1. |
Lasagna Box
00:35
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2. |
Letting Go
02:09
|
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|
Tell the truth of experience
they say they also
say you must let
go learn to let go
let your children
go
and they go
and you stay
letting them go
because you are obedient and
respect everyone’s freedom
to go and you stay
and you want to tell the truth
because you are yours truly
its obedient servant
but you can’t because
you’re feeling what you’re not
supposed to feel you have
let them go and go and
you can’t say what you feel
because they might read
this poem and feel guilty
and some post-modern hack
will back them up
and make you feel guilty
and stop feeling which is
post-modern and what
you’re meant to feel
so you don’t write a poem
you line up words in prose
inside a journal trapped
like a scorpion in a locked
drawer to be opened by
your children let go
after lived life and all the time
a great wave bursting
howls and rears and
you have to let go
or you’re gone you’re
gone gasping you
let go
till the next wave
towers crumbles
shreds you to lace—
When you wake
your spine is twisted
like a sea-bird
inspecting the sky,
stripped by lightning.
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3. |
Blues Alabama
05:00
|
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|
She's blacker
than the night which holds
us in our communion
against the white picket fences.
There's clash in her eyes,
and she smiles whitely
to the tambourines.
There's a folk song audience
of rebels who lover
her mother into children,
and they're all in the roads
searching for the art
wich makes singing
a blessing of hatred.
|
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4. |
The Flowers
05:04
|
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|
Consider the flowers: true only to the earth,
yet we lend them a fate, from the borders of fate,
and supervise their fadings, their little deaths.
How right that we should author their regret:
everything rises-and yet we trudge along,
laying our heavy selves upon the world.
What wearisome teachers we are for things!
While the earth dreams on in its eternal childhood.
But if someone took them into infinite sleep,
lay down with them... how lightly he would waken
to the strange day, out of the common deep-
or perhaps he'd stay: stay until they weakened,
and took him in as one of their own kind,
a meadow-brother, a breath inside the wind.
|
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5. |
Hommage to a Cave
03:40
|
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|
A CAVE OF ANGELFISH HUDDLE AGAINST THE MOON
BY RON DE MARIS
Put an ear to the light at fall
of dark and you will hear
nothing. This pale luminescence
that drifts in upon them
makes a blue bole of their caves,
a scare of their scything
tails. They tell
in the bubbling dark of images
that come in upon them
when light spreads like an oil slick
and sea fans
that once were their refuge
turn away.
Now there is no dark
dark enough for their silver tails,
scatter of color
(like coins massively
piling in the lap of a miser)
that was, in the day, their pride.
How hugely here we belong.
This is their song
in the silting
drift of the reef.
They have never seen the moon
nor the black scut of night, stars
spread like plankton
in their beastly infinities.
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6. |
Ciaobella
05:37
|
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|
"ciaobella"
|
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7. |
||||
|
Thanatos Machine
BY TERESE SVOBODA
You don’t need a machine to do that.
A plastic bag will do. But he built it,
his tools cast about in the unit
while he got up his nerve to use it.
Nothing more was stored there.
A poured cement floor, a triple-locked door
after door after door down a corridor
reeking with the odor of everything over.
In heretofore phrases, he left a note
outlining his Help! in argot
so wrought it was hopeless to ferret out
his intent, meant or not.
A ball-peen hammer was all she had.
The shards cut her. What else had he hid?
At least, she cried, he’d thought ahead.
He drove home instead.
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