Monday, December 28, 2009

Pomes '94

to transform a thought into reality
as a cat whose eyes appear first.
or the circular out of the hand in the air
on its way to a certain image,
and the hope, unfolding in manifold leaves
of infinite possibility in the rising sun
or is it the setting of the earth?
or is it in fact that way, Black Peter?
when you feel the force leaving you,
was it there in your old forgotten self
wrapped up in untapped pouring?
or was it flitting by under the thunder
by restless wings?

a girl in a blue volks
pulls up by the curb
a second cup of coffee
the steam rising on the wood
rays of setting sun down Clinton
trees and telephone poles in relief

Saturday, June 13, 2009

sonnets to orpheus part 2 number 2

Even as a handy sheet of paper

sometimes catches a genuine masterstroke,
so, often into themselves the mirrors
take the one blessed smile of girls who awoke

and tried out the morning, alone-
or in the attendant lights' glitter.
And where the breath of their real faces
there falls but a mere reflection, later.

What have eyes once seen in the blackening
slowly cooling upon the hearth?
Glimpses of life, forever lost.

Ah, who knows the losses of the earth?
Only one, who praises nevertheless,
can sing the heart borth into the Whole.

These poems follow a nonlinear path, kind of like my mind, introducing suggestions here and there, and impressions, but not having some sort of structure that necessarily makes much sense. Life is like that anyway. Logic is one thing, but real life is anything but logical.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

Neon Gypsies at the Beanery

The Neon Gypsies played at the Beanery Friday night. They sounded great and dressed in colorful clothing. Thanks to Kalvin's wife, Keri, for scheduling them. They have a different sound and a different approach from any other band that I have heard.

Here's a drawing of the guitarist:

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Thursday, March 05, 2009

the song the idiot sings

They don't bother about me. They let me be.
They say, "Nothing can happen."
That's good.
Nothing can happen.  It all comes and wheels

steadily around the Holy Ghost,
always around the same Ghost (you know)-
that's good.

No, of course not, one mustn't think any danger
could come in that way.
Of course the blood exists.
Blood is the heaviest.  Blood is heavy.
Sometimes I think I've had too much.
(That's good.)

Oh, isn't that a wonderful ball!
round and red as nothing and all.
Good thing that you created it.
But will it come if you call?

How strangely this whole thing behaves,
into each other driving, out of each other swimming,
friendly, a touch uncertain.
That's good.
-Rainer Marie Rilke, translated by Robert Bly

Nothing can happen.  Things happen under the same essential reality.  So don't stress...I guess..or something.

Drivin' up to Salem for karate.  The weather is rainy.  I'm in okay shape but could be in a lot better shape (karate shape).  But that's the continual quest for karate perfection.  You never get there, and the art does keep changing and developing over the years, which is the fascinating thing.  It's definitely more of a exact science than it was in, say, the '70's ....but the basic forms have been there since Gichin Funakoshi in the '30's.

Sunday, February 15, 2009

It was near four o'clock on a September day, so that the atmosphere was well-brewed to a visible haze. There was a deep stillness, broken only by a light rattle, a light chink, a small sweeping sound, and an occasional montone in French, such as might be expected to issue from an ingeniously contructed automaton. Round two long tables were gathered two serrried crowds of human beings, all save one having their faces and attention bent on the tables. The one exception was a melancholy little boy, with his knees and calves simply in their natural clothing of epidermis, but for the rest of his person in a fancy dress. He alone ...

Saturday, February 14, 2009

From false astrologies and somewhat dismal rites,
changed into the undying and always laid aside,
I have kept a tendency, a solitary savour.

From conversations wasted like powdered lumber,
with the hummility of chairs, with words wrapped up
in slaving for a secondary will,
having that feel of milk, of wasted weeks,
of air locked above cities-

Who is able to boast a more enduring patience?
Prudence envelops me in a tight skin
of colour concentrated like a snake's:
my creatures are born of a wide recoil:
oh with one drink I can say goodbye to this day,
this day I picked from the sameness of earthly days.

Brim-full with substance of a common colour, silent,
I live like an old mother, patience impaled,
a church of shadows, the res-in-peace of bones.
I go, full of these waters profoundly bedded,
laid down in mournful, concentraled sleep.

