and things without.  To acknowledge “the dignity and worth of human personality” (–King) defines as firm a boundary as I know of, but are all persons capable of acknowledging it?  And there is no firm boundary between persons.

26
Why have I suffered a nostalgia for the Arcadia of firm boundaries?—Almost certainly because as a human organism I have sought to maintain a barrier between my organic self and the hostile forces in the environment outside myself.  Even on a practical level, however, this program ignores the manifest fact that not all forces outside oneself are hostile and that some, like food and oxygen, are vitally necessary.  Moreover, this prerational program of barrier-maintenance ignores the rationally-derived fact that as a human organism I depend upon other humans.  And yet there is a boundary—one wants to maintain a firm barrier—between otium and negotium.

27
Homo sapiens is a social species, and its necessarily social existence is mediated and enabled by language.

28
The actual is merely a subset of the possible.  A less-than-firm boundary between the two obtains.

29
The actual might be an occasion for fear, but it can never be an occasion for aspiration.  Similarly, “what now is proved was once only imagined” (–Blake).

30
Infinite expansion is fearful only when considered from a particular standpoint, posture, attitude.  “Eye altering alters all” (–Blake).

31
Professor Marvel asserts that “we” must get in contact with “the infinite.”  But Professor Marvel is a con man.

32
What changes when I modify a noun with an adjective?  A horse is no less a horse when I qualify it as a blue one.  Is to modify in the sense of qualifying the same word as to modify in the sense of transforming something?  Or are they homonyms?  Metaphors?”

33
Could is a modal auxiliary, that is a “helping verb” that indicates mood in the grammatical sense.  Why then not call it a “moodal auxiliary”?  (The spell checker just balked.)  Are mode and mood the same word?  The same concept?  If not, how firm is the boundary between them?

34
Perhaps there are only two moods in the grammatical sense, the indicative—the particular mood of the actual—and the other, general, nameless mood—the mood of the possible.  One could, would, must, may, might, can, ought to, perform some possible action or achieve some possible state.

35
Can I want something without feeling anxiety?  No: because between wanting and having is the possibility of not having.  Hence, the proposition that desire, in the sense of wanting, is the source of suffering is plausible.  But wanting is certainly no synonym for lacking or not having.  I do not have cancer, so far as I know, but I don’t want it.  So wanting is an affective posture in relation to not having.  I could truthfully say, “I want to remain free—to continue to have freedom from—cancer.”  The object of my wanting is something that I regard as good for me.  That I don’t have it is a source of anxiety, for I must acknowledge, if I’m honest, the possibility that I shall never have it.  Thus, the assertion “I want to write a poem” is an unexpectedly “moodal” statement.  Nobody doubts that wanting is an affective posture, but how are desire and anxiety related?  Are they always two sides of one coin as they are in the case of wanting?  And “I want to write a poem” is also an unexpectedly modal statement.  One side of the coin is assertoric and actual: It is the case that I desire to write a poem.  But the other side is more problematic: I hereby state my acknowledgement of the possibility that I might not write a poem.  In what sense is desire less problematic than acknowledgement?  Or perhaps the determinacy—the actuality—of the object of desire makes desire less problematic if the object of the acknowledgement is merely a possibility—and I cannot tell whether to end this sentence with a period or a question mark

36
In my anxiety toward emptiness (or “vacancy”) I have overestimated the baleful possibilities and underestimated the beneficial ones.  Hence, I have overemphasized the preference for firm boundaries.

37
It is possible that I might not write, and therefore will not write, a poem.  It is possible that I might write, but what I write will turn out to be something other than a poem.  It is possible that both conditions will obtain: I will write, and what I write will be a poem.  It is a source of considerable relief that I have never asserted, at least not in the document entitled “In Favor of Modality,” that I want to write a good poem.  On the other hand, one should not suppose that only absolutes or extremes are worth considering.  How much range is there between empty and full to overflowing!

38
What would happen if one apothegm should contradict another?  For example, if progress is possible, then sequence would be a matter of great concern.  What if an apothegm contradict itself?

39
The expression “to make a mountain out of a molehill” makes sense only (in the sense of “exclusively”) as metaphor.  If affective mood is a matter of little concern, then that is what poetry does: makes mountains out of molehills.  But everybody knows that affective mood is a matter of great concern encompassing as it does the panoply (the full set, the great range) of joy and sorrow.  And it is nearly equally obvious that expression of affective states requires metaphor.  Furthermore, every metaphor, even those in, say, proverbs and not poems, express affective mood.  “To make a mountain out of a molehill” is to effect a pointless exaggeration, an act toward which the proverb expresses a frown, a negative affective posture.  And what force would induce this frown?  Nevertheless, a range is a continuum, lacking firm internal boundaries.

40
An elementary school teacher once said that she forbids her students to say “can’t.”  What would her motive have been?  It might have been that she was extorting compliance: “Don’t say that you can’t obey my command.”  More likely she had her students’ best interest in mind–though her estimation of their best interest might have been faulty.  She may have been saying something like, “For your own best interest, I want you to believe in your own capability, so don’t deny that capability by saying that you can’t do something that I request (or require or command) you to do.”

41
If we actually perform an action (present tense) then the action was possible (past tense) before we perform(ed?) it.  Capability, the modality of can, must be something like a confidence regarding a possible (future) performance.  The meanings that cluster around posse, potent, and power: something that drives, pushes, forces, moves.  “A quantum of force” (–Nietzsche).

42
What immortal hand or eye might have (or might have had) a certain power.  Might: the modality of uncertain power.  Might as a noun simply means power or strength.  Will?

