COMING TO TERMS

It’s dawning on me that I will not be able

To reclaim 27 years lost,

The development I could have experienced,

When pills and depression

Robbed me

Of a competence I once had,

Which could have flourished into greater form

No, I can’t reclaim those years

Nor the increased competence I would have gained in those 27 years

I must accept the limitations on

My ability

Sad, or philosophical

I cannot reclaim those years

I may never recover even what I once was

Let alone what I could have become

With 27 years of practice, application, learning

Tragic, the waste, those lost 27 years

Coming to terms with what I am, where I am

The competences I do have, not

Those I don’t have, I could have had

THAT STRANGE SADNESS

My mind returns to the sharpness

I used to have

My will returns to a strength

I used to feel

Subsequent to a med adjustment

And relief from soporific side effects

I feel a strange sadness

As I contemplate the former competence

I used to enjoy

And wonder, at my mature age, whether

To attempt to recapture

My former competence

Or to rest in the memory

Of what I used to be

In that strange sadness

THE STORY OF GENERATIONS

They brought in a DJ at the Blues Club

Blues Club

They took the Hammond B3 off the stage

(It’s in the room with slot machines, now, covered with blankets)

The young sound technicians like Metal

So when the band does play, it’s all

Kick drum, boom—boom boom—boom

(They boost the drum sound)

No soul, no balance, no guitar,

Boom—boom boom—boom

(They boost the drum sound)

You can’t tell them anything

I’ve lost this one

We’ve lost this one

 

The owner died

The stakeholders hired a young

Cub manager who knows nothing about

Music

Operations manager for a legendary Blues Club

Money

And I watch the young displace

Me in this place

The Metal festival on farmland that the soundman produces

“Is like Woodstock,” a young girl said

“Only real music,” he said

And there’s an end to

A historic Blues Club

 

It’s the story of generations

When I was young

Hendrix

Displaced Bing, Sinatra, Dean Martin

Tragic loss, my parents must have thought

Free love

Woodstock

What’s the world coming to, they must have thought

And I think that, now

 

I’m not ready to let go the reins

And hand the world, my world, over

To the young and

Their ways

I’m not ready to let go the reins

Of this world

This life, my life

Though there is the hope of

My room in His mansion

That where He is, I may be

Eternity

The reins of life, this life, my life

I am not ready to let go

 

The story of generations

WHAT ONCE WAS, I ONCE WAS

He knew me before my confidence was

Crushed, bravado broken

Before my psychotic episode eroded

The self we both knew

He knew me when I was

Bold, brash, tough, and accomplished

We talked over a few days about good times

Performed a couple simple songs we used to play

He noticed me shaking, heard me fumble a few notes

Didn’t want to hear me narrate

The tragedy my episode was, is still

Doesn’t want to hear about me weak, my weaknesses

I don’t like it either

But as it’s me, I have to live with the narrative

Continue as best I can with

The awareness of what once was

What I once was

THE APOLLONIAN IDEAL

According to Nietzsche’s writing, my ideals would be called Apollonian

The Apollonian ideal according to which I live engenders

The isolation I have known

Sometimes despising it

Bare loneliness

Chasing learning, reading, practicing music, listening to music, writing

Pensive

All alone

Moving from one state to another

Across the borders of nations

Chasing schools, careers, saying goodbye

Assimilating the norms of new places

All alone, living alone, sleeping alone

Traveling alone—for business or edification, or it all

Times spent in solitude

Now enamored, in amour, estoy enamorado

Another soul in my solitude

Awakening love, awakened love, loving life, my life, the other

Loving even the Apollonian life I chose, choose still

In love with it all, enamorado de todo

ARCHITECTURAL NOTES OF ONE MEMORABLE EVENING

The jazz band transformed the narrow, ceramic-tiled club

They rearranged the ratio of people to sound to dark woodwork

The club’s architecture became the chord structures’ foundation to melody

The harmonic structure transported solos all the way up to the ceiling, blew the roof off

And into the sky, out to the streets, I imagined

I didn’t understand the people jabbering and blabbering through it

I stood rapt in the packed club, transported, transformed

Maybe the people had heard them before

(The trumpet was a fixture in town)

In the intense content, I, even I, was content after the two hours.

I noted that any given musician only,

Playing measures measured over time,

Time after time, would finally time out.

Variety shows the composition of the universe

Different faces, voices, combos, intonations

Render exquisite the transportation, the transformation

Of the architecture of a club’s tone, music and staff, vibe and patron

The very foundations—flying and buttressing the harmonic structure

Of one memorable evening

THE MEASURE OF MY GAIT

But for one skill set

Bitterly lost from medical causes

But for my body’s vibrancy

Lost from age

I feel better and better in time’s passing

An ancient tree grows high and wide

I know heights, now

I never knew in youth

The breadth of my awareness

Expanded and expands still from youth’s constrictions

The young’s flash and intensity of passion

Have calmed, calming me, contenting my present

My measured gait is not due to decrepitude

I carry the weight of my awareness,

Thoughts, contentedness, purpose, perceptions

Measuring my stride through life

Enraptured in the valley-view of my past

The mysterious ascending current flowing toward my future

In the present’s contented, open mentation

ECONOMIC REALITY

I wanted

A new bed, couch, keyboard

Now I want

Money only for rent, electric, phone, cable

I wanted to make my life better

Now I want but to live

Somewhat as I had

I strain my imagination

For ideas for income

Considerations of my competences

Against an apparently stagnating economy

What I’ll settle for

Have to settle for

What I’ll have to lose

Can afford to lose

Can get by with

Can get by

COMMUNION, COMMUNITY, AND AUTONOMY

We touch, talk, give and take to different degrees

Sacred, social, solitary, self-interested

Communion, camaraderie, cut-off, conceited

Bars, sports clubs, cocktails with co-workers

Church, sacred space, congregation, Communion with God

Caring, caritas, charity, spiritual love

All-giving, other-oriented, mutuality

Couples, partners, children, family

The afternoon card-party with a couple serene and sober

Nighttime in the club, the regulars, high and drunk

Broken dialogue, semblance of camaraderie

Familiarity, unhallowed ground, stabbings at connection

A handshake, a wave, watching out for one another

We meet, touch, talk, connect, care

Contingent on our commitment to community

Contingent on the levels of self: hallowed, hollow, sincere, serene, solipsistic

Ascending and descending the soul’s ladder within the social spectrum

SEMBLANCE OF COMMUNITY

We regulars are at the Blues Club again, late

We have nothing at home to keep us there

Sometimes alone with just the TV doesn’t cut it

Get away from my head, worries, anxieties

Here we have the semblance of community

We know each other, see each other,

Night upon night, care about each other

We do not see one another outside the Blues Club

With its semblance of community

Some dance by themselves, groove on the tunes, talk between sets

Dodging the desperate drunks

Accosting you down into their abyss

To but be with faces I know

The semblance of community

Previous Older Entries Next Newer Entries