Here's a brash Shabbas too-full-in prayer,
pigeon and dove wars going on other side
of drapes, they random roo, tandem chorus,
full craw spat, so scat my aged but still high fidelics.
Between the rain Scarlotti "Stabat Mater" and Coltrane, two wildly different stratospheres, I veer once again to espresso pot, cast lots for what remains of sacred dregs, boil an egg, address insistent closed curtains pleading outer darkness OK with me believing with my ears, in harmony, in Coltrane's primacy of breath and brass.
Good start to the weekend, a titch of lonely but not really since "I have been faithful to thee, Cynara [Ernest Dowson]." I have re-sewn the decades old wine dark satin housecoat redeemed from thrift near a sacred mountain known only to itself (and to me -shhhhh) that it is sacred. There's still some sheen to the old satin. Not sheen. What's the word? Yeah, rather, 'patina' with pinot noir notes. Old bones remembering to be gay.
Second cup. I gloat. Scarlatti turns to Pergolesi, more violins than the first Stabat of the afternoon. Radio, remember that? D.J. plays quilts of Trane. Volume up, volume down. Lean in to hear. Lean back to mercy ears whelmed, Coltrane fingers ever over the helm. Sense whence such, his furrowed look, have laid down all scores but one (but he'll never tell yet still we listen...hints about).
Out of heavy cream for ever blacker brew, but no dearth of sound.
A peek of Autumn color, so much depends on, even or especially, W. C. Williams's spokes and strokes, the window slicked tho dinged, lone ginkgo golden tresses in honor of the Holy Child of Hamlet, NC. below the grayed out pigeons, the consistent doves, holy too, in retreat to ledge and iron across the street, other windows. A truce at last. Must be there's a crow cross the street eyeballing thinking lunch.
**
What the window does, rain, the street and the district houses, my humble Canon camera greatly battered, years old, flatters, is 'Ash Can meets some bereted French 19th Century 'school' or painter tobacco stained, slow poison in the tints back then used (O Vincent) , makes one wonder if they, all or most, were in altered states from the chemicals in the tubes ginning veins, organs, brains, so they, literally painted what they were seeing from within, all that literal alchemical combustion of optics, nerves, lungs pulling heavy for air, another draw from the pipe or fag. Bless them each, leaving their scrim for us to gaze. Our eyes are the better for them.
Enough.
Words of an old teacher come to mind, a kind man, a bit severe, sere, clear as all raw day, he'd remind then, would do so now,
Don't try so hard.
Wait. Listen.
Good start to the weekend, a titch of lonely but not really since "I have been faithful to thee, Cynara [Ernest Dowson]." I have re-sewn the decades old wine dark satin housecoat redeemed from thrift near a sacred mountain known only to itself (and to me -shhhhh) that it is sacred. There's still some sheen to the old satin. Not sheen. What's the word? Yeah, rather, 'patina' with pinot noir notes. Old bones remembering to be gay.
Second cup. I gloat. Scarlatti turns to Pergolesi, more violins than the first Stabat of the afternoon. Radio, remember that? D.J. plays quilts of Trane. Volume up, volume down. Lean in to hear. Lean back to mercy ears whelmed, Coltrane fingers ever over the helm. Sense whence such, his furrowed look, have laid down all scores but one (but he'll never tell yet still we listen...hints about).
Out of heavy cream for ever blacker brew, but no dearth of sound.
A peek of Autumn color, so much depends on, even or especially, W. C. Williams's spokes and strokes, the window slicked tho dinged, lone ginkgo golden tresses in honor of the Holy Child of Hamlet, NC. below the grayed out pigeons, the consistent doves, holy too, in retreat to ledge and iron across the street, other windows. A truce at last. Must be there's a crow cross the street eyeballing thinking lunch.
**
What the window does, rain, the street and the district houses, my humble Canon camera greatly battered, years old, flatters, is 'Ash Can meets some bereted French 19th Century 'school' or painter tobacco stained, slow poison in the tints back then used (O Vincent) , makes one wonder if they, all or most, were in altered states from the chemicals in the tubes ginning veins, organs, brains, so they, literally painted what they were seeing from within, all that literal alchemical combustion of optics, nerves, lungs pulling heavy for air, another draw from the pipe or fag. Bless them each, leaving their scrim for us to gaze. Our eyes are the better for them.
Enough.
Words of an old teacher come to mind, a kind man, a bit severe, sere, clear as all raw day, he'd remind then, would do so now,
Don't try so hard.
Wait. Listen.
Measure arrives.
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