Song of the Andoumboulou: 50

-ring of the well-                        


Fray was the name where we came
to next. Might've been a place,
might not've been a place but
we were there, came to it
                                             sooner
than we could se... Come to
so soon, it was a name we stuck
pins in hoping we'd stay. Stray
was all we ended up with. Spar
was another name we heard
                           it
went by... Rasp we also heard it
                                                was
called...          Came to it sooner
than we could see but soon enough
saw we were there. Some who'd
come before us called it Bray...

Sound's own principality it was, a
pocket of air flexed mouthlike,
meaning's mime and regret, a squib of
something said, so intent it
seemed. At our backs a blown
                                             conch,
bamboo flute, trapic remnant,
                                                   Lone
Coast reconnoiter come up empty
but for that,          a first, forgotten
warble trafficked in again even so,
                                             the
mango seed's reminder sent to what
end we'd eventually see...

                              We had
Come thru there before we were
told. Others claiming to be us had
come thru... The ubiquitous two lay
bound in cloth come down from on
                                                               high,
hoping it so, twist of their raiment
                                                         steep

integument, emollient feel for what
might not have been there. Head in the
clouds he'd have said of himself,
                                                         she'd
have said elsewhere, his to be above and
below, not know or say, hers to be
alibi, elegy otherwise known...

have said elsernrheren

Above and below, limbo what fabric
intervened. Limbo the bending they moved
in between. Limbo the book of
                                                      the
bent knee... Antiphonal thread
attended by thread. Keening string
by thrum, inwardness, netherness...
                                                         Violin
strings tied their hair high, limbo
the headrags they wore... The admission
of cloth that it was cover, what
was imminent out of reach,                   given
                                                            what
went for real, unreal,                                          

                           split,
silhouetted                                          
redress                                                      

Song of the Andoumboulou: 21

  Next a Brazilian cut came
on Sophia picked. Paulinho's
 voice lit our way for what
    seemed eternity, 
                             minha
   primeira vez the one
                                phrase
  we caught or could understand,
    no matter it ended
soon as it'd begun. 
                            Endless
   beginning. Endless goodbye.
     Always there if not ever all
 there, staggered collapse, an
    accordion choir serenaded
                                         us,
  loquat groves hurried by
    outside. . .
 
                    It was a train
   in southern Spain we
     were on, notwithstanding
    Paulinho's "first" put one
      place atop another,
                                   brought
     Brazil in, air as much of
 it as earth, even more, an ear
   we'd have called inner unexpectedly
    out. . . Neither all in our
heads nor was the world an array
                                               less
  random than we'd have
                                    thought. . .
 It was a train outside São
   Paulo on our way to Algeciras we
  were on. . . Djbai came aboard.
    Bittabai followed. . .
                                 A train
less of thought than of quantum
  solace, quantum locale. "Quantum
   strick, bend our way," we
 begged, borne on by reflex, a
                                            train
   gotten on in Miami, long since
  gone

                          .

    Lag was our true monument.
   It was an apse we strode under,
     made of air. There inasmuch
as we exacted it, aliquant amble,
                                               crowds
    milling around on corners began
   to move, the great arrival day
      we'd heard so much about begun,
 sown even if only dug up again.

    Call it loco, lock-kneed samba. . .
Multi-track train. Disenchanted
   feet. . .
               It was the book of
 it sometimes going the wrong
   way we now read and wrote. . .
                                              Split
  script. Polyrhythmic
remit

Irritable Mystic

"mu" fifth part —

  His they their
we, their he
 his was but if
need be one,
                    self-
  extinguishing
I, neither sham nor
 excuse yet an
alibi, exited, 
                  out, 
                         else
the only where
 he'd be. 

              Before
the long since
  remaindered
 body, imagines
each crack, each
    crevice as it sweats
   under cloth,
                    numbed
  inarticulate
                   tongues touching
     down on love's endlessly
 warmed-over thigh. 
                             The awaited one
    she mistook him for haunts
       him, tells him in
     dreams he told 
                            him so.
       Such offense,
   but at what
      won't say, 
                     moot 
   remonstrance, 
                       no resolve if not
      not to be caught 
                             out. . .

