i

Calx, Calyx, & Breccia D

irk Johnson

ii

Calx, Calyx, & Breccia

For Bob Hughes, Edward McMennamin, & Brian Wood, alphabetically becausae there is no heirarchy among friends.

Dirk Johnson

Calx, Calyx, & Breccia

A Little Lake Book

Copyright © 2012 Dirk Johnson.

This work is made available under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/.

Grateful acknowledgement is made to Brian Wood for the use of his drawing “Dionysus’ Ride” on the front cover.

Manufactured in the United States of America.

Little Lake Books is a wholy owned subsidiary of MendoCountryLife.com, Willits, California.

First printing

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

First drafts of these poems were published in blog form at:http://dirk-johnson.com/wpblog/

Table of ContentsProgrammed World ......................................................................................... 1Calx, Calyx, & Breccia ..................................................................................... 3This Morning .................................................................................................... 4Avatar Embrace ................................................................................................. 6Blue ..................................................................................................................... 7Hades .................................................................................................................. 8Orpheus ............................................................................................................. 9Reaching Into You ..........................................................................................10For a Moment..................................................................................................11Juglans Regia ...................................................................................................12for Paul Celan ..................................................................................................13Sky by Turner, Soundtrack by Janequin ......................................................13Light in the Dark ............................................................................................14Construction Under a Walnut Tree .............................................................17Reading Maximus at Hearst .........................................................................19Gash Gold-Vermilion ...................................................................................23Was it? ..............................................................................................................25Lament of the Limit........................................................................................27A Day on A Dam ............................................................................................29The Four (or The Three) ................................................................................31The Ancestral Home ......................................................................................32In the Mean Time ...........................................................................................34When I Awoke ................................................................................................36The Fire Again .................................................................................................37Étude on Fate Knocking ................................................................................38Millenial Flood ...............................................................................................39Narrative Sketch 1: The Rhythm...................................................................42Narrative Sketch 2: 1st Person Rosonny ......................................................48Narrative Sketch 3: “Rhosonny’s Last Piano” ..............................................51

1

Programmed World

<input>One who has Not Nor will {accomplish [-ed] anything}

Who will {achieve nothing}

Eats if motivated then works endif if so inclined then plays endif if not happy then if not happy & calm not weeps or if not happy & not calm cries endif endif endif

else is tired & is possible Sleeps, All within

Array: <perception id = “num=self ”> 1.1 sight  1.2 sound 1.3 touch 1.4 taste 1.5 smell 2.1 impulses 2.2 emotions 2.3 speech 2.4 habit 2.5 thought 3.1 delusion 3.2 anger 3.3 pride 3.4 greed 3.5 envy 4.1 bliss 4.2 mirror 4.3 sameness 4.4 discrimination 4.5 accomplishment

</perception>

Travels through 1.2 into 2.1 where 3.4 became 4.5 inCyclesNot random() butLED byActive fieldsBelowConscious awarenessWith aspects of dream states; psychedelic disorder;

2

unbalanced systems; discordance of perception & memory; illness; health;LivesOut his lifeWith

<nothing> to rely on; to hold on to; to be done; to be accomplished;

</nothing>

No progress; resumption; regression; change: stillness; gain; loss; pleasure; pain; fear; hope;

Not null; not not null; not both null & not null; not neither null nor not null;</input>

Result: No result.

3

Calx, Calyx, & Breccia

But, anyway, it was time. ~Anonymous

Calx, so archaic, chalky rock On fire glazed over, this mind not Lynx eyed, but calyx, the cavity of coral Skeleton, corolla to polyp, more breccia Or even scree, landslide at standstill Stale. Corundum, as I said, sort of, An opaque defile, eroded through infinite light. Though the fog creeps, there are times it doesn’t Stop at membranes, silts the links among thoughts —Dolemite or Diorite ground to dust & — puff — blown through cracks in gyve Old age that tightens in a mesh through a brain, Krummholz to the ascent of dissolution.

The need here now to say something To you, but there is nothing to say.

4

This Morning

We reach out with both hands across an unbridgeable chasmFor the single crimson rose we feel will dispel the night.Seeming to smile, nodding in a gentle breeze, does itInvite us to take it & use it as our means of escape?

Through an assembly of machines & techniques,Cantilevers, struts, cables, & pure will we spanThe uncrossable deep to embrace both petal & thorn.

At first touch, the bloom seems to glow yet more brightlyAs though a sun thrust its torch aboveA distant horizon at midnight.

But this need to consume, to acquire, to possessLime-like leaches pigment from each petal, bleachingNight, dawn, star, & flower to dull grey overcastWhere our beloved suffocates & struggles to get free.

& so it goes, again & again.The sterile room, the unguents, the needles, the jars;Quodidian reek of disinfected surface projectedInto seconds, minutes, hours, days...By a longing that flickers in a loose socket.

We hack at undergrowth.We cast nets.We finger the warm deep of eternity.Variety swirls about us.We feel poor.We think, If only, just once, just oneGood meal to lift me out of this hungerThat would be enough. I would be happy.

