Thursday, November 17, 2005

Autumn Drought Notes: 09-24-77

autumn. drought. san francisco. 1977.
the new fall season begins again.
I'm liking this ask me anything evening
these ginkgo golden trees
these clear open spaces.
this coolness.

walking about at three in the morning.
waiting for time to find me.
waiting for you to acknowledge your heart.
I like these haphazard days.
I enjoy the night air.
the powerful enchantment of being cloistered within darkness.

no time is especially meaningful today.
last night seems to have happened without becoming the past.
Bryan Ferry’s on the stereo.
three rings on my hands.
gold. burmese jade. bone.

news: difficult to report.
lately I've been aimless.
doorless. windowless. reserved.
my attitude in flux. in transition?

I remember when you arrived at the door:
wearing a black jacket green shirt white tie.
your pants: blue.
later that night we walked along the streets together.
you held my arm as we walked along.
far past midnight. far into morning.
the streets at that hour.
the unsaved.
the clarity of lives on a jaunt through time within space.
so say it is love. who is to say it is not.

at the moment this:
jean michel jarre's Oxygene
on the stereo
cosmically vibratory, nonlinear instilling music
subtle transcendent melodies throughout the apartment.

Blackfoot’s eagerly after veal
Brad's preparing to "go out"
Sally's clearing the refrigerator of
old salad dressing and forgotten leftovers.

a tall green candle glows in the living room.
a Christmas gift from last year stored away, glowing
now in a summerish heat.

"I'll light it, when I have a place where I feel at home"
the accidental gift.

the moon fills to capacity.
I hurt my jaw last night having sex.
have we insinuated the moon of autumn.
vitality's not necessarily with us
but neither are we depressed.

jean michel jarre plays the following instruments:
a.r.p. synthesizer, a.k.s. synthesizer, v.c.s. 3
synthesizer, r.m.i. harmonic synthesizer, farfisa
organ, eminent, mellotron, rhythmin' computer

I read Lord of the Rings slowly.
the older I get the less magical it becomes.
Bilbo & Frodo both had birthday's:
September 22

the real me is in constant turmoil.
I enjoy the mythic nature of the search:
truth in fable and a fabulist's taste for sensation

wherever music may find me. soul'lessly soul'ful

Blackfoot’s sits hen-like on the windowsill
looking out at the night: eyeballing the slightest
movement within darkness. lovely. still.
Anoolios sits waiting for the next big thing to happen
next to a stack of books.

hermes 3000 Jim Sorcic notes:

I miss the birthday-present the silver kite
I regret it never flew-- it did hang
suspended nonchalantly with a soupcon of mystery
in my bedroom in that 3-storey house on 8th Avenue.
I remember looking up at it gleaming near the ceiling
when Jim Sorcic & I had raucous howl your heart out
steamy exploratory sex (purest of pure intoxication ::
his flesh and his great clenched pumping butt) --
after a night of dancing at The City, over near Broadway --
Jim whispered about the pleasures of having
sex in a kneeling position. He demonstrated. I bring you.
Jim got rock hard in two seconds. He kept whispering
then simple breath into my ear. I remember O this
noble kissing body, this lovely I bring you dancers --
his cheek where it meets the nose; nuzzling then.
this lovely beautiful o this noble body --
He grinned. With his hair cut short his eyes gleamed:
he was all black deep pupils. send me to a place of mystery
fall into his eyes. it is because he knew me well.
Jim was all music and poetry and whispering poetry and
arm wrapping pumping to long lean rhythms of coming
strong lavishly you bend under him. placing arms over
his shoulders stroking his chin stroking his elegant
erect make a joyful noise and to me his mouth like a horse
trembles cries out this tremendous magic he created once forever

clear this up. get to the bottom of the situation.

anything at this moment is not really there.
really there though I think the patterns good gracious
can you behold and higher levels ask conversation
& a few snatches of your face combine and I ask
where are you I suppose the time where you are
now is four-thirty in the afternoon and darkness
everywhere here is playing with me and tomorrow is
Sunday I expect to be pulling weeds at the house
beneath the pines.

