Volume 5: DISAPPEARANCE

Sunday, November 23, 2008

John Bloomberg-Rissman, "No Sounds"

John Bloomberg-Rissman

No Sounds Of My Own Making

Holding
A long
Rod, he was

Beating
The ground
As he walked.

A
Number of
Unconventional playing techniques

Are
Utilised, perhaps
Most notably in

The
Case of
The piano during

The
Closing bars,
Which requires a

Pencil
Or a
Similar object to

Be
Dropped onto
The strings whilst

They
Are simultaneously
Fanned with a

Wire
Brush, struck
With a timpani

Stick
And plucked
With the fingers.

It
Saturated life.
Accomplished itself. All

The
Things had
Accomplished the impossible …

Like
The first
Time I was

Swallowed
Whole ... some
Japanese gardens include

The
Landscape outside
Their borders ... low

Flock
Of clouds
Before the downpour.

I
Smiled and
Threw money into

The
Paper cup.
Toru used to

Jokingly
Describe the
Style of this

Piece
To me
As “schizo-eclectic”.

Knowing
Its splendour
Is vain, one

Adores
Colour … there
Is no shadow.

From
The silence
Of the womb

A
Child is
Born and the

Insane
Fellow will
Begin to bellow

About
Life floating
Through dangers and

Humanity’s
Fickleness alienated
From its five

Fingers.
Some of
The units are

Characterized
By a
Sense of fragility

And
Some form
Intricate skeins of

Heterophonic
Polyphony. A
Further characterization is

A
Disoriented, deliberately
Naïve and rudimental

Consonant
Tonal simplicity
Which indeed is

A
Feature of
The work as

A
Whole, as
Is the impression

Of
“Memory”, and …
This is what

Must
Be done
Or permitted to

Happen;
And at
The same stroke,

Allow
Us to
Hear just how

Precarious
These delicate
Polychromies are, that

They
Emanate from
A blind void

And
Are going
To return to

Vanish
In it,
Vanishing towards Black.

Still
You swim
Towards the sea …

Beautiful
Old rug
In natural vegetable

Dyes …
Substance of
Which light is

Made.
The ceiling
Fan and flowers

Shed
Their petals …
A tumbling of

Sorts
Happens in
Midair … bread with

Its
Hard crust
And soft inside.

An
Enormous butterfly
With exaggerated genitals

Again
Dissolves into
Aqueous elements – eau

Céleste
(Heavenly water
= rain) and

Its
Transformation into
Eau terrestre (earthly

Water
= rivers
And lakes). Sometimes

The
Naked sky
Roots out raw …

Sometimes
The pack
Of low fog-

Banks
Come in
From the open

Sea
Drowns the
Apparent beauties in

Its
Grey truth.
The two hands

Sewn
Into my
Pants pockets cannot

Be
Pulled out
To wave. “They

Think
I am
Alive, not in

A
Womb, either …
Well, so there

Is
An audience …
You never noticed

You
Were waiting.
You were waiting

Alone,
That is
The show …” and

So
On and
The indifferent fog.

Wolves
Are sharing
The corpse of

A
Crow. While
Visiting the death

Camps
Of Auschwitz
And Birkenau, Kernis

Watched
Children chew
Blades of grass.

Similarly,
The fidelity
Of words to

The
Immemorial potential
That is in

Them
Is what
Makes one dream

Of
Writing. This
Does not prevent

But
Explains the
Fact that in

The
Gesture of
Painting there is

An
Impossibility and
Ban on believing

In
Colours as
There is a

Disgust
In relying
On words in

The
Gesture of
Writing. I grazed

Her
Breasts and
Was wondering why

She
Did not
Smile. The cello’s

More
Grounded throaty
Sound gives it

A
Less ethereal
More elegiac tone,

Is
Heard in
The white silence

Of
Great empty
Patches. They spread

Out
Like a
Tide infiltrating imperceptibly

The
Marshes of
A flat bay.

The
Black cat
Gives birth to

A
Few blue
Eggs. He was

Working
For the
First time with

A
Twelve-tone
Row. We must

Have
Colours, repeated
Colours, multiple ones.

The
Black cat
Gives birth to

A
Few blue
Eggs. Les espaces

Du
Sommeil. Desnos,
A member of

The
Resistance, who
Died in Theresienstadt

In
1945, wrote
In a hypnotically

Induced
State. Paul
Klee’s grey; Malevich’s

Black
And white.
Lamentation. Jeremiah needs

A
Lot of
Words to say

That
They have
Nothing to say.

Once
I was
At the equator

Trying
To slice
The earth in

Half
Along the
Dotted line. Buddhism

Is
A performing
Art (interpolation from

Beyer’s
The Cult
Of Tara, a

Source
Outside the
Game). The title

For
This work
For solo guitar

Is
Taken from
An essay by

Walter
Benjamin which,
In Ferneyhough’s paraphrase,

“Talks
About the
Essentiality of the

Augenblick,
Of the
Experiential moment. He

Takes
As his
Example an image

Of
The sun
Progressively approaching its

Zenith
Until, at
Noon, it beats

Down
From directly
Overhead, at which

Moment
All shadows
Disappear; everything becomes

Itself …
A quintessential …”
Blessed be the

Accursed
Insouciance of
The star, prays

The
Painter. For
The star is

Born
Again tomorrow,
And painting too.

Sounds
Of leaves
Falling on a

Chest
Of a
Man lying under

A
Tree with
A hand grenade

Inside
His pants
Pocket. Sounds, including

Noises,
It seemed
To me, had

Four
Characteristics (pitch,
Timbre, loudness and

Duration),
While silence
Had only one.

The
Monkeys on
The Nile mourn

The
Setting of
The sun. As

A
Child I
Spat into the

Palm
Of a
Blind beggar. (Duration).

And
With it
The world wakes

And
Wonders, or
So it seems.

The
Sun was
Burning and our

Feet
Were buried.
What I remember

Most
About this
Particular dance. Dark

Blues
And blacks
Make the yellow

And
Red of
Life. E LA

NAVE
VA. In
The early 1970s

I
Visited an
Abandoned Buddhist temple

In
North-west
China. The snowy

Mountain
Ranges added
To its dignity

And
Glory. Standing
In the courtyard,

I
Could almost
Hear the praying

And
The chanting
Of the monks,

As
Well as
The violence committed

By
The Red
Guards. Already on

The
Cave walls,
The seeing beast

Confesses
And tries
To cure the

Lamento …
Let us
Fix and shelter

The
Fireworks before
They go out.

All
I have
Is jazz jazz

Jazz
And lots
Of gasoline in

My
Bloody abyss.
Brilliance, beauty and

Legerdemain.
Comic and
Comatose, mechanical and

Passionate,
Dreamlike and
Dancing. All the

Strokes
Weep their
Tears downwards in

Homage
To obstinate
Weight. Only to

See
Ducks and
Chickens pecking on

Graves.
“Everything that
Has happened before

Is
Now crammed
Together.” Once again,

Too,
There is
An ending that

Is
Not an
Ending. Dawn breaking?

The
Black stuffing
Empties out of

The
Heart of
The picture, arranges

Itself
In a
Square around a

Still,
Timid clearing
In which Etruscan

Red,
Sky blue,
Straw yellow jostle.

Dreamt
My daughter
Adopted a palm-

Sized
Burnt baby.
Second interpolation, real

Dream.
In the
End everything needs

To
Happen. You
Are wherever your

Thoughts
Are. Explanations
Come to an

End
Somewhere. Say
Little and do

Much.
The Hebrew
Sounds exactly like

What
It means:
“Ehmor m’aht,” – “say

Little” –
And then
“Ahsay harbay,” all

Those
Wonderful vowels
To stretch out

With.
They seem
To be visible.

Mix
Arsenic with
Wine to drink

With
Dragon meat.
Maya is incredible.

Say
Or see
What there is.

Each
Person who
Visits must bring

A
Door on
His back. Gamblers

And
Punks with
Pockmarked faces. Every

Note
Has a
Specific duration, suddenly

Without
Beyond, without
Tomorrow or yesterday.

Leaving
I also
Carry a door

On
My back.
Over a period

Of
183 days,
For 5 1/2

Hours
A day.
It practices seeing.

Not
All I
See is there.

For
Me to
Say this might

Make
A person
Laugh, for anyone

Can
See for
Themselves the sacred

Sites
Where the
Great Beings passed

When
They created
The world in

The
Dreamtime. Third
Interpolation, from Peter

Worsley’s
Knowledges. If
I were to

Mention
That “Todtnauberg”
Was precipitated by

Celan’s
Visit to
The home of

Martin
Heidegger – an
Experience fraught with

Painful
Ambivalence for
The poet – this

Piece
Of information
Would not begin

To
Elucidate what
Celan made of

The
Occasion, far
Less what Birtwhistle

Made
Of Celan’s
Response to it.

Always
The gesture
Delivers a desert.

For
Me to
Say this might

Make
A person
Laugh: Arnica, eyebright,

The
Draft from
The well with

The
Star-crowned
Die above it …

In
The silence
Thus made, colours

Can
Be heard,
Futile and holy.

A
Rainbow bends
Down to drink

Seawater,
A car
Discharges blue smoke.

Now
Follows the
Bitter-sweet nocturne,

Its
Plaintive melody
Sadly weaving its

Way
Through gently
Undulating shadows. The

Finale
Seems to
Be no longer

Of
This world.
Desire does not

Ask
For reality.
Little gulps of

Chromatic
Pulp. The
Man and the

Moon
Sink down
To sleep. The

Semitonal
Trill. Desire
Does not ask

For
Reality; it
Demands the impossible.

People
May be
Named after the

Sheen
On the
Surface of the

Sea,
Stormy weather,
The different phases

Of
Tides and
Winds, the smoky

Hazy
Appearance of
Distance, the relaxed

Nature
Of some
Waves, the power

Of
Others. Why
Does tragedy exist?

Because
You are
Full of rage.

Why
Are you
Full of rage?

Because
You are
Full of grief.

On
The biwa
The sawari is

Part
Of the
Neck. The concave

Area
Is the
Valley, the convex

The
Mountain. When
String is stretched

Between
These grooves
And plucked, it

Makes
A noisy
“Bin”. The player

Is
Advised to
Imitate the sound

Of
The cicada.
Only trees move.

Unusually
Moving trees.
They give birth

To
A black
Cat, the same

Black
Cat who
Gives birth to

A
Few blue
Eggs, who crosses

All
Roads. Sawari
Also means obstacle.

I
Swim until
I become a

Stranger
To my
Own gravity. We

Hear
A low-
Pitched darkness, a

Void
From which
The elements of

The
Universe
Begin to emerge.

Pale
Reds and
Yellows, mauves, light

Clouds
Seen from
Very high, caressed

By
The rising
Sun and the

Trade
Wind. Weightlessness,
Speed and peace.

The
Pacific is
64 million square

Miles.
The final
Chapter, Saturday, is

The
Most mysterious.
Ernst labels it

The
Key to
Songs. The gesture

Orchestrates
Fugues, amorous
As water-lilies,

On
The long
Stretches of murals.

Tomorrow
We will
Be read, said

The
Poet, filling
Her glass with

Ballerinas
And porcupine
Spines, hammer granite

Medicine,
A worn
Out knife expertly

Sharpened,
Flute (doubling
Alto flute and

Piccolo),
Clarinet (doubling
Bass clarinet), violin,

(Doubling
Viola), cello
Piano and harmonium,

The
Complaint of
Growing old, of

Rotting,
Of having
To die, of

Being
Only a
Flesh, solitary and

Precarious,
A worn
Out knife expertly

Sharpened,
Your arms,
And the sky,

All
By itself
In its waters.

The
Ceiling drips
On my head.

“Little
Did I
Know that the

Man
I was
Buying asparagus from

Was
A shakuhachi
Player.” The colours

Come
When they
Are already there.

Even
A touch
Can crumble the

Plaster.
As was
My custom at

That
Time, it
Was composed in

Just
A few
Days and was

Mostly
Improvised
Without significant revision.

