Waking to Three Demons Milarepa named
Pictures From a Larry Mattress Factory Exhibition
An End Year
Composed after Henryk Gorecki āAlready It Is Duskā.
Savage Peace A Mountain Lion Gaze
Savage Peace A Mountain Lion as My Guide
Many aā time past Iāve seen this present before as savage, a catamount of me hunting.
Once at war with Creek and Cherokee, the British and then against one another.
Always where the moon touched closest to the Suanne, Dog and Yellow River,
These lands around where I was born and grew to live most of my life wandering
Stone Mountain, searching every line in granite to see the footprints of history.
Later it was anyplace where I heard the Oconee and Broad, their many branches,
Home it was when water was near, wild in the Straits of Mackinac on The Island.
When I could hear and smell, see the California Pacific my American soul was born,
Everything was big, the waves, the tales, the trees and then the strangest, Yeah.
Funniest creature alive I saw while walking alone in the Mendocino ocean side forests.
Electric celestial yellow snail by my left boot there beside the ferns waiting to greet me,
Welcome to the hills and cliffs, Garcia, Gualala and Elk River, unbelievable waves,
Grey whales sailing upon the dark deep waters slowly breaching and hypnotic,
Dig my soles down to hold onto this quivering land and I looked eye to eyes
With another ancient inhabitant to this āhereā, a potato bug turning his head
As if spring loaded and crackled sounds so sharp I swore it was speaking,
And so here I knew more than life more than dreams more was waiting to be
To rise and define what is me; this North Sonoma, Southern Mendocino
was not ready for this Southern, wild, drunken, woman crazed, culinary flash,
Fog walking sands of Manchester, coasting acro the grasses of Havenās Neck,
Finally knowing home is wherever, and Iām just digging life more smile than frown.
Alone (Schooltown Downtown)
ALONE (SCHOOLTOWN, DOWNTOWN)
Lying in bed with the sound of rain on a tin rooftop,
space heater churning blue flame and little heat,
the sour smell of night sweats on a paisley bathrobe,
Chopin nocturnes escorting Night into her bedchamber.
Dawn sleepily moves across the landscape, and with this
the day breaks upon the city, day breaks upon the already
melting snows. Blue sky and cardinals, green pines shrugging
the cracked ice off, and bend, bend, bend, creaking,
seems itās me not the trees creaking, leaning towards
the kitchen and all the ways of waking that are waiting there.
Funny, the way the voice shakes in a hushed stage whisper
as it moves in pitch towards the bellow and shout,
towards the un-muffled, the hallelujah yeah that says
this is the moment: a place Iād like to stay.
Step outside on the warped pine front porch, well, well,
the eyes start to focus through espresso steam
and Camel smoke,
and it seems out here all the roads connect
on a downtown trek thatās ever and always leading somewhere,
and I look and look and look at the streak of wires
suspended and swaying beneath the weight of winter winds,
they too are going and theyāre not coming here…
And for this minute the dawn tastes good, it tastes like life.
Yellow sun rests on the wet roofs and lawns, gleaming, awake.
A car door slams, a car shifts gears and slides to a stop,
a car rushes round the curve and hill, sounds a whole lot
like late for work and Iām glad Iām not, then a truck rumbles,
a train howls and grinds, screams through birdsong
and soft morning thought, and reawakens the knowing
that commerce has no home or heart, it just roars,
tears down wall and reconstructs, full throttle, full throated.
These are the sounds when the city wakes up, with sounds
like this, with iron gates crashing. Sleeping,
the beast is beautiful with itās neon crown,
itās candent towers, fuzzy halo and steady hum. And then,
the city wakes up with all the subtlety,
vulgarity and calm of Moloch rising after the feast.
Content And Context Breaks Apart, Comes Together
CONTENT AND CONTEXT BREAKS APART, COMES TOGETHER
1 (the journey)
A better song, a deeper majesty, something about a place,
the temperature, a thing unrelinquished…
the open hand waving by the side of the road
where the line between corn and simplicity is really,
really thin, but you take the gesture as it is,
as it is, you wave back and drive on, on road, on stereo,
on still toward the place thatās humming in your throat,
somewhere here to the side of the hill…
somewhere here where it all comes together….
2 (the metaphor)
Falcon struggles and falls into the water, fins splash,
seconds later the water breaks, tiny waves,
the scream, a bit of justice. Watch, wait and cast,
thrashing, coax a rainbow in on a weakened tapered line
with a tied stone fly. Storm comes in off the flats
of Charleston Harbor, boat runs out of gas,
drop a favorite fly rod into the water. Let it go.
Ozone cracks across the bow, phosphorous glows on your
fingertips, gets a little choppy, get a little scared,
pause long enough to smell the mud on the water,
fermented, primordial, the earth blows across the water,
and when you pause long enough…
the breath of God moves across the face of the waters.
3 (storms rise, the past lets go)
Back home, Son House flails away on a National Steel Guitar
about a death letter come this morning to the door.
Do the same: Keep checking, keep checking the road,
do a little mock cross, Hey thanks, mailbox snaps shut,
no magazine, no visitors knock, no telephone ring.
