scene 1: setting


jazz in the city;

it’s all poetry now,

gotta make it big.

light’s turned,

keep moving—

strange place, to be alone.

Houston breathes, heat,

as boys play ball

underneath the moon.

The world needs

more baseball fields.

Jazz, a little slower:

memories of her.

No radio—

let it all soak.

Where’s my brother tonight;

bigger still.

Here we come,

now,

one last time.

Light’s turning, got to go.

This is as it says, the setting of the piece. Someone was right to say the entirety of the poem reads like lines written coming out of a sleep - it is infact the opposite. Lines being written before sleep. This is the Setting, me, driving home after a long tiring day, it is bright in the AM, downtown houston is empty, lonely, and glittering with a recent light shower, and i am waiting at the stop light - "light's turned" - driving listening to "jazz in the city" thinking "it's all poetry now". Meaning, me, alone in the big empty city - this will be a poem when i have time to write it. Knowing that this is going to be memorlized, this moment of living. And the rest that follows is very self explanatory - "houston breathes heat", "boys play[ing] ball/underneath the moon [light]".
And the thoughts as I come home - "the world needs/ more baseball fields", "where's my brother", "here we come [the future]" - all these thoughts interrupted by the "lights turning, got to go".

scene 2: the memory

Somewhere’s under the moon,

our triangle broken

smoke curls, nose, rings Jupiter, memories

blue still,

melody train-

-quil peace-

signs of spring in the air-

-y night

trumpet shrill, ear crying game

dictionary love,

easily lost,

time to make amends,

red lamp and blue lamp

candle’s wane,

gentle raillery, tee shirt bed posts

and doorway streamers of colored flowers,

forget-me-nots maybe, never could have

jaundiced aspect,

cavalier spirit on your part,

-ing words of grace,

shriveled leaves of calendars, twice removed,

wall holes, empty space,

flicker photo-drama,

Casablanca nausea, pillow toss bruise display,

sluices escape the sleeper.

This is a little more complicated - whereas Scene one is a minimal poem, this is a stream of consciousnes.
"Somewhere under the moon/ our triangle broken" speaks of the triangle (it's all math, i guess) made by two lovers staring at the same moon - spoken about by Wallace Stevens, as i sit smoking causing "smoke curls" about my "nose" like "rings [of] jupiter", thinking.
thinking - about what? well her. I suppose.

Blue memories, melody train/ traquil peace/ peace signs/ signs of spring in the air/ airy night. All of this is just the transition of thought, seamless and moving at a strangely fast rate. Me noticing the cold air, the freshness in it, the easy feel of it almost tranquil...
Ah, Dictionary love. Love by th' book. I always wondred what "book" juliet spoke of....the bible? some unwritten book of love... i don't know, but kissing by the book always seemed to me stiffling...always, somewhat sterile and lackluster - to me it's a sign of immobility, of sad chained love. Dictionary love, easily lost, a need to make amends...these are all lines of that restricting love, a bad relationship.
Red lamp, blue lamp, candle's wane - this is the Joycean walk - as Bloom did, so to do i walk to my bed, noting that which i see - thinking of her gentle raillery, (our teasing realtionship) and the pillow talk, seeing tee shirts on the bed, seeing the beads above the door, and thinking on those flowers (they're faux flowers, leighs actally...here i make the comparison between the Dictionary love and the flowers "forget-me-nots? never!)

why, never? "jaundiced aspects" paralyzed the relationship, but thank you for the cavelier spirit, anyways, that spirit in your "parting words"...
The relationship had lasted for two years. We watched Casablanca.
And this line. this to me, is the most poignant i have ever written. "Sluices escape the sleeper"; here, after the drive, the cigerette outside, and the walk into bed, i finally sleep...(all while listening to Miles Davis, thinking of miles' jazz, remebering it often and it playnig a vital part in the lines and memories...) i cry while i sleep. Sluices, waterways, water fonts, channels of tears...just barely escape the sleeping me.

scene 3: the memory past


what poetry these pink twilights,

being the second son, Mexican heritage

three asleep on a log, one read,

divided kingdom of an old farm and ranch

listening to the burn of a cigarette,

less like a fire – more like soft static.

what madness being awake at this hour.

how many ways can one change the world?

4:49 in Hawaii

I think of you.

The author thinks of you.

orange flavored gum and dance music,

less jazz in old age – bring me gentle harmonies,

Dakota Stanton and Dusty Springfield;

sage knows best,

mattress on the floor, old on blue carpet,

money hidden between the dying walls,

creaking howls of ghosts and frightened children,

red and grey.

shave, tie, same damn pants for one whole year;

it had trucks and trains on it, the mattress.

the rough texture, no sheet – only blankets;

it’s hide had gone thin, the lining [he sleeps on it now?]

wilted into clumps,

slung against a broken window – and some…

some melody from out it, a mechanic shop,

against the rough language subdued by distance,

against the beer-can clatter and gravel alley shuffle,

against the buzz of tools and hammers, a radio –

infusions of beats and latin voices, whispers and –

dad smoking while I lay awake, awakened by…

…who knows…my future needing a memory,

this moment.

forever.


----
hmm... Galatea told me to post my textual explication on this thread, i really don't know how to go about this... Q and A was my first idea -- but that doesn't seem very practical. So, line by line? that seems very troubling to me...

So, here is my analysis.

Thank you for taking the time to do this, GE(you'll always be GE to me first!)/CDB. This helped in a deeper, further appreciation of your words, and now I will go back and reread a few more times and "live" it the way you lived it and wrote it. This doubles the pleasure in reading your thoughts. Thank you for being open enough to share this personal slice of your life.

LB/FB/~~flutter~~

Thank you so much for doing this, GE. I can tell you put a lot of time into this. I always find it so fascinating when writers explain the inspiration behind their work. To think that a simple trip through the early morning streets of Houston put the wheels in motion. I'm impressed at how in tune you are to your surroundings and your emotions. You are a thinker aren't you?!


it’s all poetry now

How right you are!

Thank you again, G. For the explanation, and for sharing a bit of yourself with us. That was nice.....

CBD,

I saw that you had done this earlier in the day but I wanted to wait until I had the time to appreciate and absorb it. I can't thank you enough for taking me up on my suggestion.

I have learned that I was on target with some of the poem but other parts were so personal -- so subjective that it was an immense help to be able to read it and understand your perspective. It enriched the experience and I appreciate your taking the time to post it here.

So intimate, wafting and elusive...
It's always clearer as well as deeper with an explanation!
Thanks, and well-done, that. Interesting form, I hadn't noted the soft difference between the "minimal poem" and "stream of consciousness" 'til you pointed it out. Interesting wordplay,

quote:

melody train-
-quil peace-

signs of spring in the air-
-y night

cavalier spirit on your part,
-ing words of grace,

quote:

sluices escape the sleeper.

I think of you.
The author thinks of you.

These are poignant in my opinion too. And "sluices escape the sleeper" is one of the most different, eloquent, expressions I've read for tears. Hey "pink twilights" caught my fancy. You have always been a fine poet – however your star is ever rising, Globalenigma! Take care.

PS - Link to the work in the forums – Miles Runs the Voodoo Down (for me, alone)