One
Runs because
One is not

In
A hurry.
One must fumble

Along
The dark
Hallways. Ternaries

Was
Composed for
Rachel Rudich. The

Paper,
The stone,
The canvas, the

Beige
Skin of
Petals at dawn.

The
Old house …
It wasn’t until

The
Second movement
I realized this

Was
My lost
Flute sonata … One

Runs
Because one
Is not in

A
Hurry … Even
During the day

One
Must fumble
Along the dark

Hallways …
Ternaries also
Alludes phonetically to

“Turneries” …
He does
Nothing other than

Be
The paper,
The stone, the

Canvas,
The beige
Skin of petals

At
Dawn … Even
A touch can

Crumble
The plaster …
Fanfare, lullaby, intermezzo,

Dithyramb,
Sonata and
Coda … The colours

Lie
Down because
They know that

They
Are loved,
Expected … the process

Of
Painting is
One of devotion.

Look
At the
Hands on the

Table.
Neither player
Knows when what

She
Plays will
Function as a

Cue.
The frame
Is going to

Fall.
Add hot
Peppers, Hoisin sauce,

And
Other impurities.
This may sometimes

Result
In an
Impasse: piano cannot

Play
Until the
Violin stops playing

While
The violin
Cannot stop until

The
Piano plays.
There remain spoils

Of
Blue, red,
A little yellow,

Tiny
Grey-blue
Humidities. I must

Endure
A long
Journey. The use

Of
Double sharps
And flats suggests

The
Possibility that
The violin adjust

Its
Tuning. But
It is the

Same
Gesture. How
To become a

Professional
Exile? A
Particularly awkward difference

Of
Sound. The
Draught of white

Black
Air, its
Guts ripped out.

I
Woke up
Twice in the

Night,
Once to
Urinate and once

To
Admire the
Stars. “The wine

Cups
Of daybreak
Are broken.” “Little

Black
Horse. Whither
With your dead

Rider?”
My clairvoyant
Soul - nothing ever

Appeases
Its desire
To see differently.

Clouds
Scrub the
Sky with fingerless

Hands.
“Black horses
And villainous people

Move
Along the
Deep paths of

The
Guitar.” Bottomless.
Ultramarine. “Come, I

Am
Your consolation …
Go … lose yourself …”

My
Pain is
Also my remedy.

I
Am an
Artist with feathers

Stuck
Under his
Armpits who flaps

His
Wings walking
In the night.

No,
So, okay,
Um … Every once

In
A while
Didn’t he wonder

Whether
He had
Made a complex

Issue
Out of
Something very simple?

Fifth
Interpolation, from
Steve Benson’s “Did

The
Lights just
Go out?” The

Numerological
Symbolism … these
“Magical” relationships … and

“The
Trillo Di
Diavolo.” The objects

Of
Ordinary life.
Dirt and sand.

My
Own skull.
Are those little,

Um,
Spikes peeking
Out from the

Sides,
And what’s
That underneath the

Edge
Of the
Leaf? Fifth interpolation,

Continued.
An arsenal
Of sounds including

Shouting,
Chanting, whistling,
Whispering, gongs, maracas,

And
Crystal glasses.
All the nuances.

Water-
Proof shoes.
Bones and flutes.

No,
So, okay,
Because, you know,

Fifth
Interpolation, finale:
Are you sure?

Far
Ahead, far
Beyond the threshold.

An
Old stooping
Monkey fed me

By
Shaking the
Tree. It allowed

Me
To feel
The music. When

The
Gaze is
Set ablaze. This

Is
My life,
Not beautiful, squashed

By
History and
Money, not beautiful,

But
With some
Meaning. This is

My
Toy, made
Of clay. Elements

Can
Be rearranged
At the pleasure

Of
The performer.
The eye burns.

Figs
Fell into
My mouth, allowed

Me
To feel
The music kinetically.

Why
It is
An art of

Time.
Green waits
In the air.

Green
Waits. Air
And fire flare

Up.
The hand.
The untitled eye.

To
Die many
Times in dreams.

As
Anyone who
Has experienced the

Full
Rush of
Radiant sound knows,

When
It ends
There is a

Marvelous
Aura of
Un-sounded sound

Floating
In the
Afterimage, disembodied, carrying

The
Spirit but
Not the gravity.

The
Machine begins
To smoke, deep

Beneath
The white
Foam. David said

That
It was
The softest hand

He
Had ever
Held. I’m slipping

Off,
Says the
Man. I didn’t

Do
Anything. Seagulls
Dance, ascending the

Heaven
Ladder. That
The paper retains.

Retains,
And keeps
In its swaddles.

For
More than
A decade he

Swam
During the
Day and rested

On
The bottom
At night. He

Was
A man
“Full of sun”

As
All who
Knew him will

Say.
He spreads
A bit of

Paper
On wood,
Exposes them to

The
Unknown, and
The demon of

The
Visual machine.
Arriving, one of

His
Lungs had
Turned into a

Gill,
One into
A leaf of

A
Dead tree.
“What beauty and

Strength!”
With a
Backward stroke of

A
Wing, he …
He lived in

A
Glass house,
Next to jars

Of
Insecticide. He
Took me into

Varèse’s
Old workroom.
He is not

The
God of
The origin, he

Is
Not an
État d’âme.

He
Refuses these
Motifs. How many

Other
Combinations were
Possible, remain pending …

I
Have no
Place left to

Migrate.
In the
Summer of 1973,

I
Visited the
Village of Trunk.

( )
Is an
Art of serving.

It
Has no
Secret, but requires

An
Ascesis. On
The corner a

Man
Stands very
Straight, an old

Horn
In his
Hands. The village

Welcomed
And accepted
Me. I was

Allowed
To record
Their ancient stories,

Tales
And songs.
That’s just being

A
Servant of
Vision. A rainy

Day
And the
Driver with a

Long
Scar on
The back of

His
Hand. I
Sent some photographs.

Half
A year
Later, the police

Identified
Those who
Had sung for

Me
And levied
Heavy fines on

Them.
( ) is
A way of

Being
Anchored in
The world. I

Watch
Two dogs
Tussle in the

Grass.
In March
1974, I received

A
Telegram: “Do
Not come again.”

Gesture
Not gesture.
Smeared on my

Hands.
DOOM. A
SIGH is based

On
Two songs
That Istvan Marta

Recorded
During his
Visit to Romania.

The
First, sung
By Mrs. Pieter

Benedek,
58, evokes
Her long dead

Parents,
And the
Second, sung by

Mrs.
Gergel Imre,
46, recounts the

Scene
Of a
Bloody battle. The

Territories
Crack, the
Horizon dilates … He

Sees
And cannot
Make seen … The

God
Is waiting
For something to

Divulge
The hidden
Faces of time.

To
Those who
Consider this a

Material
Loss I
Say put a

Little
More warble
Into your vibrato.

The
God is
Silent. We have

Made
The dawns
Bleed. We had

A
Huge amount
Of fun. Soft

Handfuls.
Faces pressed
Into the mud.

“Of
Course it’s
Difficult,” she laughed.

“You
Have to
Practice the horsehair

Fiddle
For a
Long time before

You
Can master
It.” Roll in

It,
As though
At a death.

You
Are a
Small dictionary defining

Secret
Words for
Me. Perpetual motions

Of
Water, wind,
Air and plant

Life.
Simple silent
Glory. In the

Middle
Of the
Square there’s a

Broken
Bench, a
Tree with foliage

So
Abundant that
After the night’s

Shower
Drops continue
To fall until

Mid-
Day. Sixth
Interpolation: Beth Sibley

Writes,
Suggests a
Word I can’t

Use
Here (alterity),
Goes on to

Muse
About Lew
Welch: “Amazing he

Was
Never found –
Maybe he’s still

Wandering …”
Which leads
Me to fantasize

The
Old hermit
Inscribing one more

Ghostly
Poem this
Morning, on one

More
Fallen leaf,
Floating it down

A
Boulder-strewn
Stream … a small

Dictionary
Defining secret
Words for me …

Simple
Silent glory.
In the middle

Of
The square
There’s a broken

Bench,
A tree
With foliage so

Abundant
That after
The night’s shower

Drops
Continue to
Fall until mid-

Day.
Little by
Little. Divine circumstance.

In
The middle
Of the square …

Acceptance,
Harmony, grief,
And a sense

Of
Exquisite regret …
Simple silent glory.

Heavy

Drops fell
From the trees

And
Made a
Plopping sound as

They
Hit the
Poodles. Shouldn’t that

Be
“Puddles”. No …
Poodles (Anselm Hollo,

“Pygmy
Huts”, read
At random the

Next
Morning while
Taking a shit.

Divine
Circum-happenstance).
Finis, interpolation six.

Summer
Dressed all
In white, falling

Asleep.
Shanti. Prashanti.
Well, it sometimes

Happens.
Roots, dirt,
Corpse: “body, mind,

And
Wealth I
Offer at thy

Feet.”
Well, it
Sometimes happens that

He
Wishes for
It. To pass

Through
A screen
Door, which opens

With
The sacred
Syllable. What his

Oeuvre
Will have
Signaled: roots, dirt,

Corpse:
“Fill our
Hearts with love

And
Peace.” Well,
It sometimes happens …

From
The darkness
Of the camera

They
Sang. There’ll
Be no end

To
It. What
Must have been

A
Beautiful day.
Hundreds lay dead,

Thousands
More fell
Wounded, and the

Snows
On the
Palace Square were

Dyed
Scarlet with
Blood. What’s the

Point
Of distinguishing
Episodes and narrating

Them?
His watch
Showed 10:05. “May

All
The blood
Still to be

Shed,
Hangman, fall
Upon thee and

Thine …”
Always and
Never the same.

Don’t
Think a
Poet can ask

For
More. What,
At first, appear

Like
Small gentle
Melodic strands, mere

Echoes
Or residues
Of the main

Event,
Gradually assume
An inner life

Of
Their own.
Let it come,

That’s
All. Put
Yourself flat on

Your
Back. The
Very ambiguity, it’s

Only
Natural. “Wild”,
Etc. Begin to

Receive
The kiss.
( ) is found

In
The saliva
Of the gods.

The
Song of
The sap in

The
Branches of
My arms, in

The
Middle of
All the possible

Musics
And sounds
Of the world,

The
Earth, listening
To us, the

Star
In my
Hair, the violin,

The
Tide erased,
All day sitting

In
The shade
Of your eyelashes,

A
Kind of
Vertigo … If I

Devoted
My life
To one of

Its
Feathers? If
I arrived in

A
Time of
Words and thread?

“I
Remember the
Future – I’m fated

To
Something odd –
To have patience

The
Color of
A refrigerator – synchronicity –

&
A forest
Of emerald Buddhas.”

That’s
Mông-Lan.
Is this interpolation

Number
Seven? Or
Interpolation number one?

Long,
Long have
You held between

Your
Hands the
Sound of water.

The
Sole touched
The ground, the

Ground
Touched the
Foot. Long, long

Have
You held
Between your hands

The
Half-darkness.
Chanting of monks:

“A
Time to
Love, a time

Of
Peace, a
Time to dance,

A
Time of
Silence …” We were

Traveling
On a
Voyage. Oblivion. Oblivious.

A
Transitory pact
Called “Bus Ride.”

When
Shall I
Sit down once

More
At the
Dark table of

Your
Breast? Blood
Gives way to

A
Cadenza for
Water (the bus,

Too,
Moves in
Primordial mythic time).

When
A girl
Is born, her

Mother
Puts a
Spider in her

Hand,
To teach
Her to weave.

I
Had no
Words / I was

Speechless
Before the
Golden riddle of

Your
Smile. I
Said, “In that

Case,
I will
Devote my life

To
Beating my
Head against that

Wall.”
I lay
Down on an

Empty
Street to
Feel as the

Pavement
Feels. I
Had no words /

I
Was speechless.
So it was

That
I gave
My Lecture on

Nothing.
Tired of
My room’s normality,

I
Crisscrossed it
With a blue

Thread …
Taut and
Geometrical as a

Sky
To communicate
With other worlds.