43
Can I want that which is impossible?  Certainly.  And it’s possible to develop a taste for disappointment just as it’s possible to develop a taste for the decadent, the enfeebled.  Do only decadents have a taste for the decadent?  Not necessarily.  The fine line between stimulation and irritation is a matter of only modest concern.  A modern poet wants the impossible: originality.  This desire is, paradoxically, a sign of decadence: one guarantees feebleness and unsuccess by yearning after the impossible.  Nevertheless, yearning (wanting with a certain intensity) guarantees freshness, a kind of strength.  So in medieval times some thought to recapture youth by drinking “mummy.”   

44
We know much more than we imagine, and what we don’t know we can discover.  All people know how to take action, and all people know how to coordinate action with others, though some are better than others at the latter.  Unfortunately, all people are subject to the acquired ignorance of prejudice, superstition, and provincialism.  Furthermore, many are consumed by thoughts of self-interest and ignorantly imagine themselves to be knowledgeable judges of their own self-interest.

45
To say that knowledge is power is a crass oversimplification.  Knowledge is indeed a force, a capability, since all actions require knowledge.  However, few actions of any consequence can be performed in solitude.  Even writing, which requires solitude, anticipates the possibility of a reader.  Indeed, anticipation is among the most arousing of stimulations.  Hence “the reader” is contiguous with “the beloved.”  Contiguity effaces boundaries to a certain extent.

46
When I perform an action, especially an action whose performance I have determined in isolation, I must consider, or rather I ought to consider, the possibility that my action might affect another person or persons for good or ill.  The modality of this possible effect is essential for the modality of what I ought to consider.  What would happen in the world of objects if I carry out this act?  What would happen in the world of persons?

47
Humans cannot see into the future, but they can imagine possible futures (what might be) just as they can imagine how it feels for another person to suffer an injury.  Modality is essential for reason, and reason is essential for interpersonal communication and hence for social comity.

48
Why did I insist for so long that modal auxiliaries were meaningless or worse, deleterious to understanding?–Because there are no firm boundaries separating any number of possible futures,–because you cannot be certain of what might happen.  But all people know more than they imagine they know.  But they might know less about themselves than they think they do.  In some cases–many cases?–the claim that “you don’t know what you can do until you try” is true.  Origin and desire seem related in some obscure way.  Accounting for the indeterminacy of origins and for the poverty of English in words for love, one might speculate that erotic love originates in the biology of the sex act.  But the actuality of the beloved: the most intimate of several sources of the sublime.

49
In at least some cases modality resembles temporality.  Can, for example, implies a future possibility.  In one sense, could implies an imperfect possibility: “used to have the power to.”  In another sense could implies a double modality: “might have the power to,” or, as it were, “might can.”  In a splendid pleonasm I once heard a triply modal idiom: “I might could”: “I might might can.”  Should  has taken on the meaning, obligatory modality, of ought to.  Previously, however, should was simply the first-person form of would as shall was the first person form of will.  The idiom “I should think . . .” does not mean, “I ought to think.”  The Mikado sings:

     My object all sublime
     I shall achieve in time
     To let the punishment fit the crime

(And his subjects respond:)

      His object all sublime
      He will achieve in time
      To let the punishment fit the crime

That should and shall follow the same pattern in their respective transformations as would  and will indicates the family resemblance of modality and temporality.  The obsolescence of should and shall as indicators of person has caused them to take on new meanings.  The modal auxiliary should has taken on the modality of ought to, thereby rendering the latter expression possibly moribund (it might die out).  And shall has taken on the modality of the imperative: thou shalt not commit adultery.    At one time ought was the subjunctive of owe, but it follows the Indo-European pattern of temporal transformation with the addition of a lingual stop (compare buy and bought).   In at least some cases no firm boundary obtains between modality and temporality.

50
Can implies power as such, but other modals, notably must (necessity), may (permission), and ought to (or should, obligation), imply power over.  This fact probably contributed to my sometime hostility to modality.

51
Many predicative words express an inherent modality even prior, as it were, to any modal transformation.  Verbs like want, wish, and try, and adjectives like certain and ready all highlight possibility over actuality.  Hence they are particularly susceptible to double modalization: “I might try” or “I would be certain.”  Sometimes such metamodality can boggle, as in Wordsworth:

     I could wish my days to be
     Bound each to each by natural piety.

Under what conditions might one wish (with the usual ambiguities of could)?  Or rather, why on earth shouldn’t one wish?  Why doubly modalize the already inherent modality of wish?

52
Might implies uncertain possibility, a double modality.  In some cases, this metamodality subsumes the meaning of an entire sentence, as in the idiom “It might rain.”  The subject is a pronoun without a referent.  One is reminded of Nietzsche’s citation (in Genealogy of Morals) of another meteorological idiom to expose the unimportance of the subject: “Lightning flashes.”  As this example shows, the subject is unthinkable without the predicate, and hence, the subject is an error always-already inscribed in language.  (No doubt another source of antipathy toward modality.)  Nietzsche argues that the sentence he cites exposes that there is no subject separate from the action, but only a “quantum of force,” an expression of power (posse), a modality.

53
One should not ignore the affective modality latent in the temporal auxiliary will.

54
Possibility connotes optimism and liberal-bourgeois aspiration.  Power connotes oppression and naked force.  Strongbad asks, “What are your special powers?  And will you use them for good or for awesome?”  Connotation, the modality of every word, exposes the narrowness, the feebleness, of denotation.

55
To want epitomizes the inherently modal verb.  An “action” verb, it expresses neither an action nor a state of things, but only an affective mode or mood.