The dissonant instruments,Bright green,Wind on a bridge,Sand dunes of garish goods,A lofty jest of Baudelaire,Red light from candles,

5

And a baySet up harmonic vibrations, Electric arcs across the bases of our spinesGiving birth through occipital foramen To ephemeral spirits of bliss.

6

Avatar Embrace

At light speedThroughPlanetary distanceThe assemblage begins.

It erupts & condenses,On & off, open & closed junction& switch, limb & tributaryBranch into fields of bright matterSpread wide on Earth to shuntInto lightening through metal.Receptive cloud, resultant wave,From form to chaos to form withUnknowable speed,Orgasmic waves recede fromAn event horizon toStream into gesture & shape.

Through tremor & heartbeatThe throb of her vast descentFrom bliss & primal completionThrough this storm of electricalDust & disjecta in plenumOf bright flashes for raiment,She assembles, as singular houriIn magnetic fluxion,Her avatar, low resolutionPhase shift, engorged withbeauty & passion.The bulls are entranced.

In a moment brief & subtleDrawn into sweet embraceThrough a vacuum of time,Her cosmic, tumultuous danceWinds down through fluidSuccessiveEnfoldingsTo reclineIn the arms of a being of light.

7

Blue

Blue. Over all, a blue,blue the pale blueof a sand mandalawith nearly white streaks & spotsinseparable from the backgroundof windy sky; wind cool enoughfor a soft drink on a sizzling daywhile gamelan wind chimesplay out the 3-5-2-5-1-3-4-4rarely repeating progressionmandated by the breeze.

An adolescent girl on a bicyclewith the headwind at first to her backdoes figure eight repetitionsin the street, by the drivewayovershadowed by a still-bare walnut treedropping sticks & a dog, size unknownbecause an unpainted picket fenceblocks sight of the fence across the streetfrom the table where I writebehind which said dog barks whilethe girl rides up & down in figure eightsthen rides off onto another streetdisappearing from sight as the doggoes silent & a gust of wind throwssticks & leaves & stirs the windchimes into new progressions, fastertempo, louder, more randombut enchanting accompanimentto temp drop.

Far above the shimmerof (hallucinated?) clouds shotthrough the sky’s entireblue.

8

Hades

What then did you projectupon Persephone when yousaw her simply dressed in flowing cloth that made herseem more nakedwhile she dreamed awake a perfect life with alwayslate summer crops ripeninga touch of coolness & drifting clouds protected her from Helios’ deep gaze?

Who did you think she would bewhen you brought her into thevast darkness of your sensory disassembly to unite with you?

Do you know what she might have been had circumstance not interfered with what you wanted?Do you know what you might have beenhad you successfully bred her light?

What was your fantasy?Or did you really even have one?Were you simply mesmerized by light frequencies radiatedfrom her when you were with her absorbing both past & futurein the peaks & troughs of its pulsations?

9

Orpheus

Or was it Eurydice after allWhom I saw descend into darknessWrapped in layers of bright light& not Persephone as I had thoughtNor Hades whom I addressed remarksBadly targeted & carelessly thrownBut Orpheus whom I should have Questioned when questioning Was the form of my approach.

But now I turn to speculation:Why did she descend away from himTo begin with? Did his songs, thoughThey pleased the universe, even rocks, Fall upon her ears to her mind asCurses from one side or the otherOf her self identities?

Whether they pleased her or not, He continued playing but it didn’tBring her back. Then his musicBecame stranger & darker& the darker it becameThe less he trusted herTo follow him back, &That thought itself frozeAll his world & life into Severance.

10

Reaching Into You

And stillon this streamin a cool nightmy disembodied voiceentangles positive &negative junctionsin order to traversecopper wire, fiber optics& radio signalssynaesthesicallytransmittedfrom synapse to musclefrom ink into lightfrom vocal expressionto squiggles on a screen& yetno matter how faryou have gonemy voicedisembodiedreachesthrough your fleshinto your mind

11

For a Moment

For a moment there seemed to be nothing at all.For a moment I became you, or at least someone other than I.For a moment I felt like an emergency, a concrete floor, a body lying there.For a moment it seemed that I had stumbled into the wrong house & fainted.For a moment, though the night was cool, sweat beaded my scalp.For a moment, I lay shivering.For some time I could move among others as them or as you.For a while, the time spent studying a photograph, I felt what another feels; experienced you as my reality, found in you a reality exactly similar to my own — a feeling core, a sense of existing, sense experience, mental functions from synapse whispers in layers out up to conscious thought & saw that your thoughts & my thoughts are all that separate us.For a moment, I felt us swap bodies & continued to feel at home.

12

Juglans Regia

A native of the Balkans, Himalayas, & Southwest China, with vast forests even now in Kyrgyzstan, the Ancient Greeks took the Persian walnut from Iran & Iraq & bred it for size & improvedthe quality of its fruit. From Greece, as with all things, the Romans brought them into Europe & north Africa.Then the Regia turned English, & now California produces two-thirdsof the world’s consumable walnuts.

