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1. |
The House Party
00:35
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At the house party on Saturday night Miss Cole
Boasted of catching rabbits
A trek ensued and she and Mister Carter
Still in formal attire set off
Spending three nights in the Wawayanda
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2. |
Lone Pearl
01:56
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Bengal lanterns back and forth
Along the bent back of Earth
A path no wider than the string of lint
On the night you died: the contents of your pocket
The contents of your pocket
On the night you died:
A lone pearl and a shard of flint
In your formal attire keep your lantern lit
Hold it high while we climb the hill
From a distance this is what we resemble
Rising spirits in the night
Orbs dancing on a mountain lake of crystal
Orange and gold and yellow circlets
I in my tux and you in your hoop skirt
Between my index and my pocket bottom
Fingering a lone pearl you’d dropped when
It burst its string and you stepped
From your heels and I in my trousers
Out rabbit hunting in wild weather
Re-disguising ourselves as each other
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3. |
Pollinator
02:32
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I am a charcoal man
My husk is black and burned so thin
Breathe on me and it will withstand no wind
Or your beautiful gentle breath
But I am stronger than life itself
Barbara, patroness of miners: her idol
Shimmers upon my altar of talc
Find me in the black rim of candles lit by my devout
By the intercession of Saint Blaise
Cross wax sticks at your throat
The dullest of blades yet
You’ll asphyxiate on this I hope:
My soft cannonade of a virus…
I can barely stay intact but in my collapse commences
My journey as the great pollinator of Gehenna’s hexagonal
Caverns that mount in rows and columns climaxing
Almost to the infinite
In every one the gold fire of honey blazes
Mine is the atomized soot that flakes and colonizes
Blacks out lanterns in miners’ faces
I engender hell
And another hell within it
Ice is my identical twin
I am a charcoal man
I am the shadow tied like a black balloon to your skin
I find you on the lake of ice among throbbing dancers
I am bobbing at your shin
Not enough helium to rise
And no one nearby
With a pin to do me in
So I wait for fire
And after it subsides is when I begin
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4. |
Thumper
01:23
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History is accumulating. The future is walking beside us. History is growing, taking over... It is thriving.
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5. |
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That postcard propped on a stump
Is watching me I watch it back
A city scene from eighteen ninety-what:
Turning trams… the first cars rumbling across tracks
The horse vans for ice and fat
The card expands its white border
The size of this forest almost
That mausoleum-style bank atrium’s enough
To nearly enter now…that florist
Window you have to stoop only a little
To peer in and in partial reflection spy
The girl in the cream-colored apron
Arranging sprays of fern and carnations
History is accumulating…the postcard image
Is the size of wilderness
The scenes arrive: bodies laid
In a pile just outside a commissary
Or halfway through the door
The future is walking beside us
Leg chained…whistles
And pops of fusillade
Weave the canopy
The birds scatter and a bark beetle
With blackened armor
Goes on its way among the flash and clamor
Eating flesh of trees
While overhead weave calls to mothers while dying
Unknowing that here in the Wawayanda
History is growing, taking over…it is thriving
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6. |
Chalk/The White Kite
02:10
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O let me lie in my bed of chalk
Or is it lime covers me
To wring out my time?
Staying here’s a piece of cake
Or for the birds
Whatever you like
It’s raising takes the courage of words
From the loam
From the dust afterwards
Written on black slate with white bone
Smudge them
Wipe them out
There’s still a ghost
Of what I meant to say
Man of chalk
Eraser hands
Burst into applause and we all go up in smoke
Finish your stand up
And after the joke
We’ll all be stretched
A long while
In our bed of white
Your shadow is a black balloon
Mine is a kite
White as a page
Flown by a figure from no place
Sending a message no one reads
But everyone gazes at: nature
It is flying away
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7. |
Fragment 1
02:26
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8. |
Green Navy/Rain
02:05
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Rain is a flag
Of no country
Of no place
Wind took the fence
And over bunched
Stone vertebrae of the sleeping sandstone
Giant of grass
Rain unfurls its pennant
It’s an expanse
No one wants and everyone gets
Brothers raise your drones
Fly into the flag of rain
Over the kingdom of no home
And in between spaces
Of the rain globes see the faces
Each wears a mask of reflection
And in these mirrors are drawn
Lines and lines behind lines
Are boxes in which
There are children and ash
And ghost vessels
Circumnavigating a globe of blue yolk
The sailors are all trees
And you can’t tell the men from the masts
This forest flies a flag of rain
And the captain gazes into himself
From the bottom of a droplet of a sea of moss
He salutes his men
Pride of his green navy
Gripping the net
As they climb the rigging of mist
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9. |
Tortoise Boxing
02:41
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When one places oneself in an attitude of listening
In nature, the rarest kinds of music
Advance themselves on the ear. I was seated on a log
Dialoguing with a shape trapper. Neither
Of us spoke but as we shared a smoke of kinnikinnick
And exchanged sips from a red-eye jar
A sound like deep ferocious thumping
Made itself aware to us: arhythmic, or perhaps
Rhythmic in a way other than the common styles are:
Heavy knocking, followed by silence in which I surmised
Was a resolution made to re-attack.