56
I have suffered a nostalgia (homesickness, painful yearning for homecoming) for the Arcadia of firm boundaries, but Schiller, author of the “Ode to Joy” (“Daughter of Elysium”), says, “For whom the way back to Arcadia is blocked, forward to Elysium!”  Certainly the connotation of Elysium is too slack and static.  I want to substitute Utopia: probably still too static, but more taut than Elysium.

57
Why should will (as a temporal, not modal, auxiliary) express an actuality (albeit an as-yet-inexistent one) while might expresses a mere possibility, and an uncertain one at that?  Why do I grant pride of place to actuality over possibility?—Probably because possibility sounds bourgeois and Pollyannaish while actuality sounds realistic, hard-headed, and coldly unsentimental.  But what is an inexistent actuality?

58
Yeats defined sentimentality as “The will doing the work of the imagination” and certainly an affect to be rejected by modernists who “cast a cold eye on life, on death.”  But perhaps imagination is a configuration of will.

59
Fear, like lust, is an affective posture toward something.

60
Following Leibniz, many have regarded necessity as a benevolent force.  But those of independent spirit find the modality of necessity (must), like the modality of obligation (ought to or should), distasteful.  Cognitive-behavioral psychologists disparage musturbation  and shoulding all over oneself.  It is revealing that they conflate onanism and coprophilia with modality.

61
Only a profoundly immature person would deny the facticity of necessity and the necessity of obligation.

62
I am trying to modify (in the transformative sense) my affective posture toward modality.  I recognize modality as an inherent and hence ineluctable quality of language.  But is my program of modifying my affective posture merely a compensatory attempt to make a virtue of necessity?  And what if it is?  And how responsive is affect to will?  It seems that will follows affect and not the other way around.  Perhaps a Cognitive-behavioral psychologist could explain.  I swear I did not intentionally—that is, as an act of will—echo Stephen Daedalus’s “ineluctable modality of the visible.”  I do confess that my learning style—which is probably influenced both by my affective posture toward learning and by certain (ineluctable?) neurological features—is more auditory than visual.  I feel that I know more about my affective posture than about my neurological function.

63
Style and mode are often confused.  They might be synonyms, but I doubt it—there are no perfect synonyms anyway.  Part of the problem is that I have a good idea what style is, at least historically, while I’m still pretty clueless about mode.  It may be, indeed I hope it is the case, that style is simply a more compact, or perhaps more firmly bound, concept than the more sprawling concept of mode.  Style originates with the invention of the pen, the stylus, and with early literate societies’ intoxication with well formed-letters—good penmanship, even calligraphic penmanship—and by extension elegantly constructed sentences.  Mode is more generally a way of doing something: arranging diatonic tones, categorizing the properties of things, placing scoops of ice cream on slices of pie.  There is a grand style, but not a grand mode, so far as I can tell.  Modishness is trivial, not grand.

64
Concerning temporality and modality: After we have performed an action, we do not question whether we were capable—whether we could have performed that action.  While we are performing an action (note the semi-modality of the progressive form), we may have our doubts.  Before we perform (note the reference to the past in the present tense.  Or is it the subjunctive?) an action we may devote considerable thought to the question of our own capability.  Undoubtedly reflection is a wiser posture than impulse, but at what point does reflection tip into narcissism?

65
The spurious firm boundary, the membrane of the ego.  Writing resembles lovemaking in the accretion of intimacy.  Even when the writer is, as I usually am, absorbed with self-expression, the writer envisions (with varying degrees of focus, granted) a reader.  The writer’s task is rather absurd, as are the mechanics of sex.  If one thinks to know what she is doing, as it were, the whole affair becomes awkward and frustrating.  Fortunately, with experience (innocent experience, as it were) one learns how not to think too much.  Even so, the writer might be daunted and frustrated by the ineluctable fact that the author never knows what the reader doesn’t know.  Presumably, everybody wants to know, and certainly in ethics it is better to know than not to know, but the act of writing, like the act of love, shows that knowledge only gets one so far (I know the modifier is misplaced).  A perfect, tiny poem by Nash shows the lover’s dilemma, to know or to accept the inevitability of not-knowing:

           Do you love me or do you not?
           You told me once, but I forgot.

Lovers typically deny the inevitable, the brutally factual.  The wise lover like the wise writer seeks not knowledge but the accretion of intimacy from table talk to pillow talk.  The stripping off of the membrane, of the layers of the membrane, to reach the nakedness past nakedness and the commingling of whatever it is that the membrane is supposed to enclose.

66
For me writing is a matter of only modest concern, for I am manifestly writing.  Lucky me, who am never blocked.  (Beware denial!)  Achieving a poem is a matter of great concern, however, and indeed, of direst anxiety.

67
No poem has ever looked like this, but then no poem is supposed to resemble any other poem.  Bloom has declared that originality is the modern poet’s holy grail.  Never mind that it is impossible ever to obtain an inexistent thing.  In short, whether “this” looks like a poem is a matter of little concern.  However, the early numbered segments are sadly wanting, what with that nonsense about apothegmata and knowing whether I have written a poem.  Had I accidentally come upon this document I severely doubt that I would have read past the first two numbers.  The “Ode to a Nightingale” also begins quite weakly, but the foibles of the great can’t justify the defects of the small, can they?  On the other hand, there seems to be some wrong in changing those early segments or deleting them altogether.  Clearly, sequence is a matter of great concern, but my historical hostility toward sequence matches nicely with my historical hostility to modality.  Must sequence qualify as progress or its opposite?  The “Ode,” which begins so weakly, builds to an astonishing climax:

     Away!  Away! for I will fly to thee,
     Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards
     But on the viewless wings of Poesy . . .

Now here is a quantum of force, naked power!–To present the most glamorous image in English poetry and throw it away in favor of a non-image.  The epitome of the sublime.  Ah, but after this peak, the poem’s inevitable decline, which is not a defect.  Far from it!