From
The top
Of the hill

Shaded
From light /
Where light takes

Refuge:
The blue
Forest of your

Hair.
Only photocopies,
Photocopies of photocopies,

Etc.,
Survive. I
Proposed a day

Of
The seed.
I proposed a ...

How
Long is
It now since

I
Entered civilization
And still I

Have
Not succeeded
In appeasing the

White
God of
Sleep. But these

(Or
Further photocopies
Made from them)

Are
Quite adequate
For performance. ( )

Laughed
And said
Pensively: I shall

Rest
For a
Long time under

A
Blue-black
Peace / a peace

That
Is dark
Dark blue. She

Realized
The notation
By performing a

“Solo
Dance,” making
A painting by

Dipping
Her feet
From time to

Time
In paint
And walking on

A
Greatly enlarged
Copy of the

Notation.
Every year
I gathered and

Planted
Seeds. When
The trees reached

20
Cm I
Gave them away.

Listen
To the
Menace of the

Old
Men / the
Threatening wizards. Breathe.

Set
To music
Poems by ancient

Egyptian
And Persian
Writers and Marina

Tsvetayeva.
Make the
Urgency of the

Present
Palpable. Fingers
Bleed. The piece

Is
Titled Silenzio.
I tried to

Capture
Spring, but
The petals rotted.

Perhaps
Tomorrow the
Purple voice / the

Crimson
Voice will
Cease / will hush

Forever.
Breathe. Leaves
From the trees,

Though,
Were hardier.
Don’t be surprised,

My
Love. All
Of these sounds

Are
Festive. I
Wanted to keep

Them
Before they
Were swept up

Or
Burned, not
Out of a

Desire
To make
Them eternal, but

As
An act
Of folly. Several

Million
Years after
The creation of

Autumn
And a
Few years after

The
Creation of
The plastic bag.

I
Have spun
A song soft

As
The murmur
Of doves at

Noon.
I often
Regret having come

Into
This petty
World; not that

I
Hate the
World. No … I

Love
The world.
Sidewalk forests, small

Altars
On the
Streets, the opinions

Of
Birds, “the
Dangerous instant of

Transformation …”
I have
Offered you my

Wildflowers.
That’s life,
Mon vieux. It’s

Total
Nonsense. I
Began to compile

An
Encyclopedia of
Disgust, a document

Of
The abjection,
Violence and injustice

In
Which we
Lived: no one

Contributed
To it,
Everyone thought our

Era
Was the
Encyclopedia of Disgust.

The
Streets are
Quiet and white

As
In the
Afternoon naps of

Childhood.
So many
Of my symphonies

Are
Tombstones. Maximum
Fragility against maximum

Power.
Mildness at
The end of

Day
And flaming
Blossoms. I’m willing

To
Write a
Composition for each

Of
The victims
But that’s impossible.

A
Token, a
Strand of seaweed,

A
Shell, or
A pebble. The

Smiles
Of our
Dead who dance

In
The blue
Village, their smiles

Are
So gentle.
The violins sing

A
Serene duet,
Followed high on

The
Cello. The
Poverty of the

Thread
[Is] the
Limit and edge

Of
The world
[Is] any moment.

My
Sister, these
Hands of night

Upon
My eyelids,
The mutability of

Boundaries,
Tunes from
Pannonian Gypsy taverns,

Like
A drop
Of blood into

The
Void, the
Twittering of the

Milk-
White birds,
The fire of

Passion,
The pain
And paradise of

Love,
Death of
A more intimate

Kind,
La muerte
Chiquita, la muerte

Pequeña,
A few
Photos, the books

Burned,
The bodies
Disappeared, the high

Strings
Of the
Koras, many crossroads,

Many
Crossroads, I
Saw the suffering

That
Would come
To us, I

Tied
A red
Handkerchief around my

Wrist
And wore
It day and

Night
Until it
Frayed, eyelids so

Transparent,
“Sunday is
Gloomy, my hours

Are
Slumberless / Dearest,
The shadows I

Live
With are
Numberless / Little white

Flowers
Will never
Awaken you / Not

Where
The black
Coach of sorrow

Has
Taken you,”
The meeting of

Sun
And bone,
Trail of bones,

I
Laughed, I
Laughed, I laughed,

In
Search of
Star, stone, air,

Breath,
Snot, semen,
Urine, excrement, babies,

What
Goes in
And out, in

And
Out, of
The creation body.

Wild
Perfumes of
Presence that can

Last
An eternity.
The film To

Parti
Si Pate
Would begin with

This
Image. What
Is poetry to

You?
Pure and
Primordial masks upon

The
Wall. The
Most important text

Is
A twice-
Repeated fragment about

Birds
Flying in
The mild air,

As
If they
Were unconsciously questioning

Existence
Or trying
To remember something.

Plurivalent.
Part of
The material for

The
Flute work
Is also a

Text
About birds.
The sí in

Passion
(From the
Latin partire, to

Suffer).
Classic words
To cradle these

Obsessions.
Like the
Birds who are

Unaware
Of their
Shadows and thus

Create
For us
The illusion of

Freedom.
Weaving together
The two sides

Of
The road.
Joining the two

Banks,
Below and
Above the water.

The
River wants
To be heard.

“Everything
[Is] alive,
Even the stones.”

Stars
On the
Curved sea were

Another
Apparition de
L’église éternelle.

Interpolation
Number eight:
Shake before the

Real
Because it
Isn’t but it’s

Plugged
Right into
Your socket. (That’s

Alice
Notley, Alma
Or The Dead

Women).
The Chibchas
Weave lines, birds

Lose
Feathers and
Being makes its

Offering
To immensity.
Two or three

Lines,
A mark,
And silence begins

To
Speak. Readable
Asemic writing is

What
I'm interested
In. *Readable Asemic*

May
Be oxymoronic, but
Still, that’s what

I'm
Interested in.
(The Blind Chatelaine;

Interpolation
Continued). It
Was before we

Were
Born. The
Conditions in the

Camp
Were appalling.
Quatuor pour le

Fin
Du Temps
Was premiered in

Front
Of thousands
Of prisoners, with

A
Dilapidated piano
And a cello

With
Only three
Strings. The earth

Breathes
Through its
Cracks. The rock

Remembered.
The stars
On the concave

Sea
Were another
Echo. Vast landscapes,

Birds,
Are probably
The greatest musicians

To
Inhabit our
Planet. To be

Erect
Again, greening!
Who has not

Wished,
At some
Point, to create

An
Abecedarium,
Or even an

Entire
Vocabulary, from
Which the verbal

Would
Be entirely
Excluded? I saw

Her
Eyes liven,
Receptive to the

Signs.
The journey
Could continue (Henri

Michaux,
Stroke by
Stroke). Interpolation concluded.

I
Consulted the
Pale old men /

The
White-haired
Elders … They told

Me
Their silence,
The astounding darkness

Of
Their eyes
And ears … Interpolation

Nine:
Iraqi war
Dead estimate: around

650K.
Astounding darkness …
Tavener describes Eternal

Memory
As the
Remembrance of death …

To
Be erect
Again, greening! Waves

Of
Grass, blades,
Blades, surging … The

Poem
And the
Poet become a

Plant …
Your smile
Sets me a

Riddle …
The Paradise
Christ promised the

Repentant
Thief … I
Have not forgotten

To
Consult my
Heart (the first

Portable
Precario) … The
Bright wing … I

Heard
The music,
Chant-like in

Character,
As though
From a distance

As
If half-
Dreamt … The plant

Becomes
The fibers
Of the book …

I
Close the
Ninth interpolation with

A
Quote from
Ludwig Wittgenstein I

Borrowed
From Omo
Bob: I can

Well
Understand why
Children love sand.

Who
Hopes to
See / to find

My
Face among
The fluttering / in

The
Blossoming scarves?
Does the performer

Know
How to
Play these pieces,

Does
The listener
Know how to

Receive
Them? [Louder]

Can … you’re not

Hearing
Me? [No, …
Can’t hear you

At

All] Not
At all? [
No …

Nah]
What do
I do [
You

Can’t
Turn that
Up? Can you

Turn
The mike

Up?] If I

Try
To speak
Louder it will

Only …

[Let’s take
A three minute


Pause …]

It is
The silence of

Destroyed
Villages. Let
This silence resound

For
Them! The
Transcript refuses

To
Forget. You
Hear this hummm …

Angel
Of answers
That come with

The
Light, clear
As dawn, the

Image
Of surprise
And bewilderment. Only

An
Empty pedestal
Was left, three

Out-
Of-work
Fiddlers, and snow

Flakes,
Etc. I
Laughed, knowing what

Was
First. A
Being in. Salt,

Mists,
Doves, stones,
Sand. Two young

Apaches
Meet at
A Hoop Dance,

And
Dance only
With each other.

The
Next day
The boy plays

His
Flute for
Her. She puts

A
Leaf in
The stream which

Flows
Down to
Him, so he

Knows
She hears.
The first knot,

Beginning
Of the
Spiral. Radiant gate

Of
Riddles. Doves,
Stones, sand. The

Girl
Falls ill
And dies. The

Boy
Runs into
The hills. His

Flute
Still echoes
When breezes blow

Through
The cottonwoods,
And streams ripple

In
The canyons.
“Are you personally

Closing
The street?”
A man asked.

“Just
For a
While,” I said.

We
Played. Glissando
With a bamboo

Pole
Along the
Pegs. In my opinion,

I
Don’t write
Any secular music

At
All. The
Thread is a

Path
I lose
Myself on, the

Path
Is a
Scent I go

Down.
Like someone
Seeking the smoke

Of
A dream.
I am fascinated

By
The instruments.
A constellation of

Darkness,
Another of
Light. The transparent

Shadows
Of singers
Cried. Not a

Tree
Grew in
The courtyard. Paul

Celan:
“There are
Still songs to

Be
Sung on
The other side.”

Halo
Of blood.
A bear playing

The
Double bass.
At precipice’s edge.

Gathering
Many seeds
In one place.

My
Legs grow
Weary on the

Streets
At five
O’clock. My

Nerves
Collapse. This
Trembling that gnaws

My
Bones. There
Is no easy

Splendour
In either
The dissonant harmonies

Or
The piled-
Up fifths or

The
Primitive scoring
For brass.

Fire
Hydrant. White
Objects on black

Asphalt.
Gutter. Trash.
The two sister

Cities,
The purple
Of the living,

The
Blue of
The dead. A

Numbed
Chorus. In
This uncertain middle

May
I sleep
In the peace

Of
Your breasts.
Faust: I wish …

Mephisto:
I fear
This will be

The
Last of
Your wishes. Shrouded

Stone.
Silver helix.
Metal thread. We

Will
Drink the
Moon’s milk streaming

On
The sand.
Faust: they perished in

A
Smile. There
Is no beginningofthend.

Nalikena
(On they
Went), hanging on

To
The weather’s
Edge. Never turn

Your
Back on
A rogue wave.

In
My dream
Last night two

Lines
Of a
Poem came to

Me.
On waking
I lost one.

The
Flowering of
The “termite tree”

In
November/December
Means the rainy

Season
Will soon
Be here. Lunch

With
Its divers
Orders of sliced

Chicken.
What ho,
Old chap, gravity

Is
Working. Exhausted,
The mother has

Fallen
Asleep so
Her baby is

Listening
All alone
To the sound

Of
The night
Train. For

The
First time
I looked round

At
The wide
Stretch of water.

I
Don’t even
Have a hint

Of
A message.
A positively cheerful

Little
Tune in
Carefree dotted rhythms.

Simply
Time … and
Sound … written and

Breathing.
Pearls of
Dew. The pearls

Are
A musical
Cipher of the

Sinuous
Goddess. Lower
Strings and woodwind

Rising
In aching
Arpeggios, violins climbing

Ever
Higher and,
As the urgency

Increases,
A searing
Trumpet call. Vaya

Vaya …
Vaya vayaaa …
Aya vaya aya

Vaya
Aya vayaaa …
It is enough

To
Be sick,
Like an orphan

With
No gold
Anklets. What shall

My
Voice say
In response to …

I
Don’t even
Have the hint

Of
A message.
At what might

Have
Been the
High point of

The
Work with
Anyone else, she

Plunges
The chorus
Back into the

Depths
Of darkness,
From where it

Must
Resume the
Struggle. I also

Wanted
To say
That it is

Good
To be
In front of

A
Painting that’s
Called an ode

To
Joy and
Yet is so …

We
Dared our
Trembling hands, our

Mouths
Opened and
Closed. A single

Tree
Grew in
The courtyard. I

Thought
That all
This was nothing

Other
Than a
Way of remembering.