Day dreaming, gazing out the bedroom window:
Cool breezes warm and the leaves turn over,
startled thrashers rise to the sudden thunder,
they know the look of a coming rain storm; and me,
contemplating blue curtains and wilted flowers,
I see the sense of being, but just canāt feel it.
Thereās no need to name, the words are all used up,
prose locked in reflections, in the currents of my past,
still trying to break away, and then…yellow sky to green,
and then the world drops away, tornado hits the marshes,
the weather brings me home, and I know right now
that some things must change, yeah,
and there it is, a death letter standing at the door.
And this time around I refuse to answer.
4 (baptism)
She saw constellations. The sky was good.
Pink hearts…Hello moon, and the stars would swirl.
Sheet lightning in the East, bright, bright flash,
then the winds: Gale winds storming over rounded hills
pulling a hot shroud over hunt poised Orion,
and the clouds rolled over on their dark, full sides,
and the rains did fall; and she kneels by the river,
skips a piece of slate across the rippling Oconee…
Alone, she watches and feels, feels the stones flight,
feels the river and the rain, and says good bye,
good bye to all the loss in a night that found itself.
Uuummm May, volatile, seductive, all sparkle and kiss.
Wisteria heavy air clinging to her damp hair,
she shakes it back and sings shower songs, stops,
sings Ave Verum Corpus and knows that tonight
she felt the soul as though all things were beginning.
5 (encounter and awakening)
Wind slows down and an immaculate moment
now romances…everything. Hey, itās the first of May,
wash my face in dew, hereās the cat-like light begging
to be scratched, and here I am with sunset eyes,
she and I in a mass of shadows just falling away.
Through a Baudelarian gothic hour into this night
I cross the hearts knife and open to this I, this she.
She blows kisses to the past and then to me.
River road stands warm, water gurgles āSummertime.ā
And I forget the flatted third, chromatic slide chords,
I forget what it was that drug me down before.
OK, so I obsess on the past…Let it go. She is here.
Her midnight hair glows. I let go the broken loves. Try.
Now….itās not just this, wish it was, wish it wasnāt…
Now…she glows…wish it wasnāt so Romantic….so more than her…
so hard to go on, but I do: Easy. Yeah? Itās not.
Silence and the blues are smooth, so is she, and we touch…Now.
Every Now and Then a Silence Is Just Too Much A Thing As Is
Every Now and Then a Silence Is Just Too Much A Thing As Is
A blank space,
peels of parsnip and carrot skin
in pretty curls on stainless steel,
all it takes is to breeze on by in col de sac winds,
preferring nothing spoken over
death grip of hateful masses,
smell not to rage but to taste,
so take it all out
on vegetables and dried tofu,
tamarind powder
and buckwheat ramen noodles
sprayed with walnut and wasabi oil,
a touch of sweet orange water,
and the mediation table waits,
Oh! and Dr. Seuss shaped bowls,
black chopsticks to pull it all in
to celebrate the rains of Spring,
enjoy the cool nights until light,
and be glad for what’s to come
maybe big vision, perhaps events?
of pampered lives no way!
not dead
but I have ridden Death’s coach
to neighborhoods end and woods beginning,
talked across the prairie
to be again with wonder
watching and breathing the mighty Pacific,
and turn around,
turn back into the Mississippi River,
hold my breath border to border
across Alabama till I smell pecan groves
and rich fields of land
live oaks brimming with Spanish moss
and curious, hungry fat raccoons,
bordering the Okeefenokee
and pouring out the highway
here to Buford, Georgia
where a neighbors rooster wakes
me throughout the day
and this circle of street becomes
a gift of light, of green meadow
and hardwood groves, hardwood forest,
where by the barb wire
I sit and watch the tall grass bend
and whisper in gossipy low tones
that to pause and meditate, ‘
to give in and consider
this moment is more
than a passage of clocks fascinated
by how things change;
here the grumble and croak
of cicadas and low flying planes.
Pass me the Sencha tea
whose leaves so electric bright green
seems unnatural in its naturalness
or pass on by, really, just
pass on by singing Isaac Hays
and pretending
to believe in having never known
the scenes idolized
are those best by being felt as best.
As being as the best I can.
Be.
TOUCH 2020
TOUCH REVISITED
Highlights in the high room,
a foyer by some, but just tall by me.
Single tracks stream through
silken dust galaxies;
they swirl into these rains,
new rains beyond, but just enough
out upon this new green meadow,
this into, this-as, this being there,
it is the spirit of Love, Beloved,
here leaving new dark corridors,
seamless tunnel rising, driving,
a long passage without sides
which we may reach into, yes,
yet feeling slow warmth,
only air.
itās only air.
Creation Tides 1.618 Melody Eb major
Creation Tides 1.618 Melody Eb major is an edit with additional tracks. of Contemplation #12. The driving force of timpani and piano is still there, as are the strings. Added Indonesian Gamelan and Tubular Bells. Scale changed from D major to Eb major.
The Melody appears, alters and returns throughout seemingly without structure, but there is, structure. Waves and lines merge.
This is a straight up contemporary classical electronic etude.Ā No video, just music. Hope someone anyone likes it.
H Lamar Thomas' Blog 
You must be logged in to post a comment.