NIGHT Radio show piece in Catskill (live)

http://www.wgxc.org/archives/8580

A preview configuration of “Night” is at about the 1:00 mark….
Damian Catera’s improvised “sound-farmed” night sounds (gathered in Jersey City, from the web and from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan) and my spoken words. A peek into the larger piece that will be forthcoming soon…:)

NIGHT window….

night window stories

the smoke curls out
the lamp across the street lights up
in a soft orange pop
above the lamb
the window speaks folk walk rock: a tick tock parade
barkingpeeinglaughinglovingfightingfleeing
lining up for Mr. Softee
a drunken sad man is ranting-mad face to the sky
fat arms flinging wide
hugging tonight’s storm
“I am Arthur Montegno Matoya!
I am the Real Deal!
I want to kill somebody!
I am the Real Deal!
I am Somebody!”
loop after loop like the night
he is soaking in rain alone on the corner
half-lit
then shambling away
a small mental pebble of prayer thrown after him
I understand something suddenly
You are all Somebody and Nobody out my window
And at night we are all the Real Deal

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Night Piece Pt.2 excerpt (dusk approacheth)


TK: Sometimes (high pitched)
GE: High above it all
TK: Sometimes when I sliiiiiide (gliss down to normal voice)
GE: floated a threnody,
TK: Slide into my bed
GE: to which the bats, now out in full force,
TK: When I pour in like milk
GE: drew their sharply bent lines
TK: In petals
GE: across the darkening sky.
TK: And lay down my knotted face
upon that bittersweet lace
hug my twisted beams of hands
within the sheets
against my sides
I tingle
I burn and delicious tingle
Because I’m feeling like a child
pink
trusting
and it lasts a full minute sometimes
and it is fucking heaven
I hope that dying
is like the way your bare legs feel
when they yawn
and stretch
and slip like fish
into the sheets

P. 1 Night Piece

and that night will embroider the waters of my soul
with its gossamer whatnots
and redemptive promise
in great godlike loops
and my heart will at last untangle
and my mind will unfurl like a flag of soft lightening
the flame will lower
the storm will cease
the dreaming will start
the infinite morning will begin at last

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winter bushes

My dreams reflected back in melting snow-pasted streets
Spiny wheat fields
The occasional tree with its head full of red hair
Cherry pickpocketing all that white
Winter follows there
Into dreams

Snow Day

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snow day 2-3-14

it is a snow day
lentil soup bubbles on the stove and the smells pour in
i added cumin
i threw in a dream
i spiced it up some
and now it all softens and heats
and the molecules collide and settle into a new and
delicious thing
to be shared later with
someone i love
i will feed him
my chemistry experiment
with a dollop of cream
and then
we will tromp through the snow
on a walk together
laughing
his black frayed hair will become a cap of trinkets and jewels
and his sidewalk a magic carpet
of pigeon colored slush
that we dance down
holding mittens and
exchanging the occasional kiss
yes
i will be brave when the flakes fling themselves
into my eyes
and my eye-shadow streaks down
my cheeks in bruisey rivulets
and my lips get cold
i hate my hair caked with wet like that
i am particular about moisture
but with someone that sends your heart
screaming out into space
on a regular basis
even a snow day
is something that came from
some crazed and holy wand

the snow drifts down
like frozen whispers
of affection
like the murmured
secret chilly pillow talk
of the gods

Happy New Year….

In the name of the without name
In the name of the recommitment to the beginning
Of every dream you’ve ever had in your life
Be that sanctified in the name of the recluse that
Welcomes babies and dogs into herIMG_4900 shuttered parlour
And the parting of the beggar’s teeth as she asks for you
To hold her hand and be filthy for a minute
In the name of two minutes
In the name of all things robbed and given away
In the seen and unseen right ring finger of God
The Almighty in the Name of
Torn veil off the eye of the mother
be sanctified in the woman
who cares for you
In the name of the dozen
In the name of the last cigarette you’ll ever smoke and
The red-orange-yellow ringlets on the forehead of the second last
In the name of the terror of being the last in line for food
Or drink
Or love
Or despair
In the name of the one that waits for you there.