July 11, 2011

Plato, the Poem

shadows on the wall, he said
you don’t even see the thing
shadows of puppets in firelight

blink, rub your eyes, blinded
stare straight at the sun
feel the full burn of the light
until you can see, really see

then go back down
into the prison of night
swim through darkness, blind again
even the shadows are gone
even the consolation of the lie
  is invisible

  he said there are two phases
    of blindness –
going from the dark up to the light
& going from the light down to the dark

before you call a man a fool
you best know
if his head is full of darkness, or light

July 6, 2011

Landscape: Weather Becoming Dolphy

Hello friends.  Hard to believe that it's almost all-star break already . . . need to crank up this summer a little bit for some fun.  At least we haven't been getting hammered with heat like last year.  Anyway, not much to write, so I thought I'd drop my favorite Eric Rensberger poem on y'all:


evidence of high wind 
everything that gets so far off the earth 
is returned to it thrown down 
new growth starts up 
the bones of what did tower

/and the animals get their backs and rumps roughed up from 
   bowing backward to the gale 
/and the birds are made to skim an arm's length ahead of the 
/and the people are built with extra bracing, like houses 
that expect the worst  

and what's out there 
the weather is the same as what's 
in every human heart 
bad trouble and energy 
enough to make it real  

/but over there on the edge of the earth is a black wood with 
extra-human sounds in it 
/and if the animals and the bent trees keep pointing in the 
right direction 
/and if only the wind can reach that far and then blow through 
it and if  

the right fingers appear 
with their silver keys 
unlocking faster and wider 
than the wind can 
slam shut the doors of 
the wood, we'll finally hear  

Dolphy before his head burst 
playing how to live 
between out and inward weather 
and what's so beautiful about it 
after all, what's so 
important about someone 
pulling melody after melody 
out of his bountiful mouth

Damn, that's the shit, right there.  Makes me think about the basement over on Gardner, punching amplifiers with horns and guitars, making them rage like wounded animals . . . or, even further back, the hollowbody Kay and the clarinet, the cramped apartment on the first floor of Rufer, we had to shut off the fan and close the windows during the take, then we ran outside with icewater just to get our body temperatures down after the take . . . or, all the way back to the decaying house on the ridge in Elletsville, bourbon flowing like water, Bob & Eric & me finding our way into the universe, howling like banshees . . .

You can find the poem here.  You can get to the index of Eric's poetry site here.  Maybe it's because I feel this stuff . . .  but you should feel it too, because it's immortal.

Everything is swimming around, past images flashing like lightning . . . I'm feeling the need for a stiff drink right now . . . but cash is short, the liquor store across the street is closed, and morning is less than eight hours away.  A little sonic cure will have to suffice: the Catkillers from '96 with me, Eric, and Rob Stockwell.

Wonderful World of Sound by billzink

Ah, that's the stuff.