68
Writing resembles pedagogy in the relation of innocence and experience.  Innocence wants experience, and experience wants to bring innocence into experience.  Thus two speakers in Blake, commander (a child!) and complier (an adult, paying a pipe, surrounded by sheep):

           Pipe a song about a Lamb
           So I piped with merry cheer

Unfortunately and usually, experience unreasonably seeks to exploit innocence by issuing commands for innocence to give experience what experience wants.  But in the lines above, innocence does the commanding: pipe a song.  Innocence commands experience to do what experience is already doing!  Never mind that it is impossible to pipe a song “about” something, a lamb or anything else.  Experience obeys innocence because the command coincides with what experience already wants.  Nobody was ever motivated by considerations of compliance.  Nobody ever truthfully said, “I want to do this because you have commanded it.”  Lovers frequently comply, but from motives richer than that of obedience.

69
And so we come to the fatal hand of the imperative.  Here no doubt is where my troubles with modality began, though the word fatal evokes not the beginning but the end.  The imperative seems primary in a couple of ways.  In English it’s the one mood that doesn’t employ a modal auxiliary.  Of course the indicative, which also uses no auxiliary, is a mood, but the great preponderance of statement in discourse makes the indicative almost invisible as a mood.  The simple subjunctive is moribund and practically negligible in English. (I fear I shall come to regret that last remark, but it would be vicious to delete it.  But why?)  But the imperative: the shock troops of modality.  Thus, clean your room, pay your taxes, appear at 9 o’clock.  The affective modality is that of underlying threat: comply–or else.  And underlying the underlying threat is that essential characteristic of modality: possibility, posse, power.  Comply or experience the baleful exercise of my power: the imperator speaks.  The imperative is a primary mood in that it nakedly, as it were–without a modal auxiliary–asserts power.  And the assertion of power always begs the question of legitimacy.  The parent who issues the command clean your room claims the authority to issue such a command.  Whoever complies with the command implicitly submits to the authority that the issuer (the imperator, the commander) claims.  But authority and legitimacy are not quite the same thing.  The power to author a command and issue it with authority presumably comes from some authorization.  Thus, the issuer of the command clean your room no doubt believes that the fact of parenthood confers the authority to issue the command; that is, parenthood authorizes the command.  (Belief is a shabby affect.)  But does parenthood indeed legitimately confer such authority?  And so the question becomes not, what authorizes, but what legitimates.  The question is a significant one especially considering the enormous possibilities for illegitimate commands.  The mugger who issues the command give me all your money–or I’ll blow your head off might well imagine that poverty or desperation or whatnot authorizes the command with its explicit (not underlying) threat.  Can an affective state like desperation legitimate a threat?  And finally, the imperative is primary in that it arises early in ontogenetic cognitive-linguistic development.  It’s an empirical question, I suppose, whether most toddlers issue commands like gimme dat before or after forming simple statements.  And of course an infant’s (pre-verbal) cry usually constitutes a demand for some mammalian ministration.  Interestingly, nobody doubts that an infant is authorized to cry.

70
For a long time I believed, shabbily, that the innocentest statement harbored a hidden imperative: (I hereby command you to accede to my authoritative claim that) Helena is the capital of Montana.  Movie villains sound more threatening when they whisper.  Histrionic frisson.  Artificial stimulation.

71
Buffering the imperative.  Because of the contiguity of command and threat, cultural norms require people in many (most?) social situations to buffer the commands they issue.  The concept of a request, for example, is that of a command that the recipient of which is authorized to refuse.  That is, I, the imperator, want you to do something, but you may–that is, I (or some other authorizing agent) grant you permission to–refuse.  Thus, I hereby request that you clean your room, and not I hereby command that you clean your room.

72
Of course nobody uses that hereby stuff, and so we have grammatical markers and polite formulae as signals for the buffering of commands.  Thus, a doubly modalized interrogative: Would you clean your room?  The imperator will be displeased if the recipient responds as to a question: Yes I would, under certain to-be-specified conditions, clean my room.  Indeed, the interrogative mood (assuming that the interrogative is a mood: at the very least it is a modalization) is itself a kind of buffered command: a request for, say, information.  It seems not too great a stretch to claim that overmodalization is the typical method for buffering commands.  Imperatives other than the second person (“you understood”) provide instructive examples.  The first-person plural imperative, for example, (Let’s eat!) uses the peculiar modal auxiliary let.  “Peculiar” because this word already implies a double modality: a command that one grant permission, as if the modal auxiliary may should have an imperative form: I hereby command you to grant me (“us”?) permission to eat.  But who is you?  In its unexploded form, Let’s eat, with its informal contraction, expresses the affective modality of democratic bonhomie.  

73
Buffering the imperative by disguising it as a request expresses a peculiarly obsequious affective modality: Please, sir, if you are not too busy and it isn’t too much trouble and I’m not exceeding my authority by asking such a question would you, please, but only if it is convenient for you, please, pass the potatoes?  In contrast, buffering the imperative with a temporal, rather than a modal, auxiliary intensifies, rather than softens, the imperative affect: All prisoners will proceed immediately to the delousing station.  Not a prediction, most effective when whispered.  Similarly, the temporal auxiliary shall has taken on the modal function almost exclusively, and specifically that of the imperative.