More importantly, Carya chose the walnutas a refuge from her Dionysian passion, a hard wood with a rich fruit; we remembered her as Artemis, & on the Acropolis built her into a monument made of marble, not wood, Caryatids keeping the porch roof in the sky until now, a distant future.

The cherry, the plum, & the pearhave all blossomed & faded to foliagebut this walnut in the northwest corneronly has small green cones shot with brownon the nubs of twigs on its branches, neither flower nor leaf, though dugouts where the woodpeckers work & open branchesare many, from one of which a crow looks down from his harvest& scolds me for being such a slacker on this warm spring Sunday afternoon.

13

for Paul Celan

A multistranded light gatheredinto a tightbeam disruptssome tuned steel tubeswhose black surface absorbs its colorto sway, drunk, into ambiguous collisionswith the tongue.

Sky by Turner, Soundtrack by Janequin

(Canto LXXV? Voices not violin)

Then only cricketsGoats, no cricketsDog, no goatWind in maples, no dogTwitters, different bird setScreech owl: Progressive harmony

14

Light in the Dark

I. Going South

Night owls landedone by oneat 02:30

on the easternhorizonacross a summit

over watershedsof mythicalrivers

one flows northone flows souththrough

broken spring switchback roadfrom plateau

through hillsjust beyondrossroads

two lanes in fourdirections

a bare legtiny short shortsapparently female

steppedfrom the darkmeridian

into my laneSwerve & miss& continuation.

15

II. Going North

At 00:30next dayafter shooting

seemingly emptygunsat ill-defined

troublein the operatingsystem

a layer fartherabove the hardwarethan it really

needs to be,execute(sfc /scannow)finally after

endless scan(virus)Cast(in light)on LCD.screens

@ the (centeror {end -2 left re})the ? (else “heart”)

of the complex, the.server.room beside(office)

rolling againthroughno moon

but lightsred & whitebecom

16

near crossroadsdisco lightsshimmer of sequins

then wet flow oflight along edges(windshield or {end -6 left -screen})

parting along the hoodZiegfeld Folliesin silhouette

of treesbut didn’t swerve& continuation.

17

Construction Under a Walnut Tree

i.

This raven up the walnuttree, (hidden by first burst of leaves)goes on & on& on & on...One of his friendsmust have told him he could sing.

ii.

Once againturn away from the scene —even the blue jaywas put off by that raven’s crowing,as light trucks & SUVsrumble in a steady paradecelebrating nothing.

The scene musn’t holdthe attention, rather the objectunder construction —being made in ink forconvenience & simplicity —

Demands attentionnot wind musicagainst a spectrum of densitiesshuffled by invisible laws

to be sonorousto a device developedto hear them,but objects derivedfrom fragment subsets of earth& sky not even mentionedfrom light& sound medium neitherone with nor separate from the wind.

18

iii.

And even then onlytwo out of five. The sixthconstructingan object while pulled bybody, aroma, flavor.

19

Reading Maximus at Hearst

When wind dies downThough the Eel keeps moving & changingIts surface smooths, far hills reflect With leaves, without snow. Then anotherWind stirs the surface Into serpentine.

Sound only of wind & water.Then a tractor above & pastA steel bridge, A ridge of trees.

An earthquake might bring it down. The river would embrace it.

(Or Verazano has it,courously, put down asa mud bankp. 83

Appear young women (with small children)Mostly naked, only bush & nipples covered,They face me & lie along the river shore or wade into the water.

The group moves closer, Eying me. The tops come off.Infants’ laughter. Bird songs.

Just like that draggingas we doshifting newland, sucksdown, into the terrible

inert ofnature (the DivineInert, the literary man...p 126

20

Now some guy walks up 20 meters awayTosses his fishing line, lookinglike he wants my spot.I smile at him.

Sat down, plantedfisheriesso they’ve stayed putp 128

The women put string tops on& turn to face the other way.

We killas a fisherman’sknife nicksabundance.p 129

Fisherman leaves. Seems to feelunwanted. Angry, drives off with skidding wheels.The women face me again, & lose their tops. Sound only of wind & water.

if wedon’t find out the inertis as gleaming as,& as fat as,

fish —p 130

Tops back on, walking kidsToward me indirectly, on my blindSide then skirt behind &Away down river.

aloof, aloof& came no nearnew cryp. 131

21

I eat a sesame & poppy crackerw/ camembert.

A car, hip-hop blastingwoofers through tires,stops on a bridge20 seconds.

Put the camembert away.Eat a second cracker.

Stopright there, said time, Descarte‘s holding upanother hand & your own peoplein this wilderness

not savages but thoughthas invadedthe proposition.p. 134

Behind meBig voiced dogs barkAt returning women & infants.

New women’s voices raised at dogs Flank me —I could have grabbed them —Three women, dog each, Single file, prim, Reserved along the river.

