the window makes it difficult
to know what we are doing
in the present state of painting
as what is out there transpires
with us and against us, breathing
we are not alone and we perceive
only part of anything, through
what we think is truth, and even
that has its own window of escape
an ordinary thing to make, like
this or that word together at table
becomes nameless, asks for air
Air tables likeness, for together breathing transpires, doing difficult
painting. No matter how gradual, the only part of anything we think is
truth. To know what we are doing would amount to missing what we are. This
or that word received is distant from the fingerings. While hearing a flute
concerto, I can feel every note in my two hands. Have never lost the
embouchure exactly. In the meantime, this other half of lifetime, state of
marking what I hear.
air's given
coolness thrums
through indoor space
part of the window is pink
mountain at a certain hour of day
part green, part movement,
everything ordinary
is this loved
Once, at fourteen, I played a trumpet solo from Orff's Carmina Burana. This
was echoed by the same notes, on oboe, played by Rebecca Perot. I still
find myself, at times, repeating the fingerings, shaping mouth for the
playing. I remember little else from the band, can name few players, but I
can still feel, although not hear, everything about the playing of those
few bars. And I can hear, precisely, Rebecca's oboe. To this day, the oboe
remains one of my favorite instruments to which to listen. I have found
myself writing about this before, although not this directly, sometimes
intermingling the name Perot with pierrot. Whenever I think of *pierrot,* I
think of Jean-Louis Barrault in *Les Enfants du Paradis.*
oboe to perot to pierrot
links music history to a film
both worded and silent
and different ages remembered
with subdued lights, everything
ordinary and loved
or nothing plain at all in
indoor spaces open
at all points to air
Unexplainably, the word *twilight*. Possibly the separation, never really
there, between indoor and rooftop. Trumpet was my choice. That bell triples
my happiness, so I would borrow Tom's. Insensitively, sometimes, played the
instruments of others, with them there. The sort of hurt that only one
smarting from same is able to inflict. I knew that shrillness was as
polished as brash snow to morning eyesight. Although woodwinds have a
built-in mute, the flute, in silver, was assigned outside true family of
itself. My instrument.
fourteen, filmed
silently with feeling
the open air again
wording a solo
accomplished
beyond materials
a waltz of hearing
Eyes can say wet father wants moment of notes for years always loved. Loss
nearest thing to pressure, adding risk tones outside. Many wants only a few
words. Release so can draw more. Belief is root vowel. Successive arrive
painting, listening small eyes. Hearing fourteen borrow sometimes played
shrillness as polished. In silver, instrument with open air feeling solo
beyond waltz. Unexplainably. My outside true family.
the mountain laurel wavers
when the music comes too
much ease, the red flowered
bougainvillea conspires with
June to waltz away as flute
reminds every cell that words
release everything, no trumpet
calls needed in open air
again beyond hearing beyond
dream of all things which
flow water prayer and some
quiet too because without
small things there goes green
away and never bell sound again
Away small quiet flows a dream again. Calls release, remand June
bougainvillea when beyond is painted. And things too needed let go green
without a bell, the trumpet air, the wording of a flute, not red but
fourteen. Instruments are family. Risk. And root vowels eventually polished.
moment of notes for years
arrivals implant segues
just as we
reciprocate the floral
tinges with neglect
half smothered in them
waiting dream is daylight then
and such prayer
lavishes the little walkways
ease not to be confused with sweet
Confusion serves to remind that we are inside something we can't know. Such
a position can be sweet, we arrive and for years reciprocate this lack.
Don't say risk because there is no need, it's part of the equation from the
beginning. The pleasure of the root vowel is that it is multiple, we sound
and suck its fruit. Dream again as we pray.
words act and swallow
red balls, intention
continues into hiding
the edge of the sky
is green, and celebrates
its undoing
in the woods there
are no dull moments
and no definitions
the little walkways
measure social space
with marks of contention
Places finesse their two-way form as point and path. And so moments, each
and flowing. Undoing is a higher order of color. Sky's artistry. How many
centimeters of dilation mean the fruit is on its way? If multiples contend
one center, pleasure is in learning that. The woods have numerous equations,
less tight than we know.
reciprocity allows
edge to be
song for song
continues worthing
social space
dull moments
known for what
statis has arched
therefore contention
Pleasure falling off the end of the table, the ground is cool and unknown.
Equations are learned and unlearned. Division rounds everything into
uncomfortable rest. A magnet closes a door and stays quietly over stone.
Crayola another way of saying *I want you.* With no hesitation, we jump.
Song points disjunction's way. Apologies break temple walls. Flecks of
light upon dark sky mass until something calls out. Therefore has arched
its way to restitution.