74
One should always adopt a circumspect affect when making claims about origins, first instances, sources.  One could say that knowledge of the imperative mood stands as the origin of my troubles with modality.  However, one could just as easily say instead that a guilty affect stands at the source of those troubles.  I did what I could, but I didn’t do much, enough, what I should have, etc.  One could say that that the anxiety provoked by the imperative constitutes little more than a troubled affect in reference to the future just as guilty feelings constitute a troubled affect in reference to the past.  However, the contiguity of modality and temporality suggests that time and perhaps even space originate in the affective postures of predators, herbivores, and omnivores.  Perhaps one should say that affect, even troubled affect, constitutes a virtual starting point, since no actual starting point ever obtains, at least so far as one can tell.  Hence, just as sleep provides a starting point for wakefulness, immaturity provides a starting point for maturity, and ignorance provides a starting point for knowledge, so too guilt and anxiety–affective postures in relation to illusory time–might provide virtual starting points for freedom–freedom precisely from guilt and anxiety.  No doubt guilt and anxiety constitute sources of suffering–or are they the product of suffering?  And just as one can never escape the illusion of time (nor, possibly, the illusion of space), one might never evade, once and for all, the suffering related to troubled affects such as guilt and anxiety.  Please don’t give me any nonsense about what I really mean.  The fact that these numbers contradict each other militates against such a conclusion.

75
How I love those modalizing adverbs such as nevertheless, however, no doubt, hence, precisely, certainly, most importantly, ect.!  And their modalizing power influences even conjunctions (among the mechanically infrastructural members of language) and such notoriously trivial devices as punctuation, typography, abbreviations, etc.

76
If I were you: a transcendentally beautiful meta-modal buffering.

77
I have been considering here verbal modality, but the concept invokes close analogues in the musical and, no doubt, in the visual realm.

78
Listen to Kind of Blue, how the players, supremely eminent practitioners, supplement the conventional diatonics and pentatonics of the blues with the musical modes, both historical and original.  The brilliant improvisations open a window upon a horizon of ever-expanding possibilities.  The commonplace experience of seeing or hearing something new upon returning to a favorite artwork bespeaks this infinite expansiveness, which is a hallmark of the grand style.  (Or if grand gestures disagree with you, the Free or Untroubled style.)  Interestingly, great art works often treat matters of pettiness, confinement, or trouble magnificently, expansively.  Look at Wheatfield with Crows.  The achievement of decorum always delights even when the matter of it evokes fear or disgust or the pains of sympathy.  Further suggestions of the possibility of greatness in a decadent age.

79
Many, many artists have achieved the grand style.  But the expression “great artist” is next-to meaningless.  On the other hand, great artworks, like the act of teaching a child, like the touch of the beloved, might make life tolerable.  Art, eros, and pedagogy have in common interaction of the most intimate sort, and they all open the horizon of possibility.  Eros and pedagogy involve human persons, so far as I can tell, and the experience of great art also involves a virtually personal interaction.  The artwork “gazes back.”  It expresses infinite depth (or less histrionically, extent or expansiveness) as does a lover or a child.  Though great art is often quiet, it is rarely still.

80
Matter often infects manner surreptitiously.  Have I devised a highly, even excessively, modalized style?  If so, does that guarantee that manner fits matter?  “All art aspires to the condition of music” since in music the matter is intangible and almost, pleasingly, illusory.  The grand style is the free style insofar as its manner is unconfined by the brute facts of the matter.  Indeed, great art typically exalts style while trivializing substance.  Hence, beauty is truth, and we err when we look for meaning in topics.  This is not to say that artworks are socially uncritical or irrelevant.  On the contrary, in its kaleidoscopic refraction of matter, manner (style, significant form) portrays actuality more saliently, more precisely, and more movingly than it could ever be experienced in quotidian circumstances.  Note that profoundly intimate interpersonal activities and the witnessing of pristine natural phenomena produce similar effects, namely that of the sublime.  Achievement = eminent practice.

81
I want something: I will that some power in the universe make (note the ineluctable subjunctive) the condition that I will the case.  Whatever I want is possible.  Much, much more than anything is possible.  Moreover, there is too little I and too much.  Most of I remains unknown to me.  And yet I am large and contain bewildering multitudes.  I can’t comprehend the modality of want since I can’t conceive of the power that will actualize that which I want.  And what is this I of which I speak?  On the other hand, in those situations in which I becomes less salient, so too does want.  It would seem, therefore, that gratification is less important than reducing the ego in one’s affective mode (or mood).

82
It is extremely difficult to use will as a verb other than as an auxiliary.

83
I hereby retract the designation of these numbered sections as apothegmata.  I don’t know what I should call them, or whether I should call them anything.  I could pretend that the word apothegmata has constituted some sort of “enabling fiction,” but that would be untruthful.  The truth is–or appears to be–that I was trying to impress somebody, probably myself more than my reader.  And why would one want to impress himself?–To reassure himself that he is impressive.  In short, to deflect anxiety.

84
To write: to perform an action (by no means the only possible such action) that brings the possible into the actual and the actual into the possible.  Writing, like many other, similar activities such as pedagogy and lovemaking, elides possibility and actuality.  We imagine that knowledge is power,  but nothing could be farther from the truth.  To write requires summoning the courage (the will, the power) to act despite one’s full knowledge of an ineluctable ignorance: the writer never knows what the reader doesn’t know.  An enormously salutary effect of such an action, compositional, pedagogical, or erotic, is to dissolve the confining membrane of ego.  Any action that effects the convergence of actuality and possibility defies totalization.  No all.  All “evermore about to be” (Wordsworth).  

85
Anything and more is possible, but much is, and ought to be, forbidden.  Note that while ought is sometimes demeaned as a mere derivative of the imperative, it has at least as much to do with value as with the binding and generally arbitrary force of command.