In front: Black Dress, with black shoes, tatoosIn middle: Hiker Woman, pants, hiking shoesBehind: Shorts, almost panties, sandals.

Shorts struggles with her Corgie.I smile, “he wants to visit” She giggles yesAnd sways her hipsDown river out of sight.

22

Coming along pathswe just now

get our feet on, that space;p. 135

Wind, birds, river, treesShake & danceUntil human voices enterAngry kids this time,Mothers shushAnd scoldAs they leave.

The wind had veered tothe northeast & wasincreasingp. 140

23

Gash Gold-Vermilion

No wonder of it: sheer plod makes plough down sillionShine, & blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,Fall, gall themselves, & gash gold-vermilion. — Gerard Manley Hopkins, “The Windhover”

Is it possible, with open hand, to reach inside You, feel the pulse of your essence?Let me finger your hexagonal chainsOf synapse that broadcast switch Signals in white-water neuron torrents That explode against glia into sharp Mists that swirl sulfide in a sunsetLaying light down between the upraised kneesOf your canyon where a river runs As though it already knows the wayOf your counter current dance: cubic metersPer second in thousands pound your thighs.Your hair streams out among the clouds.

In upheaval of surmounted deathLava streams steam cooling at your water’s edgeWhere size & intensity are proportionalUntil you fuse miniscule hydrogen atomWith hydrogen atom & a ball of fireDrinks up all along it’s path.

Hair, body, body type, eye color,Height, weight, foot size, breast size,Sex size, belly girth, ass shape, thighThickness, nipple density, skin pigment,Or foreskin or not fail to touchThe flourish of nerves that flares outWhen minds fuse into one awarenessof ever changing stillness.

In your mercury surface an afternoon moon. A finger tip brushes you, Distorts the observed world in wavesAnd whorls beneath which continuousMotion & change lie covered

24

By light streaming into eyesWhile your electric body knowsThe fact derived from contactThat there is no such thing as nothing: Even other as possibility is contrail As it fades into your flawless blue sky.

25

Was it?

What will you do When the flat side Of a butcher knife Slaps you on the temple Just hard enough to make them think You should have died When all the while Your eyes were focused on the edge Aimed at your throat? Will you suddenly feel revulsion For everything you’ve ever been And are A foreigner To your body Some stranger in the mirror? When you start to write Do you sometimes feel Blood rush to your head Or vomit? Break out In cold sweat, shiver, Barely able to sit erect? Do a clock tick & cats asleep Project thirty seven years Into your future

When paralysis is still A foreign agent undigested By your sense of what is you And what is not you, A sagittal Divide of smile & frown? In your youth

26

Do you wonder if possible To get that far With parched eye And perpetual presence Of this other? Did you sometimes Even believe It wouldn’t be worth it?

27

Lament of the Limit

Hear the woodpecker, hear the rook, Hear the wind & the babbling brook.

That theory of a universe,A logical extensionAmong others derived fromThe French of Carnot, the oneThat says the universe is windingDown — it’s an old man’s theory.

Were you ever young? Can youRemember rapid expansionFrom the limit into no limit —Conception & birth, galaxyFormation, precipitation of starsAnd planets & multitudinousCreatures creeping out of the oozeTo stand upright, use tools &Language, & copulate,

Not this beleagured sense of0verdrawn accounts,Past-due potential & ossified statesWhere money-lenders grabAnd you roll alone into deathWith a shabby obit not noticed by anyStar or kitten, only a cleanup crew,Underpaid, repulsed by yourStench, will curiously notice your shriveled sexAs they drop you on conveyor belts thatDump rigor into furnaces.

They quote the Second Law,A scripture, they say, that says all that movesWill not move & all thingsWill equiberate in iceFor all of time but shiesFrom the word “infinity.”

28

When on this fundament you posit The a priori postulate as coextensive with spaceNothing beyond the boundaryYou assume that sense limits And extrapolation by imaginationAre the limits of eternity.

Where nothing ever changesIs there time? If all things stop,Their energy dropped to zero,Will there ever have been time?Will there ever have been anIsolated system?Will even we ever have existed?Will anything we think we knowEver have actually been?

29

A Day on A Dam

Walking (with ants up his pants?) The father of two swaggers With arm around his half-nakedWife along a skyway. Shape-shiftingExamples of advanced biology Draped in mass made fashion that masks The condition of uniform & badge.

When a whistle rises out of earthCompressed sound sublimates into solidRock & blows a gas line into bagpipesPressed against the skirts of marching Transvestite CEOs with butch lap boysWho strut power down the heirarchyUntil a bell rings & shadows liftHeads in sunflowers trackingLight’s course through the sky.

Turbines slow & warm a riverAs it passes into your corticalMedia. Oxygen absorbed & Pumped, deltoids, optic chiasm,Cerebral aqueduct, & temporal poleFlood to carry you on currentsThat pulse & ebb through yourLinear projections. Table. Chair.Rock. Definition by function. DefinitionBy composition. Reification By use. To orange crustose lichenHome & root of nourishment. Shelter for the northern sagebrushLizard doing pushups on a nearbyRock, watching. Definition By how hard it feels after you sitOn it all day. Milarepa points at His leathery old ass & laughs.

