Not exactly an organism, it distends

its moss on the air, overtaking 


the brain, growing on us. Probing our ears

with its antennae, it intervenes; 


we adopt its philosophy, as 

the horizon compels us to read 


the hillside's daubs of green according 

to the logic of its retreating gray stave. Aphids, 


asteroids, danger: all spelled themselves 

merely before music rose its tide


beneath the barnacled hull of our day's 

craft, gliding our cargo of flotsam





into harbor. An otherness

trembles into us


to test our pulses, a communal

endo-skeleton, a lubricant


for the consciousness, a house 

we wear in our ribs—while a marching


band dopplers more caterpillar 

verdure down the street out 


the window, and the outlandish

reverberations of muscular stereophonic


thingajobs retromegafitted into

the lemon-colored truck that 






just drove by—music grows 

the anterior pair of eyes, the brave 


luminescence granted the worm 

to thrive in the cave. Is it a parasite: 


a flea leaping through the fur 

of our attention, bullying the neurons


with relentless partiality,

useless precision, a hair's breadth 


between twenty-twenty and bull's-

eye, each of us an anonymous


submarine volcano here solely

to gestate in our ears this species





of locomotion. When you press

your ears together, what do you hear?


"As the propagation of the species 

depends on constant conflicts 


and periodic acts of reconciliation": 

impassioned arpeggios make demands 


on us: with or without us, 

music evolves. We and some repeating


patterns of sound currently enjoy 

a periodic act of reconciliation:


the ozone swells as our wriggling 

heads rush toward it; our heads 





swell, inseminated on a grassy 

crescendo; sensation ravels 


the notochord into its telescope 

of bone, and heaven clicks 


into place. Watch a rooster convulse 

his morning bombardment 


of kocaree: his eyes go glassy, the throat 

distends; music is 


a spasm. Do you feel it, too?  Music 

unshells us, unskins, each 


a composite of the other; we sing, 

and our predator finds us, jaws 





splayed to the perfect 

circumference of our skull, and 


it's time for the encore: Rare free wheeler, 

thumb-size terror, O pinch of terror 

that intensifies pleasure, risk 

at the dusky core of am, gratuitous

announcement: the orchestra bends 

its collective back to the notes, heaves


the day's sun to the half-measure

rest that hovers like a hawk beyond 


the telephone wires, fading into 

the first tendrils of the string section, a band





of cirrus, floating our crafts on a high 

sea of raging noise that yearns 


to be danceable: noise sometimes

becomes music when it repeats. When—


just there, as the chickadee, a checkered

path of flight toward the tree


out the window, repeats its 

tow ta wee, counterpointing the notes 


of the aria singing in the shower. 

This organized excess, a failure


to refrain from originality, setting our

pulses in concert like a roomful





of clocks: we'd like to make ourselves

clear but there's something intriguing


about this impediment-to-con-

versation-making-shout, that is


conversation but rarely answers

our question, another swan song tapping


our fingers beyond our grasp. The late 

spring snow falling out  the window 


repeats but it isn't music, and they say each 

snowflake differs, what stubborn 


cacophony at the heart of cold; it looks 

like static on the radio when we close—




Places I've Been

The following links are virtual breadcrumbs marking the 27 most recent pages you have visited in If you want to remember a specific page forever click the pin in the top right corner and we will be sure not to replace it. Close this message.