86
Error discovered is by definition instructive.  Grammatical mood and affective mood are historically, that is etymologically, distinct, and it is an error to link them too closely.  Nevertheless, they are psychologically and socially intertwined.  Verbal art, say poetry, is largely a matter of generating pleasing patterns out of this intertwining of grammar and affect.  At least the artist hopes to generate such pleasing patterns.  (The generalization of hope is aspiration, which is perfectly compatible with pessimism.)  The essence of achieved art is decorum: the fitting of matter and manner.  Matter is largely a matter of objective, that is, sensible, states.  Manner is largely a matter of intelligibly expressed affective states.  At any particular moment the artist is not conscious of either sensible or affective states–allowing, of course, for the immense range between “full consciousness” and “unconsciousness,” both probably unrealistically absolute extremes.  Moreover, the word states understates the dynamism of both grammar and affect.  But for the artist, intelligible expression is a primary consideration.  From the verbal artist’s standpoint an achieved (verbal) artwork expresses affect largely through the management (which is an exercise of power) of grammatical, or shall we say, objective modality.  However, because the achieved artwork emerges through the artist’s sensibility, it incorporates much more than the artist’s affective states, which are, after all, modified by translation into material form.  That is, the artwork is more than the artist knows.  Specifically, the artwork incorporates social and historical affect incomparably greater (i.e., more comprehensive, more capacious) than that of an individual artist.  The artist who achieves the grand style might, in fact, cherish the most modest of aspirations: merely to translate affect into material form, say, or even merely to achieve a significant form without particular reference to affect.  But what is mere translation or device for the artist might turn out to be a kaleidoscopic refraction for multitudes of persons, each of whom comprises a multitude.   One must certainly adopt a skeptical attitude toward claims of universality.  Nevertheless, greatness in an artwork exhibits, among other virtues no doubt, this comprehensiveness, this capaciousness concerning the affective postures of a great many people.  The grand style is thus the achievement of a particular decorum, which varies, to be sure, from great artwork to great artwork.  Greatness in an artist is a matter of no concern.  Greatness in an artwork is everything–or rather, it is infinitely expanding possibility in actual, material form.  Greatness in an artist is nothing.  Poor artist, who can experience the grand style in any artwork that exhibits it except the one of his own devising!  Eminent practice is worthy of admiration, but greatness in art demands reverence.  The artist who should be so supremely fortunate as to have achieved the grand style would be so knowledgeable of the artwork’s genesis as to be insensible of its grandeur.  On the other hand, what matters in this regard is that anybody, somebody experience the grand style.  Is it possible to fear infinite expansiveness?–Certainly.  That may well be part of its charm.  But everybody can experience the expansiveness of bliss and the bliss of the experience of the sublime.   Does anyone actually experience the grand style?–only a few, perhaps.  It is, however, eminently possible, and indeed eminently desirable, that anyone experience (beautiful subjunctive) exalted, sublime works of art.  No doubt the great works of nature are the original source of the sublime, but how touching it is that the sublime should also have been devised (not discovered) by the invention of naked apes!

87
Why have I treated the subjunctive so dismissively?  Theoretically, the following might stand as a world-shaping fiction: It were so.

88
Would you learn anything from reading this document?  How close are writing and pedagogy?  Writing and lovemaking?  And as soon as I address you, Dear Reader–I should have written thou (I mean thee), I have opened an erotic possibility.  Moreover, I don’t know how to correct what I have written.  Instead, I comment on my error(s).  That I regard correction as a vice indicates that I still suffer issues with (self-)command and (self-)control.  I should have addressed my reader as thou.  Addressing the reader directly was once permitted but now is, if not forbidden, then certainly frowned upon, and if one is going to violate a social nicety, at least do it truthfully.  Nevertheless, I know that error-avoidance is no way to write, or to live.  Hence, I err joyfully.  Problems are good.  They give us something to talk about.  I have not intended this document as a didactic instrument, but my intentions are both too plentiful and too obscure for me to register, much less comprehend.  One should not know too much to write.  In any case, one does not know too much.  How virtuous is it to make a virtue of necessity?  Truth and poetry are odd bedfellows, but bedfellows they are.

89
A poem: a made thing, an achievement.  A possibility brought into actuality by (the) power (of, call it, imagination, or more modestly, invention, too modestly, device).  Have I made a poem, now or ever?  Not my call.  The question is one of degree, and hence of modest concern.  I have most assuredly written, and it would be fatuous or the height of affectation (false affect) to deny the fact.  Having written is an achievement, but a modest one.  The written product, this written product, seems unlikely to have achieved the status of poem.  But who am I to say that having written I have achieved a product of any sort, much less a poem?  What nonsense: the total package.  Mere context expands infinitely.  It is, however, a matter of great concern whether I affirm or deny.  Negation is truly the most powerful of modalities, and not to be trifled with.  Where nothing is forbidden all is permitted.  Nihilism is the ugliest of errors, to deliberately believe–to command oneself to suppose–that all truth is falsehood, all value worthless.  (Split infinitives were once forbidden, but now are permitted.)  One must be exquisitely selective as to denials.  A poem is a something, not a nothing, but infinity lies between the actual and the possible.  Have I achieved a poem?  Have I made one?  Not yet, certainly not finally.  Having written is as close to the truth as I can, in this infinitesimal moment, imagine.  Achievement, it is said, emerges from Negative Capability, and remains, so far as I can see, which is not far, exclusively in the future, or more accurately, in possibility.  A sort of doing without doing.  One may certainly aspire to an eminent practice.  Would I have the power?  A question of great concern. Would I know?  A question of only modest concern.  Who am I?  A maddeningly, frustratingly ambiguous question of some concern.  I know that I is mortal, but that is a matter of no consequence in an infinitely expanding cosmos.