When in a line three geese strain Slow flight six feet feet in front at the Level of your eye, the windsound

30

Of wings brushes you backDucking their lumbering labor. RippledIn their wake, a biped with radioIn fear of pursuing silence glaresPast, his cheap crystal soundCarried off with dandelion seed by Unsteady breezes down & awayInto the brushed light landscapeOf a town or mirage in the distanceBelow.

31

The Four (or The Three)

Four forces: Father, Son, Holy Ghost, & Lucifer the weak force fathers rejectedWhile the strong force that Father Blew a thousand suns to theAlamogordo desert & Imploded Trinity where alsoChrist Community ChurchBurned Shakespeare.

To get there steam conflated With a theory of vacuum Projected anthracite On iron cast wheels along Wrought rails. New speed proved That 60 won’t hurt youIf you don’t stop too fast

Pursuit of truth fused with practik inIron coiled by copper wire Ye olde “iron core electro” Pumped full of lightening.

If you cut the power nowIn stagesA thousand satellites will fall to earthIn a shower of steam tech flame.

32

The Ancestral Home

A last remains of sunset dimly burnedO’er the far forests, like a torch-flame turnedBy the wind back upon its bearer’s handIn one long flare of crimson... ~Robert Browning, Sordello

“The river here is popular,” one couple From Redwood Valley one from farther northAll in trunks with young kids Or two piece suits, friendlyGenerous people, & their friend, apartWho just moved here from Texas“We all grew up here. We’ve beenComing here since we were kids. How long have you lived here?”Since you were kids. “WhereAre you from?” Nowhere. Puzzled looks. Moved every year growing up. “So you don’t haveA home town?” 17 years in New York City felt like home... “I just got back after being awayFor 16 years.” How do you like Dallas?“It’s ok, but it wasn’t home. This is home.Home is where you can go backAnd pick up right where you left off.” I strain to imagine such a thing.My roots grow under fault linesMy mind embraces the sky And the hawk & the vulture, The eagle & the crow.

I’ve been rooted here, hairBlew in the wind, rain

33

Sluiced off me for a thousand Years, summer baked me hard No living thing remembersMy birth but even so I’m new, so very newto this land.

34

In the Mean Time

...that one day Not long from now I’ll be no more Than passing thoughts... ...Crab nebula Unmoved... Jammed roads... Sun rise Sun set... ...All I am And love Gone From me... Intestinal carcenoma For this gentle cat Whose two-toned talk Leaned against my legThat last night under frosted Stars mom was still Partly coherent On the mobile. Convinced Me to find her a home So called her “Lucky” TemporarilyFor evading the neighbor’s Rifle, the one they kill Pigs with, & black tailed Deer & bears in season, then Just passed, & cats If they see ‘em but I kept her And she’s stuck with the name. Now the vet wants to kill her But she’s still not ready to go. Soft belly up for touch Happy always just to be With me & I won’t Force her...

35

Should I go, too, In late April, May, so that, Should someone care...Longer days... Shorter nights... Buds swelling...And leaves...

...rivers crested...Transient skies......oceans...

36

When I Awoke

I awoke into a world full of color & trees.It Seemed real, tactile, sensual, formal. Triangulation of sound & sight on objectsGave evidence against dream. Dreams dumped me there, no less real for beingThought of as not dream, though the dream Violates itself in memory & real is regular.Awakened from dreams in succession, Imagination & Quanta entangle.This pattern arises to displace that pattern, Now another, alike enough for the sensesTo tween them in a seamless cloth Of self-apparent continuous existence.You were there. I saw you. And then I didn’t see you anymore.

37

The Fire Again

You can’t bomb the between ~ Robert Thurman

Must I walk back into the fireLeave behind who I thoughtI was to blend into a differentConsciousness without changingBodies as the one we’re sharing Deteriorates, each new user burdenedWith failing equipmentYet the next one, whoever (he?) (is)Will look just like meFor a while. But that’s not the main thing. The main’sThe fire. I’m made of air. I can’t resistThe fire. And when it touches meAsh explodes. The vacuum centerSucks in heat so fast it makes bone. I’m afraid of the pain & tryTo abandon becomingBut becoming can’t be abandoned.Call it “habitual tendency” if you must.Call it “karma” if you will. But no matter how I try I justCan’t stay the same & sometimesI’m hemmed with fire, like nowWhen even to do nothingBurns & becomes.

