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Many Musics,
(Third Series)

“Out here on the perimeter
there are no stars
Out here we is stoned . . . immaculate”
—The Doors, “The Wasp (Texas Radio & the Big Beat),” 1971.

i. Manifest

What won’t come is music half-called,
distracted, hungry hours, sunk in the province
of men. Lights, simmering smells, bread & stew.
Lure, of wine & silk. Someone nods & says
we’re mapping beauty, a hour nearer, a formula,
derived of striplings’s coos & closely tuned
compass. More smoke, distraction’s distraction.
Maybe the potion drunk an hour ago will able save the next.

Music half-called rings back in blind cries &
smoking metal. Sentiments & easy lusts.
Mapping beauty? another says. We can’t feed
ourselves & save the trees alike. What beauty
in a hungry child or a burnt acre? Legions
of men will be needed, maybe more than all
this world holds. Legions of men & centuries
of days before anything known, or we even begin.

Music, I call you now, from what I know
& much the rest, I call you now, music,
where you tend I will follow, what you
know I will believe. By star’s light &
dream glow will I map beauty, in songs
to manifest, music, I call to you now.
Each drift on his breeze, one wind, many winds,
one rhythm, one melody, many musics, hear my vow.

******

ii. Passing Water

Sing the hours true & know the hunger
is bound in breathing itself, its walls,
beams, what girds underneath. Breeze moves
each & all, one wind, many, & rains
fall with the ceaseless questions & some
answer. Want born, roots, thus musics bloom.

Next hill may show whatever the burning
smell in the air, or within heart’s bluest
scent itself, or where bound world’s greater
arc half risen. Sing the hours true,
chop wood, carry water, reck every hour’s
pulse of promise & ache, what stays, what going.

Ferment & strew, drifting lash on a curved
warmth, news of today’s annihilation in
god’s praise. Crack the wish to notice newly,
the long remembered page’s lean wisdom,
dream’s luring distant treeline. Every heart blows
through empty fields with obscure intent.

World manifests in you for its own reasons,
many, & none at all.

******

iii. Penury

World evolves an hour to a train’s slow
through grassland carrying new dead,
to a long-waited kiss in rainy light.
Music half-called, deep hungry words,
clear dreams of a dying man. A soldier
cursing the strange land’s heat, his own sad blood.

What to do next when the wind &
the lightning & the rainbow & the shutting
door? Any of it. What to do next?
Say the way is dis-illusion, call world
an effect, crack that wish to notice
newly? Manifest. Shit is beautiful too.

Look onto new years, their clustered
seeds, unmet faces, chances brambled
in mystery. Eternals touched in finishing
the song, & crawling the dust. Look back,
bravely, what spillt, what gone, calmly,
what lingers & what still it seeks through you.

******

Previously added Many Musics, III, #1, Manifest, which I'd call a song to keep going. Today added #2, Passing Water, which I'd say is an observation on life, on what I see, weird as it may be. Me or life or both, heh.

This afternoon added Many Musics, III, #3, "Penury," every so often I write a song of hope, simple hope, complex hope, needed hope.

now and then we're able to channel hope
gotta let it shine
sacred duty