Go Little Sparrow

Thursday, March 31, 2005

Can It Be (scribble #2)

another take on this famous ballad

Saturday, March 19, 2005

If I Could Say (Nostalgia for Mars)

If I could say
if I could put into words
all the sweetness

Thursday, March 17, 2005

Lost My Way

Goin down the road

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

Two Riders from Mars

Two Martians from Minnesota Jam on a Bob Dylan Song Based on a Line from Isaiah (About Mars)

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

2 Martians Jam on Separation of Civil & Spiritual Affairs on Mars

2 Martians reflecting, in their music, on contemporary Martian issues

Saturday, March 12, 2005

Late Night Rain

Sorry about the sound quality. The rain was coming down hard; the piano was off in the distance somewhere.

Hart Crane


Above checkered flickering of late
coffeehouse generations, light pricks
tap out a dim, midnight tattoo.

Is it the underbelly of a whale,
unfurling a turbid Mardi Gras? Slow
motion horns dilate for one liquid eye.

Answered by silence. Orisons
babble, fitful reeds rehearse,
recount your rendezvous

with a perfidious bark, while calipers
compress the extant manuscripts
(flagrant gulf no hands could span).

It was a weatherbeaten, Southern face
below the embroidered wash and spume
whispered the one word –

"follow." Upward, through vertiginous
mirror gardens – dangling fluted
routes of a sunken – forsaken Babylon.


Spinning, restless, coaxial, cued
to firewater, pried from pueblo
gaol, a primeval kachina leaping
into the blaze – out of time.

Hidden underfoot, to be quarried
from the subway, the broken stone
wheel of a ruptured earth mother
revolves with disjointed orbit.

Weft of vertigo, carbonized. Exploded.
Pronounced from wincing salt, faltering,
slagged... flower names. Fertile
reproof. Slanting, bedecked at last.

Volcano, livid, fluent, enlists
the police. Magnified chevrons.
Pulques Finos. Skulls look up,
fed your tangled battering ram.


Ironclad northern city in your nightmare,
and the sound of the sea, too familiar,
eager to lock you in a wavy ooze,
forlorn foghorn... such was Death's only ruse.

Who waits by the pier to feel your taunts
will always wait now. You waited once
for shoulders tensely spare, the tide's advance;
reposeful strength was gateway - into trance.

The bridge you strung beneath your bones
still rises, harbored, iridescent, out
of your twenties and the century's, still
delicately rides the storm. And Ariel
holds his song... and now Atlantis groans! –
surfacing with your ascending steep descant.
(You can hear, faintly, in the 3rd section, the sound of an ambulance going down Hope St.)

Thursday, March 10, 2005


Short poem, written about 15 yrs ago. Published in Way Stations:

The poet is monotonous, his head
resting on her empty sleeve,
his voice out of the mineshaft
muttering rumors of precious gems.

And stars shine in the black sky,
peacefully, released at last
from that deep unspoken gloom
by his aimless, undying lament.

- I am NOT Clint Eastwood (though people used to say I looked like him).

Island Road 13-15

Another chapter in the sonnet sequence, read to you by Clint Eastwood's little brother Henry. You can read along here.

Wednesday, March 09, 2005

On Top of Old Smoky

On Top of Old Smoky. Crooned at the keyboard by old Whisky-Smoky himself

Martian Background Music

3.5 little green men, in a jam. Caution: loud Martian harmonica! Adjust earthling volume accordingly.

Monday, March 07, 2005

The Martians Are Leaving

but I'm still here...

Friday, March 04, 2005

Island Road 10-12

The saga continues. You can read along here.

I wrote a note about my background in music over at HG Poetics today.

Thursday, March 03, 2005

Play til Bedtime

hush little baby, don't you cry
Momma's gonna be here, by and by

I Am A Poor Wayfaring Stranger

Old southern spiritual, from around 1790s

(& forgive me, I'm a poorly musician today)

Down Around Angola (rough take #1)

More kitchen music. Imagine you're listening to an unknown musician from the 1470s (early days of recording). Imagine the background noise is the sound of the ocean.

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

Progression (toward spring)

more downhome Henry doodling

A Far-Off Bird on the Evening Prairie

Wish I could stay home sick like this every day.

(p.s. a bird on the bird clock in the kitchen - like the one I sent to Elena Shvarts once - joined in quite by chance. more about her over at HG Poetics. Maybe I should call this "...on the Evening Steppe")

Island Road 7-9

OK, this is the last of the Castor oil for today. You can read along here.

Guitar Diddle #2

more old front-porch chords

Island Road 4-6

I'm home with a cold, fiddling around in my "recording studio". Here's the next few sonnets from Island Road, meanwhile. You can read along here.