38

Étude on Fate Knocking

For Khakjaan Wessington aka @toylitpaper http://toylit.blogspot.com/

Shadows of flare lean to the east clamor Of wails mourns for a night wandering one Dreams you in dreams thumping a street music Like ghost music we’ve felt crowds in our sheets Dazzle & pall sinister wave word Upon word move as a light scattered through rain Tappets on dark towers we’ve built stone upon Stone empty old hands shaping with sharp burdens In time spread through a dream backlit in sleek curtains Of drops silver on roof canyons & seas. I am the one. You are the one. We Are the one. You in my arms. Eyes in your eyes. Breath of my breath, thigh of your touch, always You’re here, there where sky slants to ground Caught in tree fingers so deep pressed With such force organs Project chords through a clenched cloister. Ya think? Can we? Be one? Through an embrace press & inject each into each other? We both love the attempt? Come with me now.

39

Millenial Flood

“Good will to men” took a somewhat different form during Christmas 1964 in these areas of Northern California. It took such improbable forms as helicopter pilots flying — and dying on rescue missions, and in many places there were more sandbags filled than stockings, and the lights were on the levees — not on the trees.

~Flood! December 1964 — January 1965, State of California Department of Water Resources Bulletin No. 161

Tunnel a mile long through a steep mountain, The buttend of a five cantilever Bridge across the Eel River Gorge that flooded eight feet deep in Tunnel Twenty Seven, south side of Island Mountain, Route to Kekawaka, Nineteen Sixty four, wars on Viet Nam & Poverty, December, The Post Discovers James Hampton, The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations Millenium General Assembly, The Reverend Doctor Martin King, Junior & X newsconference, Bob MacNamara increased the scope of war While Dr. King got the Peace Prize, Rain, Millenial rain.

Fom the Russian River Up the Eel to Eureka. Six, Seven, & nine inches each day homes Swept away you can see marks where Water rose up out of canyons above Highway & bridge — three steel bridges, (railroad) Crossings, culverts — 500 of them Tracks twisted & tossed down hills, Sixty miles of rip rap, forty thousand Ties & silt ten feet thick.

40

One hundred thirty photos of one Bridge Show repair (another eighty damage).

Four months later: open, trains clattering again Through the mountains. They glanced back at the damage Just long enough to know what they Had to do to move forward again.

41

Three

Narrative

Schetches

42

Narrative Sketch 1: The Rhythm

The beat of the pulse is the same as that of the heart;of course, it is variable in speed. ~Arnold Dolmetsch, The Interpretation ` of the Music of the 17th & 18th Centuries

Everywhere & always there was rhythm.The world & its contents were rhythmAnd nothing existed apart from rhythm.

The first remembered notice of it was onA desert highway in southern New Mexico,Where on his first day in first gradeHe went to the principal’s officeAnd noted with horror her bull whipMounted on the wall behind her.Plant life was sparse.The endless succession of white dashesDown the middle of the roadUniform to the horizon, As did off-set rectangularConcrete pours that composedThe roadway itself and the wheelsOf the car, front, backBounced on the joints between Blocks in another rhythmic offsetAt times lining up with the dashesBut never matchingThe sight of joint lines.

Even, steady pulse: His father pegged the needle at 60Driving a complex metronomeThrough a variable windThrough the windows, long-throated.Curvatures of sand & rockInteracted with this ensembleIn unpredictable ways while cactusAnd brush contributed briefFlourishes.

43

Was it sound?Maybe it was all light,some of it slowed down so muchthat he could touch it, diverginginto various densities, air, sand,stone, steel, paint — through which it movedmoving through itself & transmittedwaves that wouldn’t exist in a vacuum.

Most physicists & cosmologistsWould now agree that there isNo such thing as empty space, butA field of energy permeatesEvery known dimensionIn many states & spectra.

He listened like thisHis whole life.On the bus he had to takeFrom New York to TrentonBecause he couldn’t figure outHow to hitchhike out of Manhattan(though he hitched in heavy snow next day)To Weissport, PAMaternal grandmother, Whirring of fans in the bus windowSyncopated with the long-pulsingDrone of the engine, while in A lower register, tires onPavement played out in a fugal voiceAlmost in the backgroundA separate fantasyOf what music should sound likeOn that day.

In blizzard conditionsA man picked him up & offered Shelter for the night.At his house, the man saidHe wanted to suck Rhosonny’s cock,And Rhosonny let him.There were no further requests.

44

In the morning he slipped on a rugOn a hardwood floor & sprained his ankle.The blizzard was gone, but the snow wasn’t. Garbage trucks with plows bolted onIn front rumbled around the streets.

That evening Mammy opened the door. She showed noChange in emotion, just turned & walkedInto her kitchen, a familiar sound, While he followed. Without a word, sheServed him a pot roast stew withPotatoes, carrots, celery, onionsAnd home made Pennsylvania DutchEgg noodles, along with pumpernickelBread & birch beer.Then a warm sliceOf mince meat pie & a half-tumblerOf Old Overholdt, Pop Pop’s whiskey Of which she had several bottles,Though he’d been dead fourYears & she didn’t drink.

Whiskey to the living roomAnd they sat, she on her chair, he onthe chair Pop Pop used to sit in.On a shelf was a heavy wooden clockWith a grandfather faceClicking each second, a little louderEach minute & a dull, single chimeOn the hour.