Brad Bell notes: I froze when you held me. the partial glance of your
smile. the clean white shirt the part of you
that lay awake listening to me. I vanished.
the bed was merely a loud noise and the
flat you lived in had nothing that
was eternal but the tension you created turned
out to be mere figment.

he prefers his verbs made of cheese and coconut

conceivably you cried and imploring your aid
you reached my very heart.

curious how I can love you for that.
love being permission in the throes of possession.

excuse me, you are entering into my heart.

you made surreptitious advances and I held you.
I could feel my bloodstream sweat and I noticed you
were wearing no clothes. you were not bothered
and the varietal darkness encompassed us and
the moon fooled us with practical jokes upon our psyche.

let's go and have a look at the other side of
the room, the place where your skin is lighter

"many years," d hoyt said Thursday night, "many
years can be spent on the wrong search of
improved mental health".

"a frog. a live frog. I caught it today".

different levels of the same veneer.
I'm made so it is I'm made of flesh blood and bone.

I am breathing. what I avoid most has to do with
thoughts concerning my corruption my perversity my
somewhat wicked aspects.

I can imagine watching this on a big screen.
transfixed and open to the photographs that
otherwise might be wrapped in the darkness.
being alone forever especially the leering meddlesome
indecent perfectly normal needs of the mouth.

I have nothing to say yet insist upon speaking.

a dirty brush is in the bathroom.
the lights on in the kitchen.
water's still scarce.
the drought just seems to go on forever
nobody cries but wants to

not a single clue.

Sally's selecting music.
she's had enough of "this cosmic stuff"
so "here comes the sun" Nina Simone

last night Brad called from Bones and
said 'o this night isn't happening. do you
want to go to the baths. I need something to
come down. can you find some gin"?

later as we walked along 24th Street
with his arm in mine it seemed perfectly natural to
ask: "why are you walking so fast"

Sally didn't like Nina’s singing and changed to
Phil Manzanera's Diamond Head.

can you discover the illuminating light.

strangely we are invigorated by being together.
we lose energy in our separation.
the memory of our turmoil makes mincemeat of situation.

he insists upon something so insubstantial as the
prospect of love as a human condition. the
moments of boredom seem stuffing to self-pity.

is this indecent?

Anoolios looks (with stealth) at a spider climbing on the white wall.
the spider is ambling. at last it has found its
ladder thread and makes escape.

I find no satisfaction in the events that have ensued.
I am a young man who sleeps with his dreams.
will you be home for Thanksgiving?

Joan Armatrading's singing Down to Zero
your feet down to the ground
you keep thinking you're somewhere.

put a nail in your foot

:: call it memory

just before night rose. your daylight like
some autumnal turmoil made transparent.

I type out a letter on the Hermes 3000
to MM whose doing covert administrative work
for the government in the South Pacific:
I can't imagine being surrounded by water
extending thousands of miles in all directions.
a still center. an island. a compass point within
a compass. I would certainly go mad or become recuperative.
you keep sending photos of machetes and talk about the
ruthless family ceremonies in Samoa. is that it?
jungle life seems to suit you by not suiting you.
you read so much into decay corruption and
always with that grade school Catholic hopeful hopelessness
have you found peace as an undercover spy?

memory comes and goes fleetingly as Brad and I continue
our amble to the baths:
we walked along Mission Street
passing . . . . shop after shop filled
to the their ceilings with old furniture and lamps and
Mission Street, . . . no we never walked along Mission Street.
we walked down Valencia. we looked in a shop window
full of mirrors in rococo frames.

we were not wasting time.

everything we did was spent trying to help each other.
at first.

Brad said again and again: 'this is the first time
we've been alone in a long time'; 'we haven't been alone
like this in so long'; 'I like this being with you alone like

if you're goin to say it say it now.

I think Blackfoot just ate the spider.
she's never satisfied with the mere curiosity
of things. she's so wanton when she sinks her teeth into
experience. I love her trapped existence.
her caged life living with me. she maintains so
with sunlight
and that knowing calculated glance.

capable she creates Time from untimely touch.

we carefully close the door

HOLLYWOOD. a sign in a thrift-store window.

I love California. especially the streets.
give me love :: remove the rest as superfluous.

ah here we are: 21st & Bartlett
"the baths" ------

-- Jeff Wietor


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