Moon-
Faced moths
Rested gently. Their

Happiness
Scalded us.
I don’t know

Why
I am
Religious. First, there

Was
Listening with
The fingers. The

Shared
Bones, sticks
And feathers were

Sacred
Things I
Had to arrange.

Your
Eyes, these
Sudden flashes of

Lightning
In the
Rainy season. I

Had
Been composing
For a long

Time,
Knowing nobody
Was going to

Hear
Me. What
Are we doing

With
Our lives?
Interpolation ten: Predicting

The
Weather is
One thing. Predicting

It
Correctly is
Another … that’s Bob

Cobbing.
And here’s
Liz Lochhead: A

Good
Fuck makes
Me feel like

Custard.
And here’s
JBR: Chrysanthemum tea

In
The morning:
Not bad. Then

The
Bronze crunch
Of sand. Leaves

Flickered
Like eyelids.
In the depths

Of
The world.
The body: a

Metaphor.
To pray
Is to feel.

A
Language of
Gestures, to quote

Jessica
Smith, verdure,
Issue 7. Interpolation’s end.

The
Sign begins.
The precarious is,

Is
Nothing and
Is and is.

The
Cries of
The hunter’s dogs

Straining
At the
Glowing leashes of

The
Great dream,
Night sounds of

The
Nights, quick
Precise and certain

As
The non-
Thoughts of the

Feather,
The calm
Dreams of lizards,

Canyon
Echoes, sunrays
Producing starlike points

On
The stone
Walls, islands floating

On
The earth,
Hands off in

The
Distance at
The self’s outer

Limits,
The mango
Tree’s dark blue

Lips,
The aulos
And the kithara,

A
Metaphor spun,
A woven message.

Sometimes
It is
A cloud. I

Can
Neither write
Nor speak about

The
Triumph of
The spirit. In

Ancient
Peru the
Diviners traced

Lines
Of dust
In the earth,

As
A way
Of divining, or

Letting
The divine
Speak to them.

Sometimes
I turn
Around in the

Street.
Every glance
May be expanded

To
A poem,
Every sigh to

A
Novel, happiness
By a single

Breath.
Suddenly the
Feeling that a

Word
Just came
Into my field

Of
Sight, en-amor-ados,
A word almost

Like
A person.
Like the sweep

Of
A wing.
“Tender, completely tender …”

Mist
Into flesh
Into mist into …

Sometimes
It is
A cloud. I

Can
Neither write
Nor speak about

The
Triumph of
The spirit. In

Ancient
Peru the
Diviners traced

Lines
Of dust
In the earth,

As
A way
Of divining, or

Letting
The divine
Speak to them.

Sometimes
I turn
Around in the

Street.
Every glance
May be expanded

To
A poem,
Every sigh to

A
Novel, happiness
By a single

Breath.
Suddenly the
Feeling that a

Word
Just came
Into my field

Of
Sight, en-amor-ados,
A word almost

Like
A person.
Like the sweep

Of
A wing.
“Tender, completely tender …”

Mist
Into flesh
Into mist into …

This
Long voyage,
This slow sweet-

And-
Sour kiss.
With great peace

And
Serenity, slightly
Grotesque. “The flickering

Lights …
Produce the
Trance … and a

Gleam
In the
Dark is seminal.”

Shall
We go
To the Belborg

Where
Men eat
Nourishing ice? “I

Dreamed
The Hidden
Treasure in 25

Notes,
Which I
Immediately saw as

A
Byzantine palindrome
Representing Paradise.” Waterrrr.

Zigzag
Meander. Playing.
Splashing. Gone around

The
Bend. Where
The peacocks flourish

Wild.
The coffin
Is full of

Wild
Peacocks. The
Coffin is borne

Out
Of church
Followed by mourners

With
Lighted candles.
I go up

In
Smoke. A
Hummingbird becomes a

Metaphor
For poetry,
And vice versa.

What
To me
Are when I

Am
Only? A
Dilapidated piano and

A
Cello with
Only three strings.

Clay
Snakes. Where
Are the what

Does
It matter?
Saint François d’

Assise.
She hides
Bundles of twigs.

But
Will the
Lovers sing? Extensive

Field
Research. She
Spills a glass

Of
Milk. She
Floats tiny rafts,

Ties
String between
The boulders, assembles

Bits
Of natural
And artificial debris.

The
Hummingbirds make
Flickering lace / the

Hummingbirds
Shriek. Soprano
Flute, oboe, cello,

Prepared
Piano and
Live electronics. Humming

Feather,
Mirror in
Flight. The cries

Answer
Me, like
Children slaughtered at

Night.
A twinkling
Of the eye

That
Can last
An eternity. Light

Of
The edge.
Eleventh interpolation (Lyotard):

“After
Auschwitz” (JBR:
Shorthand for “After

Everything”)
It is
Necessary to add

Another
Verse to
The story of

The
Forgetting of
The recollection beside

The
Fire in
The forest. I

Cannot
Light the
Fire, I do

Not
Know the
Prayer, I can

No
Longer find
The spot in

The
Forest, I
Cannot even tell

The
Story any
Longer. All I

Know
How to
Do is to

Say
I no
Longer know how

To
Tell this
Story. O flute!

The
Haze over
My sleep and

Original
Face. Highly
Coloured and plurivalent

Lines.
Sip sip
Hummingbird. Nobody so

Fragile.
Beckett: yes,
I work now,

A
Little like
I used to,

Except
That I
Don’t know how

To
Work anymore.
That doesn’t matter,

Apparently.
End interpolation.
Sip sip hummingbird …

The
White gold
Of the sand

Under
The light.
There are no

Mountains
Or hills
As far as

The
Eye can
See. Silence begins

To
Speak. Muffled
Drum … slow drum …

Heavy
Drum … full
Of saudade, the

Fire
Of passion,
The pain of

Paradise.
“To walk
Empty” is to

Have
No thread
Of water, no

“Flower
Inside.” Flames
Of a thousand

Aderas
Fill the
Air with pitch-

Bends
And vibrato
Fluctuations, pizzicato

Pluckings
And a
Steady pulse, the

Rim-
Blown reed
Flute of Rumi …

“Have
Something to
Say, hummingbird? Hummingbird

Flashes
Rays of
Light. The juice

From
Your flowers
Has made you

Dizzy.
Hummingbird flashes
Rays of light.”

Am
I not
The son of

Thorns
And thickets?
Some say the

Flute
Is one
Of the first

Instruments
Ever made.
The earth receives

Love
When offered
Food and drink.

Am
I not
The son of

Milk
Blood, new
Palm wine? Perhaps

The
Sound of
My modern flute

Evokes
The spirits
Of its ancestors.

(Mother
Of clouds,
Grant me leave

To
Go through).
Am I not

The
Son of
Giddy With Desire?

These
Are my
Incantations. Seedbed of

Images
In the
Sun. Maria Sabina:

“I
Am a
Sprouting woman.” The

Common
Ground shared
By these and

So
Many other
Texts – what does

It
Say? That
We are all

Thinking
Together, but
Expressing ourselves in

Thousands
Of ways,
Different and the

Same?
To communicate
Is to listen.

Listen
To the
Shape of a

Pear,
The thousand
Tiny ribs of

The
Feather, the
Lost my heart,

The
Fat man
Made of wood,

The
Empty string,
The yellow watchdogs

With
Their hungry
Mugs, the never

Was
I so
Despised, the feet

Walking
In the
Grass, listen to

The
Lion, the
Completely white paper,

The
Weave, weban,
Wefta, weft, web,

The
Leaping above
The hills, the

Totally
Excluded, the
First spiral, the

Sweet
Belly and
The gleaming thighs,

The
Moto perpetuo,
The to feel

The
Earth as
One’s own skin,

The
Even stone
Wears away, the

Ancient
Silence waiting
To be heard.

I
Pace / I
Turn around where

Dead
Men flower.
They gaze at

Me
With their
Deep / from the

Bottom
Of their
Eyes. Abrupt leaps

Of
Sonorous clusters.
Two or three

Lines,
A marking.
The sex is

One
Antenna among
Many where flashing

Messages
Are exchanged.
From the deep

Dark
Up into
The high bright.

Lempad,
In Bali,
Says “God tastes

The
Essence of
The offerings, and

The
People eat
The material remains.”

I
Who grew
Up like the

Wheat
Of spring,
Which made me

Drunk
From green
Water, from green

Streaming
In the
Gold of this

Instrument’s
Ability to
Breathe – love in

Its
Most ancient
Form is thirst.

You:
A drop
Of water. You:

A
Zigzag serpent
In the void.

Let
Us die,
Let us dance,

The
Drums plow
Up the silence,

The
Waves are
The colour of

Dawn.
Please don’t
Make your Oms

Too
Holy-holy.
The blood passes

From
The heart
And talks at

The
Joints. The
Drum furrows the

Silence,
Beats out
The rhythm of

The
Sap. Om
In a landscape.

Water
And its
Thirst are one.

The
Secret of
Daily life, of

The
Ordinary without
End, of the

Nonetheless
Extraordinary ordinary,
When a certain

Detachment
Allows it
To regain its

Uncanniness,
Its fatal
Uncanniness … I was

Following.
But what
Was I following?

With
A frail
Tilted structure in

The
Air, I
Joined into the

Grand
And noble
Exalting adventure of

Elucidating
The Universe
In its entirety.

Twelfth
Interpolation. I
Quote Michaux again.

I
Listen up
From the depths

To
The shadowy.
Split the stick

And
There is
Jesus. Silence turns

The
Page. The
Happy Island. Sharks

Have
White wings.
No matter what

We
Do it
Ends by being

Melodic.
Alba de
Habla. Awakening, Buddha

Said:
Too loose
Won’t sing, too

Tight
Will snap.
Unbidden illegal interpolation:

A
Black, E
White, I red

U
Green, O
Blue. Sing with

Your
Low voice /
Deep voice. Series

Of
Questions left
Unanswered. Elizabeth Robinson’s

Son:
Once upon
A time. There

Was.
The end.
The question feeds

The
Enigma. I
Have no taste

For
Magic. Love
Is my marvel.

You
May want
To cut that

Last
Sound. It’s
An ugly. Silence

Turns
The page,
Alba de habla.

Awareness
Awakens (who
Weaves?) the thread?

Out
Of the
Corpse-warm foyer

Of
Heaven steps
The sun. End, unbidden

Illegal
Interpolation (“Message”
By Ingeborg Bachmann).

*

Awareness
Awakens (who
Weaves?) the thread?

*

... I was

Following.
But what
Was I following?

*

Am
I not
The son of

Thorns
And thickets? ...

*

Am
I not
The son of

Milk
Blood, new
Palm wine? ...

*

... Am I not

The
Son of
Giddy With Desire?

*

... The

Common
Ground shared
By these and

So
Many other
Texts – what does

It
Say? That
We are all

Thinking
Together, but
Expressing ourselves in

Thousands
Of ways,
Different and the

Same? ...

*

“Have
Something to
Say, hummingbird?

*

What
To me
Are when I

Am
Only? ...

*

... Where
Are the what

Does
It matter? ...

*

Who
Hopes to
See / to find

My
Face among
The fluttering / in

The
Blossoming scarves? ...

*

But
Will the
Lovers sing?

*

... Who has not

Wished,
At some
Point, to create

An
Abecedarium,
Or even an

Entire
Vocabulary, from
Which the verbal

Would
Be entirely
Excluded? ...

*

... What
Is poetry to

You? ...

*

... What’s the

Point
Of distinguishing
Episodes and narrating

Them? ...

*

... Every once

In
A while
Didn’t he wonder

Whether
He had
Made a complex

Issue
Out of
Something very simple?