She knitted, the needles clicking inEven time with the clock.Lamps buzzed.Wind rose & fell outsideBut the house stood stone still.

When he awoke, she was holding his handPulling him up to his feet.She led him upstairs to his bedroom,Stepped out, closed the door.

45

In the morning, she cookedHam & poached eggs withRye toast & cottage fries.She sat 90-degrees from himAt the small, square woodenKitchen table. When he began to eatShe said, “What have you been doing?”

He told her about flying to New YorkLiving in abandoned buildingsThough sometimes able to payFor a night in a $2 bowery flop,3’ x 7’, painted sheet metal walls,The original walls between roomsHaving been knocked out of this hotelSo fashionable & elegant in the 1920s.Metal rooms now covered in sheetsOf chicken wire connecting allOf the cells under a 15 foot ceiling & a coupleof dull lights suspended above.Reek of pesticides & rotting men,Heavy breathing & snoring, coughing& retching through the night.Huge marble urinalsCogged with vomit. How he’d done shape-upWork, loading & unloading trucksOr washing dishes as a tempWorker in restaurants,And many other details.He sensed that sheHonestly wanted to know.He told her the bald truth.

While he spoke, she gave him molassesCookies & coffee, smoking Pall MallCigarettes in focussed silence, exceptWhen he told her something funnyAnd she jiggled all over. She hadAlways been fat & she had never beenWhat men would call pretty.

46

Her laugh was a series ofGermanic “ach, ach, ach” interruptedOnly by long, deep inhalations.She was radiantlyBeautiful when she laughed.Even when she didn’t laugh, he’dAlways felt that she was the mostBeautiful woman he’d ever met.

“Do you think I should quit, just give up,abandon New York?” His cousin had offeredto let him live with her & her husbandnear Washington, D.C.“You can do anything you want,” she said.“If you want to stay in New York, youShould just stay there.”

She gave him Tastycakes, Bavarian pretzels,And as much coffee, birch beer, or cream sodaas he wanted. She never ate any of those things.She was a diabetic & gave herself an insulinShot early every morning.

For lunch & dinner, they ate the stew.They sat most of the day & evening wordless,Listening to each other breathe, the clock,The knitting needles, the wind.

Then she took the pins out of her black hair.From layers & rows it fellDown her back past her waist & she began to brush it,As she had brushed it every night for as far backAs he could remember, even, rhythmic strokesFrom the tip of her head all of the way downHer body past her hips.Then, methodically, she wound & foldedHer hair on top of her head, pinning it in layers,Got up, said, “good night” & walkedUp stairs to bed. He readDuino Elegies until late.

After breakfast, she gave him $200

47

And told him that she loved him.Then there was the sound of the door closingAnd his boots on the wooden steps of the porch.He never saw her again.

48

Narrative Sketch 2: 1st Person Rosonny[Editor’s note: What follows is the first section of a long poem found among Rhosonny’s papers. Whether he considered it finished or not is unknown. The poem is scattered across paper tablets and electronic de-vices linked to and from several locations on the web as well as on several detached hard drives. Editing and collating is taking longer than expected. Rather than wait until the whole has been assembled and edited, it was decided to release the first section as it currently stands. ]

1. of no fortune, and with a name to come

As the sun made it’s move to light up the earth Western cascades, an edge of sun, The old volcanoes and a Mount Tai, magnetic Gigantic nuclear furnace flares over The glacial ridge, the Pacific Ring of Fire

“sunt lumina”:Onto a plain of lava that flowed from the east. Älsé, Tsanchifin, Tsanklightemifa, Tsawokot Long before Skinner’s Trading PostEugene, that is. The players: Vulcan, Hephaistus Athena, Gaia, Erichthoneus

Mt TaishanI walked northwest, Wilamette to the right

what you depart from is not the way She’d gotten married.

neither with lions nor leopards attended She wanted to see me.

is that not our delight? I wanted her.

the wind is part of the processthe rain is part of the process

I liked to travel rough. Aphrodite... Bathrobe at the door, naked under Points to guest room

for this stone giveth sleep Returned to her husband’s bed.

49

After a few hours sleepwith a painted paradise

The husband was cordial. The husband left. In came her bearded consort

the grove wants an altar “Maybe we should please the lady Together” he said and she smiled

it exists only in fragmentsBut I didn’t have the heart. Barbara Martel scared me a little Half Shoshone, a few other native slivers the rest French.

the Muses are daughters of memory Dark eyes. Black hair. Wide hips. Voice of an angel.

the sharp song with sun under its radiance Nor so young to love a woman for singing

Carried concealed and two knives. Athena... Bully, way back, thought he was tough — 300 lb jock, ugly, mean, But not club footed, not limping

thought he was Zeus ram I’d faced him down long before Called him “Rich Chicken” --

the ass eared militarist Had her cornered, I arrived, He departed, quickly.