     Abstract advance, its
    advantage unproved,
       unbelieved-in,
                            vain
     what wish would
 give. . . 
             Late eighties 
                                night
momentarily bleached by
         bomblight. Awoke,
     maybe inwardly wanted
                                       it, 
       wrestling with dreams 
                                      of the
 awaited one again. 
                            Thought
back but a moment later
        what moodier start
     to have gotten off
                                to,
       angered by that but
 begrudged it its impact
                                and
     so sits remembering,
         pretending, shrugs it
off. . . 

             Arced harp. Dark
     bent-over body. Esoteric
         sun whose boat its
                                     back
 upheld. . . 
                 Unseizably
vast underbelly of
                           light,
       limb-letting thrust. 
                                  Tread of
     hoofs. Weighted udders of
 dust. . . 
               His it their she
once they awake, 
                                 the 
       arisen one, 
                        world
           at her feet, 
                                 her feet 
       one with their 
                           rapture,
   ankledeep in damage
                                   though she 
           dances. . . 
 The slippings off
                         of her
 of their hands define
her hips, whose are
       the suns whose
                              heat
           his nights taste 
                                  of 
     and as at last he
       lies her legs loom, 
                                   naked,
 loose gown pulled from
           her, sleep 
                           turns.
And he with his 
                         postures
           cramps the air, 
                                 bent 
       lotuslike, lips
                           part kiss, 
                                           part 
         pout

Song of the Andoumboulou: 166½

Decapitism stuck to the end of my
    tongue. What to do but call it names
I thought. It wasn’t thought I was
                                                              think-
    ing I’d have answered had I been
asked, not even thinking I thought…
  I sat brooding, tracking a feather’s
                                                                 drop,
      plummet my lush regard. I sat
  brooding, hen’s heat yogic so bent
    my hickory legs were, hickory
                                                           stiff
  transcendent so flexed it was. So it
    will have been said absentmindedly
rolled off my tongue. Least thought,
                                                                  last
      thought
I mock made-believe I
  believed, prophet shod in castoff
    tread… Profitry rolled off as well,
jelly-coated pill I bit. Bitness rolled
                                                                 with
    it or might as well have, qu’ahttet’s
broken jaw. Change was the law I
  sat reflecting, right foot nested on
                                                                 my
      left inner thigh, left leg pointed
  straight ahead. I sat, Buddhistic
    hurdler, musing, mouth open, ip-
seities arrayed in a row… I sat, I
                                                           was
      thinking thought’s province re-
  ceded, beauty’s provocation revoked
    as our loins contracted, Itamar,
                                                              Anun-
  cio, all us men. Tantric hoist I was
    thinking, thought’s adumbration,
what ached and what resigned itself,
                                                                   dis-
      placed… We sat checking out the
  yogis in leotards, Ahdja, Eleanoir,
    Anuncia, Sophia, every womanly
wisp under the sun. I dreamt again we
                                                                      were
    away with no way home, this or that
      plane waiting, this or that takeoff
  missed, sweet crease loaded with ore
                                                                      but
    to be absconded with, gold we’d’ve
      otherwise been. Bent intonation inter-
  vened, a reed off away in the distance,
                                                                        Net-
      sanet’s name I no sooner gave than
  was given back, Brother B’s wild ox
    moan… I sat dejected, thought’s
                                                                ap-
      pointment missed, disappointed,
  abscondity’s eviscerate redoubt. I
    was thinking thought had yet to be-
gin, thought’s far emblem a star too
                                                                 frail
    for sight, leotarded crux and cur-
      vature’s ignition, thought’s due ad-
vent I thought no such arrival, what come-
  liness it wore wore thin. No ideas but
                                                                      in
      them I thought, cloak and conni-
  vance the lords of that house, abode  
                                                                    we
    abided
  by