90
Why on earth would I have made the claim, “I won’t know whether I’ve written a poem until I have written it”?  My reader must consider me a fool!  I feel good that I am writing, and yet . . 

91
I fear the tiger that might be in the hallway, yet I know that there is not the slightest possibility that a tiger actually is in the hallway, yet I fear.  Why?–Because I can master and expel the impossible actual tiger, but I can never fully master the possible possible tiger.  Actual impossible tiger, no fear.  Possible possible tiger, fear.  But not all possibilities induce fear.  Many possibilities delight.  Many more are matters of no concern.  But fearful possibilities are always a matter of great concern and demand attention.  But shouldn’t delightful possibilities demand at least as much attention?

92
Other worlds, alternative universes delight, even fearsome ones.  Why?–Possibility.  The slimmest of fictions–There once was a man from Nantucket–delivers a significant enhancement of power–for the reader.

93
Who speaks?

94
I know so little, and I want to know more.  Or rather, I wish I knew more.  I chastise myself for my ignorance, which I feel to be culpably great.  I know so little about my own affective states, my own sensibilities.  I worry that my sensibilities are stunted, that I have neglected them.  I envy others who seem so full of feeling, and while I sometimes feel a great welling of passion, more often than not I feel dull and lethargic.  I know that knowledge only gets you so far.  I suppose that I care, I imagine that I care a lot, but how can I know what a lot is if I don’t know how others care?  I know even less about the affective states of others than I do about my own.  Moreover, I fancy myself a grammarian, but I know that a more authoritative grammarian than I would find many errors in this document.  I cover my doubts with bravado.  I know that I don’t know which matters are of great concern and which are of little.  I chastise myself for my egotism and narcissism, which burn brightly in each of these pages, for the confining force of my ego.  I have wanted to express my feelings about modality, but how valuable an enterprise is that?  Do I even know what modality is?  What feelings are?  What is the appropriate limit of reflection, of self-examination?  Why am I a bottomless pit of want?  Is everybody like that?  I do know that whom I love, I love indeed.

95
Behold: I have written a poem.

96
There is no I.  There is no poem.  There is no thou, beloved reader.

Recorded late at night after rehearsal, collected as Inventions, Chiefly Four-Part: A Musician’s Sketchbook.  The game is that I must play all the parts of the song, even bass, on one guitar, the Jag or the LP or the Strat or the Tele, multi-tracked, of course.  Some of the inventions are completed songs.  Some even have lyrics, which I will publish later, if I ever record them as stand-alone compositions.  Others of the inventions are just made up on the spot.  The poems were composed in one sitting long after the songs were recorded.  All the poems are improvised and relate atmospherically to the respective songs.  Read the poem while listening to each instrumental song.  Click on the links, y’all.

1.
01 Fd
Heidegger was a putz to call technology a problem
The only problem with technology is humanity’s dependency
But that’s not an avoidable error but a characteristic of the species
An unfortunate side-effect of this dependency is the tendency
To apply technological logic inappropriately
As for example to use a person’s body as a cum machine
A female dildo
And you define yourself by the brands of your appliances
Eat ya female dildo
But peace be among you
Praised be the dissonant as when the slide guitar changes key
And the phase shifter
With a hint of reverb
And harmonic distortion from the blessed output tubes
My instrument my little tool
A got the blues for my brother got stepped on by the man
Thinking technologically not brotherly
Minor third
Whole major second
Whole diminished second

2.
02 The Snatchy Waltz
I looked at the flocking birds to catch an omen
In their thousands heading north
In the temperate Georgia clime
Th’insignia on their epaulets
Bespoke a commanding and prophetic power
And they massed on the very floor of the yard
I asked quite bluntly will I win or lose
The blackbirds reply we’ll never tell
All facing one direction
They pecked at the faithful ground
And I again in love business or marriage
Said the birds we hwe hwe’ll never tell
We twee wee twee wee

3.
03 blue turnip tops-001 tu good mix
Pale the sycamore spreads its branches
The wide leaves ragged and creased
The bark peeling like the wallpaper off plaster
To be too good
Too you be too good
Be too good we have to start over
Pain Pain Pain Painpainpainpainpain
Chapped lips cold sores

4.
04 Want you to see want you to know 2
Want you to see want you to know want you to know
You rode the range the full range of fast food
And stretchy jeans and flimsy shoes
A bit down on the heel asleep at the wheel
Want you to see want you to know
With your eyes open so round
Nose on the ground
Look of delighted describe it surprise
Live the moment again and again
With your radar picture phone
With a homing device for the NSA
When the saints go marching in
I guess I watch em march
I’m most likely marching out
Seen them come and go
I’m marching out
I’m militantly cool
I got to gird it up
I got got to see
I got to go
I got to go
You know what I’m talking

5.
05 flopsum & jepsum2
Way in the distance like a foggy unicorn
She shimmers like Venus at sunset
And at sunrise
And at sunrise
We’ll touch the feeling of the center of the feeling
Feeling good
Feels good in the morning
Talking late at night
In crashing surf or the mountain’s height
I got the feeling that old sweet feeling again
I got you close to me
Watching the clouds go by
Like a boat on the sea
Fly Venus
Fly her bodily
Baby it’s just you and me
Baby baby
Baby baby
You’re feelin so good
You’re feeling good
I got the feeling

6.
06 fthlame 009
Watch your step
Watch your step immediately
I got a after aura of the waves they shot through me
Got good signal that time
Wave wave wave wave wave
Get a treasure for the autograph seeker
The celebrity at the TV window
In the holiday parade
Wave wave wave wave wave wave
Let it low as you can go
As you can go
As you can go
As you can go
The rockets’ red toes
The missile’s pink nose
Go play my show
It’s been a hard play’s show
Let me whisper in your rear

