trinity of existence

i am here
i am already dead
i am yet to be born

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4’33”

I

TACET

II

TACET

III

TACET

http://www.johncage.org

based on version performed by David Tudor at Woodstock, NY, August 29, 1952

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moored

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it is not often a hawk


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rolling things

like an engine goin’ round
chigga-boom chigga-boom
ya got me rollin’
goin’ round
chigga-boom chigga-boom
like a wheel goin’ round
chigga-boom
ya got me rollin’

shanda 30 sept 2010 and 3 oct 2010

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she sits

she sits on the stone wall
in front of the moss
in front of the ferns
and the heather
and takes me in
with eyes wide enough
to swallow the air
which quivers in
our suspended gaze
so wise
so small
so knowing

to reach out my arms
is futile
pride fills her
arching back
and rounded belly
she will not
be bidden

i wait
taking in her
wariness
her delicate
sensing
so keen
i fill
with wonder
and delight
and some trepidation

trusting me
she slips
from her perch
and slips
to perch
on my lap

feathery
slight head grazing
my heart
i hold her
lightly
no grasping
to break the
fine pulsing
between us
we look
toward the bit
of forest
fern
moss and heather

gently breathing
my chest
burgeons with
awe
imbibing
in quietude
this transient
miracle
of wholeness

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the day begins in prayer

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even the smiling face of a stranger

even the smiling face of a stranger
opens my sadness
opens the breath of my pain

from my lips
smiling in return
opens my voice
the vulnerable passage
to the secret place
of my heart
the hidden wound
around which i wind
winding stories
winding thoughts
winding consolation
those ravels
unravel to the smile
of a stranger
an unraveling thread
whose deepest point
imbeds itself in the
emptiness of my soul

my heart quickens
pulsing
pulsating
frightening and trembling
with the traveling thread
urging
my heart surges
and in the flow
heaves the womb
most secret place
most holy place
in a tidal flood
that leaves you
swimming
drowning
gasping
your smile widening
surfacing
grotesque
in a desperate
plea for air
my flood joins
the flood of
your own suffocating tears
in an arrested scream
my hands open
but i cannot help
as the flood
pulls you away

i am left to sit
with my open hands
my open womb
my open heart
my open mouth
my open sadness

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Birds’ Kirtan

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my ear rests as the channel

my ear rests as the channel
between myself and the vibratory information surrounding me
a channel reaching back into time
when reptilian jaw moved toward mammalian ear
coding my perception
high low
thresholds
of
dynamics
pitch
that I will hearfeel
that are perceivable
through the juggling of
evolutionary necessity
which trains me to the
crack of a twig
cry of my infant
sniffing for gendervoice
the delicate resonating response to
pleasurepain
(a pure vibratory re-flection re-cognition
of intoned experience)
wailsighowl
screamurmeroar
humclick
the tonguepitch modulations
of (tonal) language
the babymouth
wrapping itself
around
wet and chewy
soundmeaning
unflaggingly shaped
by the cochlear nerve
expanding listening
which learns itself
through repetition
(to hear what I cannot)
an impossibility of brain
responding to what it
cannot perceive
until it does

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