the root of the process Since then she’d always been kind. Ares...She felt like more than I Not her stunning beauty

cheekbone, by verbal manifestation Obsidian hair, irides so dark

and that certain images Rainbows where she walked

Pupils swam in them Light lyric soprano clear as a silver bell

enigma forgetting the times and seasons With no flaw, resonant, pure, no tremolo,

Nor so young to love a woman for singing

50

But her mind. Her independence. Her experience. Part time on reservations, The rest in towns.

time is not, time is the evil, beloved Just couldn’t though at times wished

Here in the not done She’d married since last I saw her And I didn’t like her friend

one tanka entitled the shadowThough later, just she and I, by the river...

so light is the urging, so ordered the dark petals of iron

51

Narrative Sketch 3: “Rhosonny’s Last Piano”

A modern piano is truly a precision machine, with 88 keys, approximately 230 strings (depending on the model), and with approximately 10,000 individual parts. ~Nicholas J. Giordano, Physics of the Piano

Diagram of the action of an upright piano http://www.concertpitchpiano.com/UprightActionModel.html

“No tools? Can’t help you.” It looked hopeless. He was already in the 40’s. Pearl, Worth, Broadway, Franklin, Broome, Bleeker, Jane, Somwhere in the West 20s, then around the block From the Empire State Building, then 39th off Park, The next now in the far west of 54th. An ancient man in a tailored suit, tall, An 1898 Steinway upright With an action that crumbled at the lightest touch, “If you don’t have your own tools I can only pay Five bucks an hour. Rebuild the action. Mend The soundboard, restring.”

Piano supply: 88 Hammers, 88 damper springs, 88 wippens, damper lift rods, Bridle straps, pins, flanges, catchers, and jacks, 88 sticker tongues and twenty other Pieces, none the right size, each To be cut and sanded for uniform fit Then regulated for a light touch And clear sound on new strings Taped and epoxied soundboard.

Each night’s walk back to a two Dollar Bowery flop filled with hope and fatigue Three days of work, each piece of each note Of the action hand-cut and sanded to fit.

And from this box stored in a basement in Scarsdale For longer than anyone knows (Rhosonny Wondered if the old man played it as a child)

52

The bright new Steinway, shipped from Germany Under steam power, loved (maybe hated By a child forced against her will to learn How to play) but certainly not ignored. Then (maybe by the very child, when older) Had some big strong men carry it down To the basement, where it reverted to dust Until now, this resurrection for sale.

After he lost an eye (he’d always wanted To be Odysseus, not the Kyklopes) his hands Were harder to handle. Small distances Sometimes dificult to judge, That is, at the limit, to him, on the order Of a sixteenth of an inch. First he tried factories (He needed a job and he wanted to see How they ran.) In the first factory Having no concept of pace, he day by day Grew faster and better, taking on another Job, then doing the work of three, then five. Management liked him. The workers not so much. He was burning himself up and making them Look bad. So he quit. That was assembling Filters for jet engines, then packing them, All easy in his sixteenth inch range. But the Next job was silk screening metallic ink Onto silicon substrates for digital watches. Nearly all of the workers were women, patient, Even paced, able to withstand the drudgery By listening to a rock and roll radio station. To Rhosonny, self absorbed, head ringing From an impact, each song was a timer Ticking while he lived life apart from What he loved. So even though he now Worked beyond his 16th inch limit He pitched his entire focus and power To higher production. Good production Was 3,000 pieces a day with minimal Waste. Inspectors and producers often Switched jobs, looking through big Magifying glasses at a stream if chips

53

As they flowed out of the oven. Before Long, Rhosonny ditched the mag glass Stopped looking at detail seeing only Pattern and imperfect pattern. And When he sat at the silk screen machine Twelve thousand pieces would come from It, he played patterns on the machines Of notes against the rock and roll beat.

So he thought repairing pianos wouldn’t Be so bad when possibly the most Beautiful person he knew (Dave Jones —It’s funny. His name is so common Most people think it’s not real) Offered to help him get a job where He worked. He loved moving them. And he loved the people he worked With. The spray booth and stripping Shed not so much. Restringing was a sort Of meditation. Dave was the more conscientious Worker, and faster, and wasn’t so self Absorbed as Rhosonny, so he did most Of the detail work, though Rhosonny Also did some. So this job here In Manhattan, getting this wreck To sing, was stretching his prowess. But it sang. With more work It would sing better, but the old man Was pissed that it took him three days “One hundred twenty dollars for that?” He cursed and handed him cash, “There’s No more work here for you.” Rhosonny Could never decide, even right up to his death, Whether the old man had swindled him, Or whether he actually worked too slowly or roughly.

The amount suggests that it was Rhosonny Who got the short end of the arrangement. It was the last piano he ever worked on.

54

55

56

Cover drawing: Dionysus’ Rideby Brian Woodhttp://www.brianwoodstudio.com

A Little Lake BooksPaperback OriginalLLBP1101100

Poetry

$9.95 USA$9.95 Canada

Dirk Johnson Calx, Calyx, & Breccia