Zero to One: A Probability Field
.0 Potted ferns Brooklyn sunset you in it open window
you sit before combing your hair thinking of me that I’m here
Philadelphia dull streets dull city I’m “sand grained” thinking
what if my “sunned” orbit moved to Brooklyn tenderness
me the shell protecting you as we circle Manhattan with guitars
and songs consecrate to love and beauty singing at the speed of light
loving at the speed of sound shaded by energy packets concrete
plastic gin and tonic kind bud and our own hardy souls
.1 cell-phone rings you answer your voice has a catch in it
from crying you’re easily moved perhaps I’ll move you again
and I do resonant tones that happen when you’re “seeing” and it’s blue
a movement (energy transmission in space in a vacuum)
is initiated Brooklyn and Philly move closer on our maps interior
terrain electron waves reinforce a centered connection you and I
moving easily around a core we share called emotion
.2 I lie awake feel you with me “arduousness of appearance”
crossing physical boundaries microscopic & making a difference
something has happened between us no impalpable “thing-in-itself”
beside your voice playing on this CD you sent me
you cry out and the cry comes from inside me somehow as if
we had become one being already somehow space is no
vacuum the night is close and holy what’s dark is light
and vice versa but I can’t sleep and my nerves hum
.3 Bonding between artists is like bonding between atoms energy shells
open when the Muse lays down the law of gravity and I am
and you are swayed in its’ lull down together so I open yr e-mail
“nothing like the sun”, it contains poetry and an invitation
my arms are “rag and boned” they should be full quanta
specific energy surges predictably unsettle when I want peace
the only peace I have is in my imagination of candles
lit on dressers and we’re there the neutral bed growing partial
.4 Unlike electrons observed only in groups we know singularity
thus, becoming open receptive as the Book of Changes advises is tough
I can’t see through yr eyes though I’ve tried many times & been wrong
yet this is why I come back to you some primordial mystery you encapsulate
in photons you emit also in a simple smile that’s still complex
particularity Polynesian eyes & mouth tough delicacy cheekbones
yr songs are love-songs “in just-Spring” w/ death in them
you’re a complete package I haven’t totally opened I’m getting there
.5 We make plans (poor people have plans too!) noble poverty
the Chinatown bus only $20, Philly to NY I at least have that much
you’ll meet me in the Village any bar you choose we’ll drink
I’ve vowed to make each moment precious “let us live only for loving”
even if we face energy transmission in a vacuum even if we lose
some sense of continuity when the rush is on and in for the prize
subway kisses New York creates whoever’s there out of its’ own
ineffable material the thing is to notice the creation and own it
.6 “Hard & moist & moaning” beyond distances struggling to place
divergent strains undertones cadences a dying fall on Avenue A
laughter in Tompkins Square is this what we hoped for maybe
at least I’m with you to whatever degree New York allows harsh mistress
depositing trash internal and external at each doorstep but we
must move through keep our “assets” uncluttered hanging together
like a threaded afghan blue shades red eyes nights fast & slow
and here in your arms I feel upwardly mobile “trade in kisses” is valid at last
.7 Who could’ve guessed that this would be our expressive arc?
frankly I have no objection any kind of touch heals a seared strip
such charity in your tongue you make me believe body & soul do interconnect
on some meta level far beyond the reach of the abraded Brooklyn streets
which cough up their own phlegm in steel squeaks & clanks outside
inside only this you have made my center a nucleus you dance around
what talent I can never repay you for this interlude except
to whisper sweet things that aren’t nothing “endowed with Love’s refinement”
.8 Watching you sleep I feel close…. to what I don’t know earth, stars
sun, moon God, rose (God may well indeed be a rose of some sort)
not that their aren’t distances yet to be crossed or that we’ll cross them all
by morning but I’ve learned that in this world any progress is a miracle
any step forward into “not-death” must be treasured inscribed in whatever book
happens to be at hand so I sit at the window & scribble these words
not ready for the day or anything but more kisses the kiss of sleep
love, life, light immortality wells of secret joy Brooklyn-as-Elysium
.9 You’ve got to work banal quotidian disaster I wake up alone
buy coffee at a deli hop the train back into New York something inside me
has grown older and wiser merely through being your lover I feel
an interior beard grown over my soul’s face nothing boyish has lasted
I can’t say you’ve made a man of me but what we made was as full
as any ripe orchard I think of orchards passing through Washington Square
old Henry James novels Frank O’Hara’s mind caught
in the branches of intellection and devilry I’m deliriously complete as he
1 This is what it means to be intimate the solidity of the intangible settles
on my kitchen table wherever else I sit & ruminate touch things that
remind me of your body what’s done is done and what’s done is good
memories our only permanent possession of course I’ll see you again
but this untarnished something can only have happened once in this way
at such an angle that my guts are encompassed in a circular swirl
of colors and smells and your skin sentiment acceptable for once unforced
love is love is love darling sweet baby honey child yes
“at the setting of our own brief light we never waken”
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