*

... Are you sure?

*

… How
To become a

Professional
Exile? …

*

... Why
Does tragedy exist?

*

Why
Are you
Full of rage?

*

What
Could one
Paint except the

Spleen
That comes
From those floods?

*

In
The West
And East, distant

Peoples
Are lying
On the sand.

Asleep
On the
Sand. Cast down

On
The sand.
The stage is

Defined
By seventeen
Transparent bowls, lit

From
Below. Turning
With the stars.

Arrogant
Cities lie
And whimper under

A
Hopeless sky.
All the performers

Play
Pairs of
Smooth-contoured stones.

Ibn
Arabi dreamt
He made love

To
The stars.
Lord have pity

On
The ten
Just words. “There

Is
No beginning,
No ending, only

Continuing.”
Na, I
Don’t remember anymore,

Na,
I suddenly
Remember. Not a

Glass
Of weary
Wine. Not a

Glass
Of water.
A sound is

Heard
In water.
Hear the image?

See
The sound?
The crossing performed?

Here
Is our
Seal and the

Wheel
Is the
Sign of our

Fate,
In the
Middle of the

One
Possible music,
Word loom star,

The
Grass is
Growing again, tender

For
The antelopes
After the November

Fires,
Delicato, impetuoso,
Libero, dolce, misterioso,

“To
Grow,” “To
Set in motion,”

And
“Yes, it
May be so,”

What
Formidable calm
Beneath the sky,

Raining
Its bloody
Dust, sempre molto

Energico,
Ma espressivo,
Instan, el libro

De
La palabra
Estrella, it began

As
A night
Vision, it began

As
A night
Vision, it began

As
A night
Vision that landed

On
The page
As a wave.

From
The tree-
Lined carp pond

Out
Back a
Sangha of frogs

Added
Their voices.
“Like church bells –

Spaciously.”
“Wild.” Etc.
Even before that

I
Was making
Small works on

Paper
Using bodily
Fluids as material.

The
Body – a
“Morning mushroom” (as

They
Used to
Say in ancient

China)
That fades
In bright daylight

And
Has vanished
By noon. Each

Stanza
Is rich
With powerful imagery,

Ranging
From the
Eerie to the

Intensely
Violent. That
Was when I

Used
A live
Video camera for

The
First time,
To scan and

Annoy
Members of
The audience while

They
Were trying
To watch the

Performance.
To conjure
(Or instill) non-

Ordinary
States of
Mind. What, at

First,
Appear like
Small gentle melodic

Strands,
Mere echoes
Or residues of

The
Main events,
Gradually assume an

Inner
Life of
Their own. I

Was
Considering the
Body in terms

Of
Its orifices.
Drinking. Pissing. “Micturation” –

To
Use the
Scientific term. My

Accent
Was much
More pronounced then.

Trying
To read
All those scientific

Words
Made the
Whole thing quite

Funny.
I was
Also interested in

Surveillance
And the
Gentle penetrating gaze.

Thirteenth
Counted interlude,
From something Beth

Sent
Me, by
Barbara Guest: “Lo,

From
The outside
A poem is

With
Us, of
Another composition. Travelled

From
An antique
Place … Writing, narrow

And
Sparse, pungent
As the lemon

Tree.” …
A poem
Is with us …

We,
Spawned from
The ethers by

Coupled
Monkey and
Demon, we, in

This
Floating Boschian
Domain, let us

Recall
The given
As praxis, the

Life
Of leper’s
Drill … the solo

Flute
And double
Basses … the little

Doormat
Made of
Pins with “Welcome”

On
It … the
Astral warfare … the

Vast
Body … A
Thousand Bullets for

A
Stone … If
We speak as

Mystic
Cannibals or
Darkened scorpion dwellers

From
On high
It is because

We
Know existence
To be nameless …

Rosary
Bits of
Human bone … bloody

Snow …
Each stone
Was labeled and

Numbered …
Sunless ferocity …
Sudden chilling return

To
The quiet
Music of the

First
Movement …
The expression “the

Light
At the
End of the

Tunnel”
Came to
Mind … I used

It
In the
Title to set

Up
Something positive
Which is then

Disrupted
When you
Realize the light

Could
Burn you
To the bone.

After
All, we’re
Living through a

Conjecture.
We don’t
Stop to wonder

Whether
It will
Live beyond the

Day.
Still, what
Must we fight

For?
Our skin
Of ignorance and

Seemingly
Unrelated musical
Traditions from across

The
Globe. The
Sensuousness of the

Materials
And the
Emotional charge. The

Strange
Furry texture.
What of oranges

Hanging
Like bats,
Their discomfort

In
Being ripe?
The gossamer shimmer?

The
Sheep’s testicle?
Marigolds can be

Grown
In an
Empty kerosene barrel.

What
Must we
Fight for? Earth,

Water,
Sky, trees,
Air, mind, body,

And
Everything throughout
The universe, nonsense

Syllables
Covered in
Transparent glass beads,

Which
[Have] the
Additional quality of

Reflecting
Light beautifully,
Unstable surface on

Which
We could
Slip and fall.

The
Way the
Daddy-long-legs

Moved
On the
White walls of

The
Bath. The
Cadenza-like passages

Of
Water, wind.
Yes, it was

Exactly
That. A
Two-by-four

Banging
On the
Head. Grief and

A
Sense of
The nearness (far

Beyond
Chrysanthemums and
November fog) of

Death.
Look. No.
Body. Thud of

Footsteps
Over the
Wooden bridge. The

Three
Stars in
The belt in

The
Constellation Orion.
I made a

Hair
Ball every
Time I washed

My
Hair and
They ended up

In
Shoe boxes
Under my bed.

Never
Mind. Get your
Shoes on and

Let’s
Get out
Of here. We’ve

Learned
Bits of
Each other’s languages;

We’ve
Shared our
Stories, have become

More
Aware of
The body’s fragility,

And
The work
Has become more

Humble
In a
Sense. In the

Nest.
What happens
When strangers meet?

Meetings.
We all
Know what happens.

Locate
Your question.
Did you draw


The
Map on
Soap because when

It
Dissolves we
Won’t have any

Of
These stupid
Borders? Right. Yes.

No
Way. Nothing.
Nothing. A small

Number
Of words
Are stretched over

A
Long duration.
Do you want

To
Say anything
Else? Every cage

Had
A light
Bulb lying at

The
Bottom. Do
You want to

Say
Anything else?
The glass infant.

Never
Mind. We
All know what

Happens.
Did you
Draw the map

On
Soap because
Of concentration camps?

Do
You want
To say anything

Else?
A computerized
Device dimmed the

Lights.
On off
On off off

On
In a
Quick random sequence.

One
Three two
Four intrinsically meaningless

Religious
Noises. I
Have never put

My
Hope in
Any other but

The
World’s greatest
Idiot. Do you

Think
The humbleness
You speak of?

Hum
Phat svaha.
Hum phat svaha.

Grah
Gooooor. There
Were terrifying things

In
The air:
Departure. Absence. Numerological

Symbolism.
Defiance cannot
Be easily separated

From
Vulnerability, order
From chaos, beauty

From
Revulsion, the
Brain from the

Body,
The self
From the other,

Affirmation
From negation,
Form from content,

Light
From dark.
White clouds clinging

To
Vague rock,
Just one just

One
Just one
If only. In tempore

Belli.
Sounds of
The artist’s heart-

Beat
And stomach.
Self-erasing drawing.

One
Three two
Four. Spiritual formulae.

Electric
Insects. Sustained
B-major tonality.

The
God-Music.
A given from

Which
To induce
A physiological change.

A
Newborn babe
Or a naked

Grub
Or a
Manzanita and a

Laurel
Low to
The ground in

A
Rock or
A highly ornate

Statue
Of Monjushri
In the Gate

Gate
Paragate Parasamgate
Bodhi Svaha gone

Worlds
Dangling from
The blooey. Numerous

Large
(In size)
And long (in

Number
Of measures)
Signs of crescendo

And
Diminuendo, with
No indications of

What
These hairpin
Signs are for.

Rusty
Hand-tools,
Mud covering her

Body.
Any time
Is breakfast time.

Bursting
Colors, cascading
Sonorities, explosive dynamics,

Swirling
Rhythms, Poème
Électronique. The artist

Lay
Motionless, wrapped
In plastic and

Gauze,
Heaped with
Entrails, just breathing.

As
The old
Greek said, “We

Walk
On the
Faces of the

Dead.”
The mountaintop
Of Mt. Diablo

Has
One of
The most expansive

Vistas
In the
World. A reductio

Ad
Absurdam of
A closed system.

To
Live amid
The great vanishing

As
A shadow
Must live. This

Simone
Weil called
Prayer. Arnold Schoenberg

Liked
The piece.
Two figures appeared,

Barefoot,
Dressed in
Overalls, with taped

Mouths.
One pulled
The other to

The
Pavement and
Drew a forensic

Line
Around the
Body. This figure

Was
In turn
Pulled to the

Ground
By the
One who had

Been
Lying prone,
And so the

Process
Continued. Sortes
Virgilianae: year in

Year
Out, the
Urn stands ready,

The
Fateful lots
Are drawn (Book

Six,
Early, Fagles
Translation). Interpolation fourteen.

The
Untranslatable thought
Must be the

Most
Precise, immense.
This piece was

Written
During my
Los Angeles period.

And
So the
Process continued, in

A
Chain, one
Figure’s fall becoming

The
Other’s rise,
And vice-versa.

More
Briefly, try;
But stymied, give

It
Up, do
Something else. Thicken

The
Plot. Dance.
The feet were

Naked
And vulnerable,
Yet they had

The
Strength. They
Dragged along the

Doc
Martens like
Laughing laceless puppets.

And
As for
Senzaki, he died

In
Obscurity, an
Old dishwasher, with

Few
Friends, a
Kind of parable,

Lost
Bells, lost
Bells (echo). The

Resulting
Video is
A complex and

Poignant
Work, which
Is more Radiation

Than
Power Path,
More Doom. A

Sigh
Than Spared
By Civilization and

Mass
Media. Obviously,
However, the eye

Is
Part of
The body. And

It
Was an
Amusing sight to

See
These old
People shuffle about

In
Dust … still
As they put

It,
This place
Was perfect for

Pebbles,
So rich
With rounded stones,

Transcendent
Thought, body,
Senses, mind, emotions

Everything,
The moment
Of transition from

Optical
To bodily
Sensation, the world’s

Largest
Replica of
A butterfly tongue,

The
World’s greatest
Greatest, that you

Waver
Constantly between
Contradiction and meaning,

A
Sense of
Beauty and anxiety.

So
That this
Kiss, she said,

Might
Shiver out
To the end

Of
The world,
Shimmer outward into

What
Has no
Opposite, the primitive

Voice
Of the
Dream-like beginning,

The
Deep mystical
Deep, the naked

Liquid
Rippling extraordinary,
The sleep of

Words
Towards which
The poem sees,

The
Gently screaming
Nocturnal lux aeterna,

The
Cloud of
Quiet wild. As

You
Move around
Your face is

Very
Lightly brushed
By single strands

Of
Hair hanging
From the beams.

Then
Full moon
Skunk appears / delightful /

With
Tiny frightful
Screams. Musically exactly

On
The same
Plane as a

Pencil.
Meanwhile the
Strands of hair

Gently
But insistently
Catch in your

Mouth.
The hair
Gets to you.

And
Some people
Blinded by this

Magical
Hokum-pokum
And those far-

Off
Peaks shining
Pure and rare,

Timeless
Cultural artifacts,
Sometimes have their

Own
Material, a
Wedge-shaped sign

Of
A space
For silence whose

Duration
Is entirely
Open and variable.