7.
07 scrash-001
Pick little daisies
The little sprinkly
That you find in the meadow
Whatever a meadow is
What ever it is
What ever it is
Doo wah diddy
Living for the city
Got hard jones for you
Got hard hard hard
Just gotta live with it
Endless frustration

8.
08 i don’t wanna try instr. demo
I don’t wanna try any more
Been at it a long time you and I
Handled a lotta crises
Now you got your mind made
My mind’s crossed too
I don’t wanna try any mo wo wo wo ur
All this talk’s getting us no place
I’m so tired of looking at your face
When will it end
In the sunshine or shower
I’m always that thing on the top of the line
I’ll be there for you baby
When you want to come on up
Come on Come on Come

9.
09 hang on loopies
The turgid waters surround me
I fear a pleasant death
Like I might not go through with it
My lover has me crazy
She has a quiet way of making demands
I’m inundated with troubles
No matter what they weigh they refuse to crush me
How can they so weigh me down
I’m victim of circumstance
In the name of the one I love
My one and only
Left me here to drown
Martial cadences for the mighty parts
Sexy moans for the erotic spots
Pathetic sobs for the sentimental episodes
I’m only here to clean the pool
The pool the whirling pool
The pool that glubbubs mu gark
Still no grandiose finale
How bout some pitchforks already
You lazy spawn of satan suck
Suck my cock
You demonic sacks of real shit
That I whipped up cause I couldn’t help it
Swear to god dreaming up imps
And plugging them into holes
In my consciousness
I gotta shit load of consciousness
Vipers
Parasites
Up my ass trying to get a bite
I can’t hold em
I can’t hold em off
I got no got no got no

10.
10 Shielded Cable
A double rainbow in the key of A
Cynical swine to scorn a bucolic fable
Here I lie lazing with my oaten flute
The one I love
Waits the other side of the brown hill
In a grain of sand is a universe
Going round and round and round
Stop asking about love
Though I delight to hear your voice
Even in logical complaint
Especially in complaint
The loverly sound of your voice
Sound of sound of of of
Leave here leave me alone
Only bring your lips up to my ear
Tell me what’s on your mind
Tell me what’s on mine

11.
11 scotische plover mkpc 001
Struggle is endless
The toil the pain
Clowns drive Mercedes
People shot down in the streets
There still is sweetness
Cecilia’s pie crust
The seventh symphony
Exile
And my baby’s coming up after me
See how she shines
Take a picture ya wisacre
Hobby horses gallop into the litho sunset
In USA and in heaven

12.
12 panic button
In a line of ants are the pheromones
That help the little bastards find their way home
With today’s booty a grasshopper or some peanut butter
So it each with each of us push and pulling in the city
I got ants in my pants and the ants is me
Ants in my pants
I need to dance
Chaunt a chanty Edgar
Terrence this is stupid stuff
My mama say stupid is a bad word
Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up
Let’s dance the Extravaganza
You mount a vaganza on the floor
You kiss while you’re dancing
And sing the house of the rising sun
The burning pitiless sun

13.
13 Stealers Can’t Be Dealers
Shucks huckleberry
The hounds done got there before you
You ran in a circle you clumsy bum
But you can live for a month under a porch
You can turn cat food into wine
You can waggle your tummy like the victim of a hurricane
You lying sack of shit
You can mark a man like cain, but you can’t make him unable
Ain’t that right lawdy mama
You make a habit of the blues
The real ones come down like hail walk like a man
Going home
Home is gone
Or it never was
Well I remember it was
That’ll have to do

14.
14 I need your help
Rescue me from this desert island
Who’m I talking to
This island is deserted
Except for me
So I play a tropical sing
On my imaginary steel guitar
Don’t go back and revise
Time the illusion keeps on moving on
I can’t go back I can’t go forward
I can’t even stand my ground
I got no ground to stand

15.
16 turd stalking ban fleight retred
I have seen the end of the world
I have seen the end of the world
Oh the sorrow and destruction
Nothing came only
No revelation only over
I have seen the complete extinction of time and space
I have seen the the heat death of the universe
There may be other universes
All’s I know is this one’s ending
I got words more powerful than actions
Gonna make you understand
I have seen the end of the world
I have seen the end of the world
Oh the horror oh the suffering
Little girl little girl
Calm down and set a spell
I want to have a nice visit with you
No threats no vile deceptions
I really want to be with you
I’ll show you pictures
I’ll hear you sounds
You’ll wish you could be there
You’re already there
Hear that train roll by
Knocking every rail on its side

Coda
Now I enjoy the fruits of my lucubrations
They’re probably 6 point 2
But drink 3 of them and you’ll be stoned
And I know the treasures of consent
Love me like you know it
Like you done a long time before
A long time before
A long before
Belong afore
All aboard
All abroad
Away a yo

There are some things you can’t describe
The still-winged flight of a dragonfly for example
How it simultaneously hovers and veers
And then with a single spasm moves out

How do you write down a way
How do you explicate an attitude
How record a charism a hesitation a whim
How catalogue a refusal

How do you translate a thing into words
Only if ever by conceding the disparity of words and things
You assert importune address abstract acknowledge
Dear dragonfly how your flight enchanted me

Stay with me
I have an idea
There might be a way

Then comes the moment when you know you’ve said it all
The moment you’ve been dreading
Logically you know this can’t be right
But you feel certain you’ll never have a thing to say again

No more stark dramatic facial effects
No more squinting and raising the eyebrows
No more accompanying groans and strangled whispers
No more gestures of phantom limbs out of dreams

No more phonemes sentences
Vast expansive orations
Declarations interrogations exclamations or imperatives
Just emptiness full to bursting