In my guitar-like innards an old tune plays,
dry, rosonant, fixated, motionless,
a loyal diet, a puff of smoke:
a steady element, a living oil:
a sentinel bird looks after my head,
an invariable angel inhabits my sword.

Saturday, February 07, 2009

Eugene karate

I started going down to Eugene to train with Pete and Marie, who I've known for 26 years, since I started in Shotokan. The vibe is good and Pete teaches a good class, with good concepts, and the feeling is that I'll probably start doing that on Fridays. It's only fifty minutes down there. We are training in a gym on 27th and willamette, whose name I forget. Eight bucks for a day pass, and the floor is a good wood floor. It just feels very relaxed and reminds me of the good old days in karate, when we had some fun and sweated a lot, and nobody broke any bones.

Wednesday, February 04, 2009

letters on the page

If only for once it were still.
If the not quite right and the why this
could be muted, and the neighbor's laughter
and the static my senses make-
if all of it didn't keep me from coming awake-

then in one thousandfold thought
I could think you up to where thinking ends.

I could possess you,
even for the brevity of a smile,
to offer you
to all that lives,
in gladness.-
rilke, book of hours

Sunday, February 01, 2009

thoughtful thoughtations

"I wish to live ever as to derive my satisfactions and inspirations from the commonest events, every-day phenomena, so that what my senses hourly perceive, my daily walk, the conversation of my neighbors, may inspire me, and I may dream of no heaven but that which lies about me."-Thoreau

Is there, for honest poverty,
that hings his head, an' a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by,
we dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
our tils obscure, an' a' that;
the rank is but the guinea's stamp;
the man's a gowd for a' that
-Robert Burns

Monday, January 26, 2009

sanctimony and starfish

Starfish and coffee
Sign of the times
annoying people
chopped wood
meowing cats.

Friday, January 16, 2009

poems penny each

Is it not by his high superfluousness we know
Our God? For to be equal a need
Is natural, animal, mineral: but to fling
Rainbows over the rain
And beauty above the moon, and secret rainbows
On the domes of deep sea-shells,
And make the necessary embrace of breeding
Beautiful also as fire,
Not even the weeds to multiply without blossom
Nor the birds without music-
There is the great humaneness at the heart of things,
The extravagant kindness, the fountain
Humanity can understand, and would flow likewise
If power and desire...
-Robinson Jeffers

Monday, January 12, 2009

Sunday, January 11, 2009

Tuesday, January 06, 2009

Monday, January 05, 2009

open mic

I'm playing at on open mic tonight at Fireworks in Corvallis.  Feel free to come down or tune into the webcast   starting at 9pm.  I won't be the only one playing, but I will probably be the only "Chris."  Maybe I can sell another cd.  I'm thinking of buying a whole bunch of equipment so that I can start playing cafes, because my voice definitely needs amplification.  My guitar is loud anyway, but my voice is kind of weak.  I think I would need a mixing board in addition to an  amplifier, because all I have right now is an acoustic with a pickup built in, and a microphone and stand for the microphone, and that is it.  I think I have the self-confidence to get up and sing and play for two hours, and I have enough songs, so I might as well get started.  However, there aren't a lot of venues in Corvallis, and I haven't got anything going as of yet.

I played the Interzone last year and it was a disaster.  I thought I had some good songs, but something about the atmosphere was just completely stultifying.  Plus there was like two people there.  At the most.

I used "I" about two zillion times in this post.  Does that mean I am self-centered?  Maybe.  But this is just about playing music.  It doesn't mean that I have zero concern for anybody else, which I undoubtedly do.  

It's art for art's sake, and I find that if I can concentrate on making the song sound the way I think it should sound then it works out, because I have a opinion that a song is good, and that if I play it right, it will sound good, which brings me to the fact that I'm playing exclusively songs that are written by somebody else, most likely Hunter/Garcia, Cat Stevens, Neil Young, Bob Dylan, Peter Gabriel, or somebody similar.  Some of them are old folk songs that predate all these people.  Tonight I play on playing Bertha (Grateful Dead), Here Comes the Flood (Peter Gabriel), Rubin and Cherise (Hunter/Garcia), Dry Your Eyes (Neil Diamond), Stella Blue, and maybe some more.