Why
Not sneeze?
The hair gets

Say
What? I’m
Going to be

Cool
And soften
The dreadful oh

Ick
I have
In my heart,

Wanting
To be
As close to

Nature
Poetry as
Possible. The most

Delicate,
Eroticized and
Lasting of human

Materials
Is also
Considered unclean. Anna

Freud:
When traced
Back to their

Source,
Displacements of
Feeling reveal themselves

As
Based on
Early childhood events

When
The loser
Was himself “lost”,

That
Is, felt
Deserted, rejected, alone,

And
Experienced in
Full force as

His
Own all
The painful emotions

Which
He later
Ascribes to the

Objects
Lost by
Him. “I’m sure

I
Cleaned this
Space just a …

And
Now, in
No time, it’s

Full
Of cobwebs?”
Wondered the woman

Taking
Care of
The large room.

The
Infinite space
Between dendrites. The

Ordinary
Drop of
Calm light of

The
Roar of
The black walls.

One
Day Henry
Went to the

Stand
For some
Vegetables. “Little did

I
Know that
The man I

Was
Buying asparagus
From was a

Master
Shakuhachi player.”
Thus began a

Long
Friendship. “Every
Force evolves a

Form” –
Strangely enough
These words do

Not
Come from
Hatoum herself, nor

From
A theoretician
Of aesthetics, but

From
Mother Ann
Lee (1736-84),

The
Founder of
The Shaker Sect

In
America. Art
Is life and

Life
Is transformation,
The supreme goal

Of
The traveler
Being to remain

In
Ignorance of
His [yes] destiny

(Youssef
Ishagpour, in
Tàpies, Works, Writings,

Interviews:
Interpolation fifteen).
((L L L

L
L L
L L L

L
L L
L L L))

Homage
To Charlie
Parker. Absorb the

Atmosphere
And share
The activities. An

Old
Culture with
A luminous tradition

And
Expression, at
The origin of

Which
Is Ramon
Llull, The Enlightened

Doctor,
As he
Was known, creator

Of
The language:
Silence, the night,

The
Dark face
Of the world,

Infinite
Empty spaces,
The elements of

Everyday
Life. Box
Of strings. Silence

Is
A roar
With hands. You

Are
Still here.
The pièce de

Résistance
Of the
Evening. Empty enormous

Empty
Empty enormous
Empty. Rooted in

The
Earth, part
Plant, part animal,

In
A playful
Atmosphere of panic

And
Feverish, elated
Sexual large eyes,

Lengths
Of yarn,
And string, rings,

Rice,
Newspaper, silver
Foil, toilet paper.

Incised
In the
Rock. Graffiti. End,

Interpolation
Fifteen. Even
Dada failed. Peace.

Hair
And air.
They stir lightly.

Therefore,
Be it
Enacted by the

Senate
And House
Of Representatives of

The
United States
Of America in

Congress
Assembled, Mud,
Water, Fire, Blackness,

Sight
And Unknown.
The Key to

Songs.
A haptic
Rather than optical

Perception.
Multi-dimensional
Relations to a

World
Where “threatening”
Difference is mitigated

And
Negotiated. You’re
All just a

Box
Of crayons.
The appearance of

A
Comet. One
Comment I really

Liked
Was when
A group of

Builders,
Standing having
Their lunch break,

Said,
“What the
Hell is happening

Here?”
And this
Black woman, passing

By
With her
Shopping, said to

Them,
“It’s obvious.
She’s being followed

By
The police.”
Be it enacted:

The
Whole ball
Of wax would

Make
A lovely
Crayon decorator candle

On
A Day
Of the Dead

Santeria
Petro Voudou
Altar. Be it

Enacted:
An out-
Of-whack music

Box.
An orbiting
Ball of dust.

“The
Color of
Face and the

Warmth
Of body,
The light of

Heart
And eye.”
Simultaneous dimensions. Contrapuntal.

Another
Unbidden interpolation.
13 November: there

Is
A rabbit’s
Severed head on

The
Sidewalk in
Front of our

Toledo
Hotel. 15
November: “Mis pasos

En
Esta calle /
Resuenan / en otra

Calle /
Donde / Oigo
Mis pasos / Pasar

En
Esta calle /
Donde / Sólo es

Real
La niebla”
(Octavio Paz). My

Steps
In this
Street sound in

Another
Street where
I hear them

Echo
In this
Street where all

That’s
Real is
The fog (tr.

Sam
And John
B-R). The

Paz
Is painted
On the wall

Of
Our hotel
Room in Madrid.

Sky
Fall down.
We are here

In
A tree
With a wire

Star.
Nearly translucent.
Sky fall down.

$1
Will get
You history. History,

You
Seem a
Tiny wrecked thing.

In
The night
And at the

Fading.
Massacres in
The camps. Could

You
Elaborate on
That? Buddha’s ears

Are
Droopy. We
Are here in

Our
Skin. “Flowers
For ritual or

Medicine.”
Away alone
A last a

Loved
Along the
Sólo es real.

A
“Celebratory / destabilizing
Framework.” Complicating patterns.

We
Are here
In our skin.

I
Rush my
Only into your

Arms.
Loud heap
Miseries upon us.

Nightmare:
I went
To Beirut looking

For
My parents.
In the wreckage

Of
Their home
I found two

Plastic
Boxes. The
Blue box was

Full
Of tiny
Toy soldiers that

Exploded
Becoming a
Cloud of flies

A
Rabbit’s severed
Head. La niebla.

One
Day, then,
The walls reveal

Their
Mystery. The
Density of the

Sacred
Withdrawn into
Itself. And this

Makes
The hand
A scene for

A
Strange exchange.
Each of the

Marks
Or scratches
An episode of

The
Supplicium. Like
A ritual scar

Signed
By a
Worm. And God

Knows
What else.
“He scratched himself

With
A fawn’s
Bone.” That very

Evening,
Having dinner
With Conchi in

A
Greek restaurant,
I solemnly announced

That
After ten
Years of not

Writing
A book,
The moment had

Come
To try
Again. “Bloody brilliant!”

Shouted
Conchi, who
Was hoping to

Add
A third
Book to the

Two
Escorting her
Virgin of Guadalupe

In
The living
Room; with a

Piece
Of pita
Bread dipped in

Tzatziki
On the
Way to her

Mouth,
She added:
“I hope it’s

Not
A novel.”
Later when I’d

Already /
Caused myself
Much pain / And

All
I could
Do was smile, /

I
Chose the
Simplest / words to

Tell
Myself / how
The sun’s golden

Rays /
Had slowly
Crossed the ivy /

Of
The garden
Of five trees.

Like
The reader-
Cicada of the

Ancient
Greek epigram,
We sing our

Freedom
Within the
Fabric of the

Text.
Don Andrés
Had been reading

Medieval
German mystics.
With him, therefore,

“New
Image of
The world” had

An
Ironical meaning:
“The sun, the

Moon,
The stars,
The other beings.”

“Quite
Right,” he
Said, “with the

World
The way
It is …” “Yes,”

I
Agreed. “If
It had been

Different,
I’d have
Demonstrated my doubts

Rather
Than my
Beliefs.” He smiled,

Then
Lowered his
Voice to say:

“When
Faith preaches
Hate, blessed are

The
Doubters.” I
Smiled back, and

Lowered
My voice
To say: “We

Are
All lost
Sheep.” Oh wretched

Heart,
Why not
Admit it’s hopeless?

She
Said jonquils
Came out of

Their
Bulbs very
Slowly so people

Would
Long for
Them more. Gochiku:

The
Long night /
The sound of

Water /
Says what
I am thinking.

Nothing
Is paltry.
One day I

Tried
To arrive
At silence directly.

Those
Millions of
Furious clawings were

Transformed
Into millions
Of grains of

Dust,
Of sand.
Solidarity. So. “To

Become
One with dust …”
(Tao Te Ching).

Emptiness
Never refers
To the absence

Of
Living beings
Themselves (Thich Nhat

Hanh).
On the
Limited surface of

The
Painting … / Later
With the heart,

As
In the
Void … (Shi-Tao).

Where
Are they
All, those, you

Know,
Configurations? The
Viola emerges once

More
To carry
The music higher

And
Higher. An
Electrical charge capable

Of
Shocking the
Spectator like a

Fetish
Or talisman
With therapeutic properties.

Or
At least
The ability to

Stir
And awaken.
I think so.

But
Then, I
Don't know. The

Finale
Seems to
Be … Or rather,

Somewhere
Between the
Earth in flames

And
The heavens,
The mind in

A
Whirl and
The laying on

Of
Hands, like
Rays of light …

Or
Rather, in
Her fingertips. The

World’s
A song
Of weird mutterings,

Tappings,
Wailings, and
Tremblings. Tracks left

On
A surface
By insects with

Wet
Feet. The
Multiple crosses of

The
Obituaries page
In a newspaper.

The
World’s a
Song of Kuan-

Yin
Shan, Mother-
Of-Mercy Mountain,

[Reflected]
Low in
The rainbow oily

Water.
She heals.
Wants to give

Me
Her umbrella.
There’s hardly a

Raindrop
In the
Rain-sweetened air.

Or
Take a
Stone from a

Mound
Of sorrow
And move it

To
A mound
Of joy. Hammer

A
Nail into
A mirror. Remove

All
The light.
Yes Yoko Ono.

Messages
In a
Bottle thrown into

The
Sea, to
Be washed ashore

Perhaps
And received.
It is not

A
Question of
Something to come.

Rabbi
Shim’on said,
“Not one is

Missing.”
Rabbi El’azar
Said, “My silence.”

Thus
Begins interpolation
Numero sixteen. Stones

Arrange
Themselves on
Separate scraps of

Paper
With an
Unobstructed view of

The
Sky, psalm
Praised be your

Name,
No one …
“As you know,

I
Have never
Pondered much about

My
Work. What
Pushed me hardest:

The
Sound of
A solitary flute.”

Something
Like the
Sound of trees.

Cover
The whole
Thing in a

Wash
Of white,
In melody, in

Marble
Dust, something
Striven for and

Won,
The mystery
If it is

A
Mystery. I
Want a nice

Kitchen,
Nice knives,
Roll, interpolation sixteen.

If
It is
A mystery, stand

Up
Next to
It. Why not.

Yeah.
Why not.
Chop it down

With
The edge
Of your goddamn

Hand.
Rabbi Shim’on
Said, “Not one

Is
Missing.” And
El’azar, “My silence.”

I’m
Just about
Done interpolating. But

Fuck
All, it
Is my birthday.

If
I don’t
Meet you no

More
In this
World, I’ll meet

You
In the
Next one, and

Don’t
Be late.
Don’t be late.

Who
Speaks this
Language? We sit.

Laugh.
Sing. We
Dream. Many neurotransmitters

Are
Of ancient
Lineage. I mean,

This
Music consists
Of important aspects

Of
The serial
Tradition, and at

The
Same time –
In the absence

Of
A possibility
That will revolutionize

The
Total existential
Content of life –

A
Return to
The state of

The
Simple “creature.”
Sacred plants have

Been
Our companions
Since the Paleolithic.

Possibly
They discovered
Language. Some of

Them
Saw all
The way to

The
Core. Every
Note has a

Specific
Duration, rhythmic
Value and intensity.

Each
Reflects itself
Backwards, as in

A
Mirror, standing
On its head.

Somewhat
Closer we
Find Walter Benjamin,

Who
Deals with
The “game of

Sadness”
Because history
Falls into the

Muteness
Of the
World. Sit. Laugh.

Sing.
Psychoactive animals,
Flowing outward toward

The
Nectar-King,
The poison for

Poison,
Sit, laugh,
Sing, dream. Who

Speaks
This language?
It is played

Once
Quite openly,
And then as

A
Kind of
Prayer, time and

Again
In all
Its ratios of

Pitches.
Late –
And post –. A

Wall,
A door
Without a door.

And
The stream
Falls off the

Mountain.
Frankly, I
Enjoyed this immensely

Since
I was
Following spontaneous musical

Intuition.
You are
Wherever your thoughts

Are.
I began
Piling all four

Pianos
On top
Of each other.

