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.


Angie said...

this popped up in my blog reader as i was listening to dolphy.

bountiful mouth, indeed.

love the poem.

Bill Zink said...

Remember this from Bears On Text 3?