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it is neither male no female, that rises crustaceous
At the horizon in the first blue light of sky, low to
The field but stirring the bones themselves into
Frenzied contorted action, music plays, glen gould
The bach cantatas, you are in new york 1979,at
First meeting your face appears again from behind
The curtain of time you make a gentle entrance
On Bleeker St at Angelinas, the opera singers dive
Late at night with Potapenko, after the performance
You danced divinely, spinning spinning your brown
Hair whipping the clouds, you appeared...
I thought to myself what strange tricks time
Plays, kidding ourselves into believing that we
Ever disappear from the stage, reversing turning
Inwards and outwards, to find another audience
Another theatre another city, Odessa, lover-city of
The moon, bridges those strange little canals, and you
Fondled my ears big hairy then with tiny hands,
Under the covers we played like children in a summers
Afternoon and afterwards chased dandelion whisps
In the currents of warm air and said we shall never
Forget this not if we live to be a thousand years old
Odessa, 1898.... soldiers played on drums at night
And we fell asleep in each other's arms........
1995..I have to talk to you on the phone from Edmonton
Canada your having fractal dreams at night
Yet times are easy, I walk to exhaustion
In a cold so bitter it leaves a sour taste in my mouth
The headaches have come and gone for three days now
You tell me on the phone that something ancient is stirring
And immediately I think, "she is right", something old, older
Than the earth itself is pointing this way, a ray of unknowing
Beaming sending and you hear its frequency, vibrating
The upper atmosphere making the changes happen.
Awakening the Ancient Ways.
Come to Italy, Olga!
I came back to Italy, Olga because i knew
That it was educational in the extreme
That it was marvelous and art was everywhere
In the soup in the air in the glances of passersby's
There was no avoiding in choosing that place to be re-born
Above all others come and see the countryside
Bloom olga, there's nothing like it you'll see
When spring comes and there air is perfumed
With yellow broom flower and wild herb
The soil itself is laughter, but I understand
The lure of the North Country, the cracked clean ice
That polishes the soul, the blank free canvas
The spiritual grace, that light is sharp, stalactit, &pointed
The laws of Science are clearer there, but nonetheless come
To Italy and see!
In rehearsals R. beats the table with his fingers
Lets out howls, breathing the note out high and long
He misses Kommissarzhevskaya, her sweet bird-like
Voice, we're such brutes in comparison clumsy, lazy, slothful
We lack the guts and inspiration, where is Duse, Salvini,
Negri? Where did everybody go? Is everyone
Asleep? We're in such awful shape, so filled with mediocrity
And a sincere lack of passion, I have trouble keeping
My eyes open and fall asleep at the drop of a hat
We are a collection of dusted off habits, a baggage
Ill-formed, Olga, I must tell you I despise the idleness
As I despise all weakness and frailty in the impulse
Of the spirit, but what spirit? What impulses?
How are we to wend our way?
Secretly inside I laugh, and expect a slap and
A caress, a caress and a slap because its what
One expects after a while, such nonsense
R. Says it is because we are the "haves"
He is so right. And so? Where's the motive?
How can we portray life if we cant live it?
How do we tell the truth if all we do is lie?
What stirs within is the Fountain
And from the Fountain which is Red and Sweet
Like the boiling blood of Apis the Bull comes
Forth the shooting stars and then the still
Blue-toned morning, from that place
One human life is born, but not to live
A stupid useless Life, dredging his carcass
From room to room, whose chief concern
Be to feed and sleep, but a à Life
A human life within the Pool, like
A green frog still and perfect
All capable, all knowing, all embracing
Water-loved &, complete.
I want to be that water-loved and air-embracing bit
Earth touching, like a blanket, not likes that
Awful winter in Odessa when I lay shivering
Beneath a ratty old tablecloth in the unheated
Apartment, but spanking new into a brighter
World that carries with it no hope of
A grand tomorrow, but now here in present time
A soft and suppliant as a newborn babe
Radiant with inner joy, & the hell with futures
That dismal whole forbidding lot, the tomorrows that never
Came, the false ideals, the priests of loss burning
Myrrh in camps and not the sterric hindrance of despair
Tomorrow is now and yesterday is here
Words call out to worlds to be born I swear!
When I was a boy in school I felt that Shame
In not believing what I knew was true
And felt the pain of watching Leaves of Learning
Ripped from the original Tree of Truth
Until I was stripped Bare and there could only
Be hung upon denuded branches the dead
Moths of their enfeebled books dead and dry
A serpent's skin and powdered tongue
Forced down gullets without salt
Or savoury, understood that Shame
Was the engine upon which
Our innocent minds burned bright
In preparation for the slavers plight
To the delight of Slaves
What a joke that dance was, what a larcenous, fantastic, farce
Where learned professors of stifling fear
Shoved us into closets full of fluff & waste
And the spiders in our minds grew webs
As big as bombs
Until we became what they said we might
Become and failed to fight!
And so we lost our Way Again
And now this Ancient Beast, from Cosmos&
A past beyond the Milky Way, beyond Arcturus
And Signa B, the rest, returns the compass to our
Bones and Hands and magnetizes us to see
What it is that we must see, come willing to us
Or unwilling, we open this door
And Open It, We Must!
nick mancuso
4.30 a.m.2/12/95
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