As
Suzuki said,
“All moral values

And
All social
Practices emanate from

The
Non-conditioned
Life that is

The
Void.” The
Night has got

A
Grip on
The tops of

The
Pines. Explanations
Come to an

End
Somewhere. A
Short cycle of

Chords.
Tàpies: “Many
Suggestions can be

Derived
From the
Image of the

Wall
And all
Its possible permutations:

Separation,
Cloistering, the
Wailing wall, prison,

Witness
To the
Passing of time;

Smooth
Surfaces, serene
And white; tortured

Surfaces,
Old and
Decrepit; signs of

Human
Imprints, objects,
Natural elements; a

Sense
Of struggle,
Of effort; of

Destruction,
Cataclysm; or
Of construction, re-

Emergence,
Equilibrium; traces
Of love, pain

Disgust,
Disorder; the
Romantic prestige of

Ruins;
The contribution
Of organic elements,

Forms
That suggest
Natural rhythms and

The
Spontaneous movements
Of matter; a

Sense
Of landscape,
The suggestion of

The
Primordial unity
Of all things;

Generalized
Matter; affirmation
Of and esteem

For
The things
Of the earth;

The
Possibility of
A varied and

Combined
Distribution of
Great masses; a

Sense
Of falling,
Of the bottom

Falling
Out. Of
Expansion, of

Concentration;
The rejection
Of the world,

Inner
Contemplation, annihilation
Of the passions,

Silence,
Death; twisting
And tortures, quartered

Bodies,
Human remains;
The equivalent of

Sounds,
Clawings, scrapings,
Explosions; shots, blows,

Hammerings,
Cries, reverberations,
Echoes in space;

Meditation
On a
Cosmic theme, reflections

For
Contemplation of
The earth, of

The
Magma, of
Lava, of ash;

Battlefield;
Garden; playing
Field; the destiny

Of
The ephemeral …”
The fire works

The
Side of
The log. I

Found
Myself in
Some new and

Surprising
Harmonic territory.
This is surely

Where
All the
Common fateful contingencies

And
Innumerable resonances
Must be stored.

Later
You say,
Got the message?

It
Unfolds in
A treble region

Of
Shimmering brightness.
Things cease to

Be
Things, cease
To cease to

Be
Things. Your
Face breaks up

In
Leaves, spreads
Itself out like

A
Cloud of
Passionate expressivity. “Just

Be
Ordinary and
Nothing special.” You

Stand
Under a
Cottonwood tree, wind

Blows,
Clarifies first
At a major

Third,
Then opens
Up to a

Fourth,
A fifth,
Is squeezed up

To
A high
E, long sustained,

Is
Abruptly torn
Off. Over and

Above
The muteness
Of walls. Got

The
Message? Once
Again there is

An
Ending that
Is not an

Ending.
The music
Has arrived at

The
Very extremes
Of the orchestral

Range,
From where
It may be

Imagined
Continuing into
Spheres beyond hearing.

It
Scorches and
Burns as it

Goes,
Leaving ruins,
Trash, scrap, rags

And
Tatters, traces,
Dust, dilapidation and

Dirt,
The divine,
Our lives, our

Hope,
Our why,
In its wake.

Such
Happiness being
Related to everybody.

Promise
You won’t
Die, ever! What

I
Meant to
Say … Stars out

And
All the
Unidentified shining objects.

The
Melody grows.
Pi, pa, pi

Pa,
Peu à
Peu, affirmation all

Affirmations.
Thus beginneth
Interpolation seventeen, with

The
Peu à
Peu of Theresa

Hak
Kyung Cha,
And her affirmation

All
Affirmations. It
Continueth with Tom

Beckett’s
I … am
Often mistaken for

Someone
Else. When
A stranger says

Aren’t
You _____
Or _____ or

_____,
I just
Nod and smile.

I
Forget about
Almost everything. I

Was
The model
Closest to hand.

Such
Happiness being
Related to everybody.

A
White ceramic
Bodhisattva with an

Unconvincing
Number of
Arms. The melody

Grows
Pi, pa,
Pi, pa, peu

À
Peu. To
Distinguish no more

The
Rain from
Dreams from breaths.

It
Is my
Policy to answer

To
Whatever name
I’m called: Body,

Sexuality,
Death, the
Banal, the Contingent

And
The Political.
Maybe you’re wondering

Why
I, a plate
Of green black

Eggplant,
Am telling
You this. It

Is
Sad and
Melancholic. It is

Traditionally
Sung by
Daughters when visiting

Their
Mothers’ graves.
The commas. The

Periods.
The pauses.
I heard the

Swans
In the
Rain. A person

Is
An odd
Collage. End interpolation.

And
Naturally there
Will always be

Someone
Who will
Say: “What is

This
Guy talking
About? There’s nothing

There
But a
Bunch of straw

Stuck
To a
White canvas with

A
Stick in
The middle!” And

We’ll
Have to
Say he’s right.

Moon
Day now
Both walking O.

People
Remember more
Noise each year.

It
Is not
To sketch something.

They
Are forms
And signs that

Talk
Of themselves.
Because one sees

But
Silver half
Freezing in day.

And
What is
The purpose of

Writing
Music? One
Is of course

Not
Dealing with
Purposes but dealing

With
Sounds. What
Then are the

Roots
Of nonbelievers’
Values? Quiet illumined

Grass
Land moon
Day now both

Walking
O both
Walking O. A

Way
Of waking
Up to the

Very
Life we’re
Living which is

So
Excellent once
One gets one’s

Mind
And one’s
Desires out of

Its
Way and
Lets it act

Of
Its own
Accord. So what’s

Going
On? It
Is just day

One’s
In. We
Now know that

What
We term
Natural laws are

Merely
Statistical truths
Slithering through the

Earth
And sand
And lakes of

Ink
And straw,
Manure and, which,

Being
Themselves, become
Their own allegory.

Pages
Radiant with
Script of luminous

Interstellar
Dust somehow
Embodied in the

Actual
Texture of
African dances or

Tantric
Breathing or
The deeper you

Go
The who
Might have guessed?

The
Sun beats
Down from directly

Overhead.
“Move your
Bowels and pass

Water,
Put on
Your clothes and

Eat
Your rice.”
Pages radiant with

Dewdrop
Reflection of
Moon and wasted

Cherryblossom
Quavering branch.
And the instrument

Comes
Closer to
Its natural resonance.

This
Is a
Little white magic

For
Alan, my
Friend. Anything is

Maniacal,
For everything
Takes place in

A
Field infinitely
Large and grand,

Radiant
With continuous
Present and beginning

Again
And again
And forty days

In
The desert
And and and.

Endless
Dumb music,
Splendidly nowhere, walks

Out
Of the
Sky. Stone walks

Out
Of the
Sky. Mu walks

Out
Of the
Sky. Splendidly, Nowhere

Walks
Out of
The sky. What’s

Behind
Door number
One or the

Curtain
Of fire?
On other occasions

The
Artist has
Chosen earth, mud,

Space,
The hole,
Burn marks, pieces

Of
Cardboard, the
Wall, garbage, newspaper,

The
Pastry chef’s
Cookie sheet, the

Traces
Of the
Wind, the imprint

Of
The human
Body, bed sheets,

Broken
Dishes, knots,
The traces of

The
Ram, footsteps,
Body hairs, hairs

From
The head,
Grilles, cracks, strings,

Rubble,
Pillows, soldier’s
Blankets, rice and

Hundreds
Of other
Things. Old sawdust

Rotten
And rich.
The dusty and

Broken
Bush. Hundreds
Of sandhill cranes.

“Those
Gurgling sandhill
Crane calls are

Coming
Out of
The sky.” Tell

Me
How a
Heart like a

Heart,
Without being
Caught at the

Base
Of my
Throat, how do

We
Continue to
Live this imperfect

Capacity
Of sympathy?
The enormous dirty

Swollen
Foot, and
And and, the

Suffering,
Pain, fatigue,
Waxy, assaulted, marked

By
Wounds and
Bite marks. “So

We
Celebrate breasts.
We all love

To
Kiss them –
They’re like philosophers!”

(Endless
Dumb music,
Splendidly nowhere …) But

Again,
Blood and
Again, as in

This
Huge body
With legs slightly

Apart,
And and
And, there is

Often
A tremendous
Total immortal ambiguity.

And
In the
Sun’s reflection, ten

Thousand
Miles of
Gold on the

River,
In the
Gold-leafed sexual

Embrace,
In the
Gold of the

Zero,
In the
Gold of the

Beginning
And the
End have no

Beginning
And no
End, children chew

Blood-
Soaked blades
Of grass. A

Parable
Whose phrases
Seem to outlast

The
Biggest human
Breath? It must

Be
Because I
Too suffer from

This
Love for
Fleeting things, it

Must
Be because
I too observe

Black
Specks swirling
In the inky

Tonic,
Sip shudder,
Shudder sip. The

Cello
Part lies
Down an octave

From
The violin.
Is this graffiti?

In
General, graffiti
Makes reference to

Sexuality,
Politics and
Death. This is

A
Time when
Mosquitoes are hatching

Near
The Arctic
Circle. After a

Mournful
Introduction with
Oboe and solo

Viola,
The cellist
Is led in.

He
Saw himself /
She saw herself /

All
The combinations /
All the permutations /

Saw
Themselves / in
This universe. There,

Before
The mirror,
The not-yet-

Known
Pronoun drew
Its own ineffable

Magical
Hyper-sensitive
Place in it.

Come
Forth then,
As if pain

Were
Singing in
Joy. Leaves fell

In
A blaze.
When the ocean

Was
Formed, the
Great symphony wanted

To
Bathe in
It. We have

The
Actuality of
This impossibility. We

Have
The unrepresentable
And the presence.

We
Have tree’s
Self at home

In
Cloud, cloud
In high sky.

And
Differently ordered,
The phonemes keep

Returning.
Like waves.
Socrates is asked

Whether
He thinks
There is an

Idea
For “mud”
And “hair” distinct

From
The objects
Themselves. “How intolerably


We
Are part
Of a circle

Of
Those who
Give and take

Pain
At this
One time.” The

Text
Crumbles into
Scraps, coalesces again,

Again
Dissolves. Bodhidharma
Spent twelve years

In
Front of
A wall, the

Wall
We all
Crash into. As

If
Pain were
Singing in joy.

A
Beautiful young
Woman had been

Wooed
By an
Admirer for a

Long
Time, but,
For fear of

Harming
Her soul
And her chastity,

She
Rejected him
Again and again.

Her
Resistance against
The man’s wooing

Was
Supported by
A priest of

The
Town, who
Continually admonished her

To
Preserve her
Virtue. One day

When
The priest
Was forced to

Leave
The town
To travel to

Venice,
He made
The woman solemnly

Pledge
Not to
Weaken in his

Absence.
She promised,
But on the

Condition
That the
Priest bring her

One
Of the
Famous mirrors from

Venice.
During the
Priest’s absence, she

In
Fact withstood
All temptations. After

His
Return, however,
She asked for

The
Promised Venetian
Mirror. Thereupon the

Priest
Pulled a
Skull out from

Under
His robe
And thrust it

Cynically
Into the
Young woman’s face:

“Vain
Woman, here
You see your

True
Face! Consider
That you must

Die
And that
You are nothing

Before
God.” The
Young woman was

Horrified
To the
Marrow. That same

Night,
She surrendered
Herself to her

Suitor
And from
Then on enjoyed

With
Him the
Da-sein of love.

(Unfortunately,
I [Peter
Sloterdijk] had to

Relate
This story
From memory, since

I
Could not
Relocate the source;

Therefore,
I can
Vouchsafe only the

Gist,
But not
The wording or

The
Detail of
The novella). Here

Begins,
And possibly
Ends, the final

Interpolation,
The most
Beloved body, a

Wedding
Of the
Pepper to the

Salt.
My mind
Goes up into

The
High pines
And sits among

The
Crows
In one of

The
Most unusual
Drum rolls to

Appear
In music.
The parenthesis of

The
Shadows midway
Through carries us

Into
The smoke
And mirrors at

The
End. And fish
Turn into birds,

And
An empty
Trunk produces a

Young
Princess, and
The stroke of

A
Fan makes
Flowers grow, while

Coins
Come out
Of the ears

Of
The most
Unbelieving [yes!], and

In
The alcoves
And grand halls,

In
The great
Mystery of five-

Thirty
On a
Summer’s afternoon, are

Rhythmically
Free passages
With no bar-

Lines,
In which
Sounds are truly

Projected
Into space.
Yet in the

Middle
Of this
Are measures of

Rests
With meticulous
Tempo markings, and

The
Marvelous shimmer
Of “abrash.” Time

Goes
Hand in
Hand with the

Laying
On of
Hands, on skin,

Hair,
Bodily secretions.
Nothing is paltry.

