“Begin and rebegin to … replunge us into the foam indefinitely dissipating the grains of sand innumerably enumerated by the light when all this i remember and again remember that unforgettable moment that moment of poetry of twenty-five years ago when i saw on the page and began the beginning of reading the first syllables the first lines immense and long and taut of the GALAXIES.” Roubaud, in Perloff, P. Unoriginal Genius (pg 78).

“Memory, which keeps this synthesis “in mind” even after its object has vanished; and imagination, which enriches perception and, coupled to reason, can conceive of new ways to achieve a goal.” Deheane, S. Reading in the Brain (pg 321).

“Hearing, after all, is a specialized form of the sense of touch.” Sullivan, A. The Seventh Dragon (pg 5).

I felt inspired by the blurring of the lines between prose and poetry, and wanted to imitate Roubaud’s style in my own voice while blurring the lines between memory and imagination.

Feelings of sound vanish, objects of sight vanish, taste of smells vanish but are kept alive in our cortical workspace where neurons meld and mold memory and imagination to create and recreate the future where the warm splash of memory will rise, as tangible as fog, and as eternal as the silent silence echoing between the stars where life and light and choice evaporate into the re-remembering of the neuronal recycling of clouds, in white amorphous masses while i lie on the soft green hillside, touching the world around without sight, and the world, reaching out to touch me with the vibrations of movement through sound (all we hear, condensed into one small word) reverberating and reflecting the tiny bones in my ears which bring me back to this world, having dragged myself out of the earthen air of unconsciousness and into the blue of this reality where my finger strikes a key, strikes a string, rolling one sound upon another, painting time, until i stop and the facets of meaning caressing my ear slowly disintegrate into the space between stars.

I just want to melt into you and see what it is to be you.

Who Am I?

I live in a box and hold so much tension,
All I want is some air and light and release.
I’m always holding tight strings in suspension,
But only because my notes bring you such peace.

Now open my lid and look in my insides
I’ll show you many riddles and all my lies.
Though, clearly, you can see where my heart resides,
You can’t comprehend all my steel pins and ties.

If, you push down my keys, and see with your ears
And press down my pedal to evolve each note
You will find that the room was waiting to hear
Waiting to be dressed in the black that you wrote.

If you bang on my keys and force me to sing
I will pummel your ears for each time you strike
And lash out sharp to make you echo and ring.
– Though I’m often gentle, I also can fight.

If you roll arpeggios from end to end
I’ll joyfully sing you to sleep every night
With a gentle caress of sound I can send
All thoughts to the sea, with ethereal light.

I’m held in place by my thick, heady constraints
My sole escape comes in your presence each day
When my palate of sound-colors breathes and paints
And sings of beauty in your world far away.

I feel in your fingers the curve of the hill
And the tangible mists that mask the deep glen
In the echoes of this my heart steel is still.
– I wonder as I wander if this will end.

As I watch from the window each season pass
Melancholy melodies speak of winter
But I know, as you know, time melts and won’t last.
And someday, my tension will make me splinter.

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I just want to melt into you and see what it is to be you.

I live in a box and hold so much tension,

All I want is some air and light and release.

I’m always holding tight strings in suspension,

But only because my notes bring you such peace.

Now open my lid and look in my insides

I’ll show you many riddles and all my lies.

Though, clearly, you can see where my heart resides,

You can’t comprehend all my steel pins and ties.

If, you push down my keys, and see with your ears

And press down my pedal to evolve each note

You will find that the room was waiting to hear

Waiting to be dressed in the black that you wrote.

If you bang on my keys and force me to sing

I will pummel your ears for each time you strike

And lash out sharp to make you echo and ring.

 – Though I’m often gentle, I also can fight.

I’m held in place by my thick, heady constraints

My sole escape comes in your presence each day

When my palate of sound-colors breathes and paints

And sings of beauty in your world far away.

If you roll arpeggios from end to end

I’ll joyfully sing you to sleep every night

With a gentle caress of sound I can send

All thoughts to the sea, with ethereal light.

I feel in your fingers the curve of the hill

And the tangible mists that mask the deep glen

In the echoes of this my heart steel is still.

 – I wonder as I wander if this will end.

As I watch from the window each season pass

Melancholy melodies speak of winter

But I know, as you know, time melts and won’t last.

And someday, my tension will make me splinter.

