Thursday, June 16, 2011

The Occult (or An Experimental Song)

poem is on 16" by 8" sheets . . .
The Occult
or
An Experimental Song

                              the magical connection
                        of integers

                                    was

the musical connection
                        of integrities

                              the musical
                        necessity of integrity
                 
                              the mathematical
                        dervish of pillows

                              the hopeful
                        will for discussion

                              the ape
                            no
                                    apes
                      would discover

                              havent I
                                    said it
                                all
                                    be-
                                          fuck
                  another cover

                              until we're
                                    laughing
                        like
                                          you
                   under
               the covers

                                    & we
                                          don’t
                                    know          
                                        we’re
                                           blue

            under the covers
           
                              & we're
                                    talking
                        to
                                 you

            under the covers

                        indeed I
                    do
                        &
                                 you
                  do
              too

            under the covers

                        & my
                              pencil
                  is
                     for
                              you

            under the covers

                              & I
                                    re
                                          ject
                                       ted
                                me
                                          to
                                                you

            where they do lie there

                              in
                                 their
                                          bro
                                    ken
                              down
                                                chair

            under the covers

                              &
                                    she
                                          told
                                    me
                              I’m
                                    a
                                             spoon

            under knee covers

                              &
                                    the
                                          moon
                                    is
                              here
                                            to
                                                burn

            under the covers

                              &
                                    I
                                        wish
                                      I
                                 had
                                          a
                                                loon

            under the covers

                                    when he
                                            wasnt
                              in
                                    the
                                          room

            he be so happy

                              &
                                I
                                   sloped
                              unto
                                      the
                                             West

            ever so lightly

                              that
                                    I
                                     meant
                                 it
                              to
                                 the
                                            Left

            ever so sprightly

                              &
                        spirited
                    did
                                    dont

            ever so tightly

                              that
                                    I
                                          picked
                                  up
                              Clora's
                                                soap

            ever so lightly

                              &
                                    I
                                          threw
                                    it
                              on
                                    her
                                          dope

            ever dont fight me

                              till
                                    I
                                      prove
                                Im
                              not
                                  a
                                       fraid

            please dont bite me

                              &
                                    ac
                                          cused
                                    of  
                                being
                                                staid

            so why indict me.

                              I’m
                                    the
                                          one
                                  to
                              soap
                                    yr
                                          shade

            if you allow it

                              to be
                  free                 
                        of
                  me
                        &
                  take
                        a
                  while
                        to
                  find
                        oh
                  uh
                        .
/4Dec74                                                    

Left margin is lower pitched, farther to the right, higher.

larry goodell / placitas, new mexico 
/ scanned from original typed copy & (re)formatted close to original 15Jun2011

    I wrote the following note in the late 80's for Firecracker Soup (Cinco Puntos Press, El Paso), but it wasn't necessary to include it. (States something of the placing of my writing & placement on the page.)
    Writing is an act of life for a poet whose improvised airs are a page breath. 
For me the words speak through pores.

INTRO

    Writing is an act of life for a poet. His improvised airs are page breaths. It's not for me to know what not writing is since I'm always being written with. The pauses are that: pauses, and then I write, my right place and time only once for that esteemed occasion. What a relief to surprise myself – only the makeup of myself with all my severe limitations screens the joy. 


     Or perhaps makes me ordinary. A release into semi-guided fun of my own essential one and only tongue, wagging a new tune that goes till done and not to be mangled with rehashing but is the sacred text of my Goddamned condition. It's always a score a reading aloud at time of writing, a recital – no, a concert of words--hell no, sentences, scores, a going high, a take, a progression, an undulating song, with tips: they say performance.  In front of an audience it repeats. And now a book. 

     The farther from the left margin a line or word begins the higher the pitch in delivery. The bigger the space inside a line, the slightly longer the pause. The word with a single underlined letter is emphatic of course. [I've changed most of these words to italics and eliminated underlining.] Line endings are a pause, however slight. And any directions, usually italicized, to the right of the poem is part of it: what needs to be done or donned, a fact arisen at the time of the poem-writing. 


     I am writing to get to a different place from where I began, where it feels better, some kind of musical word clarification through pun and performance of the airs laid down. Mysterious muse-ic cycle of the Earth, what little bit of it I know: think only of gifts someone might enjoy and even read aloud a time or two.



larry goodell / placitas, new mexico / for FIRECRACKER SOUP  2May89

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