Take
Heart from
This thousand-year-

Old
Fragment: yonder,
Over the bridge!

Being
Is said
In many ways

(Aristotle,
Metaphysics, Book
IV). The page

Turns.
It’s the
Same one. True,

Mon
Ami, the
Colors are only

Themselves,
And yet …
(Alan Baker, “Enter

Fisherboy,
Stage Left”).
End interpolation? We

Are
The thread.
Intricate skeins of

Heterophonic
Polyphony. Here
Are the lost

Paradises,
Here are
The rarest of

Gifts.
Here is
The non-idea.

We
Are the
Threadiness of thread.

Thread
Plays. I
Transform into a

Magical
Object that
Has healing powers,

Violence,
Sexuality, huge
Mortality, that experiments

With
Wrinkled,
Torn or burnt

Writing
To be
Used in the

Body,
The body
Already a writing

Of
Arteries and
Veins traveling without

End.
My lines
Have turned into

Serpents
And living
Beings. Birds. You

Are
Bewitched, mon
Ami, the colors

Are
Only themselves,
And yet … “Being”

Is
A compound
Of three forms:

“To
Grow”, “to
Set in motion”,

And
“Yes, it
May be so.”

Peeb
A weet!
Gaia, void in

Which
Forms emerge
And metamorphose, appear

And
Are destroyed,
One must sit

Before
It with
Devotion. Its ephemeral

Fragility
Has great
Import, urging us

To
Unfailingly bestow
Loving care and

Vigilant
Attention. And
If I devoted

My
Life to
One of its

Feathers,
To living
Its nature, being

It,
Understanding it,
Until the end,

Peeb
A weet,
Peeb a weet,

To
A minimum
Of decency, to

Not
Losing heart,
Peeb a weet …

Both
Chang Cho
In the 8th

Century
And Chang
Chiu-ko in

The
11th century
Could cut out

Paper
Butterflies that
Would flutter around

And
Then return
To their hands.

I
Use “dream”
And “window” as

Metaphors.
And one
Cannot help but

Think
Of the
Dead body of

The
Man lying
On the sand

Behind
Candles. Chang
Seng-yu, in

The
6th century,
Painted a pair

Of
Dragons without
Eyes on the

Temple
Of Peace
And Joy, and

Warned
That the
Painting should never

Be
Completed. A
Skeptic filled in

The
Eyes, and
The walls of

The
Temple crashed
To ruins as

The
Dragons flew
Off. I use

“Inner”
And “outer”
And “moss-covered

Gardens”
As metaphors.
Thread and string,

Rice,
A button,
Dirty paper, a

Torn
Bit of
Cardboard, a length

Of
Rope, a
Broken plate, straw,

Hair,
Fur, are
Thread and string,

Rice,
A button,
Dirty paper, a

Torn
Bit of
Cardboard, a length

Of
Rope, a
Broken plate, straw,

Hair,
Not the
Ephemeral, the ugly,

The
Repulsive, the
Repugnant, the ruin.

Chang
Hsun held
Out bravely in

The
Siege of
Sui-yang in

756 and,
As supplies
And food ran

Short,
Even sacrificed
His favorite concubine,

To
No avail.
His patriotic rage

Caused
Him to
Grind his teeth

With
Such fury
That after his

Execution
It was
Discovered that he

Had
No teeth
Left at all.

I
Use “incoherent”
As a metaphor.

All
This research
Is intended to

Provide
An understanding
Of the world.

Yes,
I use
“All this research

Is
Intended to
Provide an understanding

Of
The world”
As a metaphor.

Now
Everything is
Completed, quite suddenly.

Say
What? You’ve
Got to be

Kidding.
Now it
Will all commence

To
Dissociate. You
Can’t get a

Fix
On what’s
Constantly moving. The

Work
Falls into
Three overlapping sections

Scored
For 52
Strings, a pencil,

The
Apocalypse, great
War crimes, controlled

Aleatoricism,
The semi-
Indefinite and the

Useless.
Tears &
Recriminations don’t cut

No
Ice. The
Piano turns to

Stone.
The work
Is scored for

Four
Saxophones, a
Contra-bass clarinet,

Musical
Saw, electric
Bass guitar, harmonium

And
A costly
Dissuasive against frequent

Performance.
There is
No dazzling luminosity

Of
The first
Day but the

Darkness
Of the
Ruin and the

Fragment.
My shorts
Are threadbare. The

Work
Is scored
For – one senses,

That
Is – heart-
Felt microtonal glissandi

And
An out-
And-out tip-

Of-
The-iceberg
Something, perhaps bewilderment …

_____

John Bloomberg-Rissman’s most recent publications are No Sounds Of My Own Making (Leafe Press), World Zero, and (forthcoming) A Spectrum of Other Instances. His work is anthologized in The Hay(na)ku Anthology Vol. II. His current project(s) are Autopoiesis, 1000 Views Of “Girl Singing” (an anthology he is assembling), and Thrownnest (a collaborative bit of theater). He is co-editor of Leafe Press. You can catch him in action at http://www.johnbr.com/, Zeitgeist Spam.

NOTES:

No Sounds of My Own Making was written in 3 parts and each part was written in 30 sections (not including intermezzos). At some point, around the time I was writing the 6th section of part 1, it became obvious to me at least this thing was one long poem.

The title is from something John Cage said in an interview. My brother Omo Bob’s use of it first brought it to my attention. My appropriation is without Cage’s, but with Omo Bob’s, permission.


I would like it acknowledged that I got the title from Omo Bob (with permission), but not only the title—also the idea. Though my first 1st “No Sounds” bit (which is not part of the published No Sounds) is dated 19 July 2006, one should note that he published a piece with the same title on his Omo Studios blog, 16 November 2006, and that the period of composition of this text was 1-20 June 2006—predating my own first effort. Of course, I was aware of his work. We brothers have always wandered the same infinite library in the center of the same garden of the same forking paths, constantly calling to each other across distances however vast, “man you just GOTTA check this out!” I don't know how many times I have committed the ‘sin of the older brother’ and not sufficiently acknowledged his role as inspiration and eternal auditor. Let me make up for it here.

The link to his text is http://omobob.blogspot.com/2006/11/no-sounds-of-my-own-making.html.

Virtually all the other sounds that are not of my own making in each part come from 3 sources and are found in the same order, round and round and round.

In part 1 use Phan Nhien Hao, Night, Fish and Charlie Parker (tr. Linh Dinh); liner notes for music I was listening to; Jean-François Lyotard, Sam Francis, Lesson of Darkness … like the paintings of a blind man … (tr. Geoffrey Bennington).

Part 2 makes use of L. S. Senghor’s Nocturnes (tr. John Reed and Clive Wake and/or Melvin Dixon); liner notes for music I was listening to (up to the halfway point; from there to the end of No Sounds I make use of the liner notes I’ve already used (more or less, though more more than less) in reverse order); Cecilia Vicuña, Instan, quipoem (tr. Esther Allen), Unravelling Words & the Weaving of Water (tr. Eliot Weinberger and Suzanne Jill Levine, in collaboration with the author), and The Precarious: The Art and Poetry of Cecilia Vicuña (ed. M. Catherine de Zegher).

In part 3 I use The Wisdom Anthology of North American Buddhist Poetry (ed. Andrew Schelling); liner notes (see immediately above); Mona Hatoum (eds. Michael Archer, Guy Brett, Catherine de Zegher), for parts 1-15; and Antoni Tàpies: Works Writing Interviews (ed. Youssef Ishagpour), for parts 16-30.

For anyone interested in the liner notes, a list is available upon request to j@johnbr.com.

All these sources, like the title, are used without the original authors’ or composers’ or translators’ knowledge or permission. And I have done violence to some of the original source material (without introducing any sounds that weren’t already there one way or another). I hope I have made something “new” and am forgiven. In any case, 100,000 prostrations.

In each part I have allowed myself 6 interpolations from other sources (because there are 6 words per each hay(na)ku stanza) – though, unbidden, an additional interpolation or two slipped in. Most sources (yet again used without permission) are clearly indicated within the text, in sounds of my own making (sources that are not: Alan Baker, Steve Mitchell, Arthur Rimbaud – and Alice Notley, the inclusion of whose words have nothing to do with an interpolation, but are rather the result of a high fever, and kari edwards, whose words too have nothing to do with an interpolation, but which appear in acknowledgement of her death on 2 Dec 06). Besides these sounds of my own making, a few others here and there slipped in. Therefore the title, like most other statements one makes in this world, is only more-or-less true.

Each part includes a buried intermezzo. Part 2 also includes a relatively formless bit consisting of questions culled from various places in “my” text, called “Questions for Eileen”. They are and aren’t interpolations. I don’t count them among the 18 – 20? – I allow myself. Neither do I count the few verb tense changes I’ve made (all of which (most of which?) are bracketed).

The sources for part 1’s buried intermezzo are: Peter Worsley, Knowledges; Anne Carson, Grief Lessons; Toru Takemitsu, “Sound of East, Sound of West”; Rafal Wojaczek, “Season” (tr. Frank L. Vigoda).

Part 2’s are: Worsley’s Knowledges again; Robert Creeley, “The Edge” and “Wishes”, in Mirrors (as found in Collected Poems 1975-2005); conversations with Kathy Bloomberg-Rissman; Ko Un, Flowers of a Moment (trs. Brother Anthony, Young-moo Kim, and Gary Gach).

Part 3’s are all books I bought in Spain or brought with me (i.e. the Bernhard): Antoni Tàpies: Works Writing Interviews (ed. Youssef Ishagpour); Guillermo Solana, “Nausea and the Hand”, in Soledad Lorenzo gallery catalog Antoni Tàpies, 16 de noviembre – 23 de diciembre 2006; Arturo Barea, The Forging of a Rebel; Thomas Bernhard, Frost; Javier Cercas, Soldier of Salamis; Salvador Espriu, “The Garden of Five Trees” (tr. Louis J. Rodrigues) in Selected Poems; Yves-Alain Bois, “From the Spider’s Web” in Gego: Defying Structures; Jose Lezama Lima, Paradiso (tr. Gregory Rabassa); Amin Maalouf, Balthasar’s Odyssey (tr. Barbara Bray); Ausias March, “XI” (tr. Robert Archer), in Verse translations of thirty poems; Merce Rodoreda, The Time of the Doves (tr. David Rosenthal).

Another 100,000 prostrations. Minimum.

I guess this could be considered serial music, in which each part has been composed using a 3-tone row. I guess it could be considered a mosaic; cf. the shibbuts and iktibas found in the poetry of Al-Andalus: “poets employed [them] to such an extent that the verse frequently seems to become a web of quotation, with all the indirection, multiple meaning, and mirrored or magical effect that entails” (Peter Cole, introduction to his Selected Poems of Shmuel HaNagid, pp. xviii-xix).

Being is said in many ways (Aristotle, Metaphysics, Book IV).

No Sounds is for Nick and Debra.

_____




3 comments:

kk said...

For an audio-based remix of No Sounds, please go to:
http://www.johnbr.com/zeitgeist_spam/2008/12/no-sounds-of-my-own-making-first-remix.html

John B-R said...

Sr Priego has now graced us w/a 2nd and 3rd remix, as well, to be found at

http://www.johnbr.com/zeitgeist_spam/2008/12/no-sounds-of-my-own-making-second-remix.html

http://www.johnbr.com/zeitgeist_spam/2008/12/no-sounds-of-my-own-making-third-remix.html

ZNJNZ said...

"Out
Of the
Corpse-warm foyer

Of
Heaven steps
The sun. End, unbidden"

wow you stole that right from a translation of ingeborg bachmann:

"out of the corpse-warm foyer of heaven
steps the sun
here, it is not the immortals', we perceive,
but rather, the fallen"


thief