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“Begin and rebegin to … replunge us into the foam indefinitely dissipating the grains of sand innumerably enumerated by the light when all this i remember and again remember that unforgettable moment that moment of poetry of twenty-five years ago when i saw on the page and began the beginning of reading the first syllables the first lines immense and long and taut of the GALAXIES.” Roubaud, in Perloff, P. Unoriginal Genius (pg 78).

“Memory, which keeps this synthesis “in mind” even after its object has vanished; and imagination, which enriches perception and, coupled to reason, can conceive of new ways to achieve a goal.” Deheane, S. Reading in the Brain (pg 321).

“Hearing, after all, is a specialized form of the sense of touch.” Sullivan, A. The Seventh Dragon (pg 5).

I felt inspired by the blurring of the lines between prose and poetry, and wanted to imitate Roubaud’s style in my own voice while blurring the lines between memory and imagination.

Feelings of sound vanish, objects of sight vanish, taste of smells vanish but are kept alive in our cortical workspace where neurons meld and mold memory and imagination to create and recreate the future where the warm splash of memory will rise with, as tangible as fog, and as eternal as the silent silence echoing between the stars where life and light and choice evaporate into the re-remembering of the neuronal recycling of clouds, in white amorphous masses while i lie on the soft green hillside, touching the world around without sight, and the world, reaching out to touch me with the vibrations of movement through sound (all we hear, condensed into one small word) reverberating and reflecting the tiny bones in my ears which bring me back to this world, having dragged myself out of the earthen air of unconsciousness and into the blue of this reality where my finger strikes a key, strikes a string, rolling one sound upon another, painting time, until i stop and the facets of meaning caressing my ear slowly disintegrate into the space between stars.

Q: How do you write music, melody, poetry, without

Frag
ments?
Falling from my head to
my lap. Clattering from the
pockets of my
coat patched with
rainbows. Writing in
snips, strips – fabric cut from the
whole it was
woven into the
whole of the complete
weaving in fragments too I sit shattering into
the rubble of
words.
De-struction
De-con-struct-ion. The
questions now bubbling – thoughts
concrete, reality scattered in
metaphors. “Why can’t I
say exactly what I
mean?” The
ink that
flows so smoothly to the paper leaves
nonsensical squiggles that
form together in a
moment into
remains
of mistakes which
stitch themselves together, if you
angle the
page just
so.
Felt
The shreds back into
one even though the blueprints have not
even been dreamed into the
delicate life of reveries crashing
together in the reality of
one                  breath              .

Don’t
push me into the
gasp by
the gaps
into the next spell of the
thoughts
into
shattering
felt
stitch
of
breath.

Chocolate mahogany.

I long for your ivory skin,

But all you ever give me

Are these useless fragments.

You say,

“Stitch them together,

I know they fit.”

But how do I stitch together sounds

With just my fingers?

And when I leave, to journey far,

What can I take with me?

Memories, just as invisible

As your echoes

And as the black marks I have left

On this page for you

In a moment of confusion.

But I keep coming back to you

And your familiar, smooth-flowing

And beautiful reveries of poetry.

I’ll always respond in fantasies and cycles of reveries.

I adore your beauty

And how you are filled

With joy ever time I want

To make love.

The way you sigh and moan

Beneath my fingers is all

The spark my ardor needs

For hours.

I know your sweet notes,

And know they are always there for me,

Except those rare, stubborn stuck moments

Which take my gentle hand to giggle the key.

I let my knowing hands smooth

Your willful ways until our voices

Can fly through stars again.

You’re always willing to listen

And even when I am unable to speak

You’ll sing my tired tears to sleep.

Dear one, I love you so.

Even though I’m leaving you soon,

I’ll think of you often,

I love to sing with you, dear Stella,

The way our voices resonate together.

As we lean close, never quite touching

Except through haunting melodies,

We dance through the air.

My love, I know we haven’t been together long,

And all I long for is hours by your side,

But I must leave soon.

My hands will be occupied

By holding the road

And squeezing the miles through my finger tips.

Sweet one, I know after my road reveries

I will be different. I will feel new

As my hands flow over your keys

~ how could I possibly stay the same?

After all, my feet will stir air in circles

As I fly through foreign fields,

And my hands will wield tools

Made to change the shape of the earth.

But I promise you this,

My fingers will occupy themselves

Each night with writing riddles

Of thoughts of you.

And my voice will be endlessly singing

To you – sending cycles of sound back to you,

In this home we’ve made together.

Endlessly yours, until the end of the road,

When my cycle brings me back to embrace your resonance,

~ Your Lover