My companion, after a time in which he seemed to contrast
The sound to other instances from memory, smiled
At my bewilderment and answered without my ask:
Tortoises. Males. Aggressing by knocking together of shells.
For as long as it lasted I sat and began
To whistle a melody to which I’d returned
Many times and will return to again
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10. |
The Dance of No History
02:04
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As I entered the Deep Cut, I was affected by beholding the first faint reflection of genuine and unmixed moonlight on the eastern sand-bank while the horizon, yet red with day, was tingeing the western side. What an interval between those two lights! The light of the moon,—in what age of the world does that fall upon the earth? The moonlight was as the earliest and dewy morning light, and the daylight tinge reminded me much more of the night. There were the old and new dynasties opposed, contrasted, and an interval between, which time could not span. It suggested an interval, a distance not recognized in history. Nations have flourished in that light.—Henry David Thoreau
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11. |
Code and Cinders
02:22
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On a forest path
Green pond along the side
The sound of peepers
In algicide
"The call of the wild
And the widow Nature remembers
They march in single file
Among code and cinders"
Fire evangelizing
Trees and property
And the eagle lifts a black smear
Above the canopy
Cycles to the east
Cycles to the west
Drops through the blazing latticework
Of its nest
"The call of the wild
The widow Nature remembers
We march in single file
Among code and cinders"
The hive of ones and zeros rising
Blackening, dematerializing
Til what remains is smoke
And rooms with no fourth wall
To the wild’s where you're called
Where all is outdoors
And private into public crumbles
And the widow Nature remembers
What it was like to have a door
We march in single file
and the world is at war
Between code and cinders
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12. |
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The lake is lit from below
The blue light fades and glows
God fingers a pearl in the pouch
Of his pants, asks how it got there
Figures by chance and that orb
With its silk-seeming layers
Of cloudy sperm and squirts of yellow ocher
Bordered by blue skim turns
As God walks, up and down
And to and fro and now the blue light of the ice
Intensifies and pulses and the muted
Rhythms grow as ice plateaus
Reshuffle and the dance floor crumbles
And a bubble of Mesozoic air
Doesn’t so much burst as is pared
Away and like a clear silver pearl, like a globe
Of rain in which is trapped God’s face
Rises to meet your nostrils
You are inspired of ancient breath
And take in microscopic bundles
Of ashen ammonites whose winding
Inward stairs collapse in a puff
All the dancers on the floor ingest
And each transform into an ammonite
Herself, a being of spiral drawers
Of memory and love and just a little
O even just a little will to transform
Themselves…but the dancers
Cannot see below their feet
To lava fingering the ice
Wedges and freon is leaking
From all the fridges and the dance floor
Is melting and in the moment that commences
The dancers slide each into each a tangle
Of arms and legs and penises and anuses
And vulvas up until the dance floor swallows as it boils over
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13. |
Fragment 2
02:47
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14. |
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Me at the wheel
Of galaxies and stars and consequences
You on the other side
Driving till the fences and the wilds trade places
We are going for a ride
Our destination is immense
The details…we’ll let ‘em self-create
You and me in a Satellite
Going to another state
First the black and then the hills outline
And the new sun makes the sine wave images they instill
Inside the echo chamber of our minds
Reverberate
Our destination is immense
The details...they can wait a while
You and me in a day-colored sedan arrive
In another state
It’s not the best light
It's not the last but maybe chasing it
It’s our light
And what we have
And I know of no other
In which to watch you
It slides in slabs of color
One atop the other
It curls like a bowling pin
Turned on a wood lathe
To yield a pearl
And the grooved tongue of the file
Leans in and spits up words
In curlicues
We catch them
Spread them out
And read what they don’t say
Advice we won’t count
Not because it's too late
But because it’s only us
Me and you
In a blue Plymouth
Driving to another state
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15. |
Coda: Mesozoicon
01:53
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Lake bed, moist silt
The first channels for O2
Break the surface
Hive beginning to fill
For hours now the headlight has been crowning
A span of chrome rim mirroring the gray
What you can’t see is the wires disconnecting
From the source and the shaft
Trailing the reflector cone pulled up with every contraction
One of those animals approaches
Sniffs the lamp
Licks
Shifts back reflexively on hindquarters
Puzzled that it is still lit
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Hourloupe
Hourloupe: “I associate it, by assonance, to ‘hurler’ (to roar), to ‘huleler’ (to hoot), to ‘loup’
(wolf).”
—Jean Dubuffet
Hourloupe is a collaboration between writer, musician, and artist Frank Menchaca and Anar Badalov.
... more
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