Wednesday, November 28, 2007



in dreams i was switching back and forth from existence as a cat—then to encounter the late cat of my daughter's and mine--prowling his old haunts in a yard we had years ago in back of place we lived in--

and going back and forth from cat to human--much as cats go back and forth limnally from human world to cat world--living alongside and among humans, then going outside among cats and animals, birds--trees--

so a poem is a movement in the grass through which one sees the
movement of a cat--the ways the fur is brushing aside the grass
blades--and making a sound in passing via the rubbing--which turns into a "rubBEing"--(the art work i do which some call rubbings/frottage i call rubBEings as they are the emergence of beings--via touch that responds to their call--)

the rubBEings move across a fence in the light, golden, which then
turns to a cool shadow--the movements of lines in fence of grey faded wooded, washed out by rains, bleached in sun and faded by shades—the myriad lines speaking and singing--voices which turn into those of cats--and back among the foliage scattered among grass, close to the ground and through cat eyes watching patiently as the cat of ours is moving slowly, imperceptibly, towards something of deep focused absolute attention that one finds glowing in its eyes--the movement for a moment suspended as the eyes grow large with the image of the prey--then the pounce--and while cat in air one's own vision is tilting wildly upwards and sees another cat spiraling down from a tree--the twisting tail that acts as a rudder to make sure the fall is completed with the cat on all fours--and there before one suddenly not a cat but a painting, as though a piece of a wall by rauschenberg has dropped from the sky--and reaching for a paint brush with my again cat
mouth teeth--beginning to paint on this wall of red and white—gleaming freshly laundered with dew in the yard where the old cat is prowling about now, a bouquet of flowers stuffed in its mouth--

speaking in french with the cat in the now dappled wall as the
sunlight has shifted and a sea-blue is flowing over the fence to the
right--which has turned a golden yellow and atop of it sitting another cat--

the morning air blew cool--le reve fraichit--calling in dreams--and
ripples among the little patches of tufted grass as now it has
changed scenery and back in a yard behind a house in watertown,
MA--and there is my little cat Max and we are building our giant shrine monument to the espresso machine, made of vacuum cleaner and car parts and gleaming bits of metallic junk--

a spaceship for time travel and wakening into this room beside the
last vestiges of departing cats pictures and poems which come back
again into another focus as one moves to rise and there finds a chair and sits and begins to draw--

the coffee and cigarette smoke of the "johnny guitar" lifestyle
wafting across beaches which elongate in th emind's eye and working on a mapping of an essay with a woman approaching the water in the sunlight of a mediterranean morning--as cold air flows in from the fresh snow covered ghetto scape--

and quiet is filing the air like smoke--streaming across paper where notations begin to emerge--and the faces of the strategies of the poems begin to move--not faces, simply markings--hatching their way into a being that begins to rise sonorously into the tranquil and chilly air among visions that swim like fish past the gazing eyes of a cat drinking coffee who turns back into a man dreaming of a poem which moves through a war and starts to
become something--in a distance--which one is in reverie of as the
coffee slowly mounts to the mouth and the morning is arriving with the feet of a desert walker suddenly finding itself in bloom among
fields--

and back one is to the memories of the cats in the dream in the yard among the grass and there in the background the fence-wall on which are forming the words eventually to become the shapes of an essay written by images projected from cats' eyes--

and becoming indeed--

something other, on a piece of a paper which turns into something
other--a continual becoming other as the words transpose always before becoming words and yet their sounds flow in,

calling

as dreams are cooling here in the morning air brought "fraichit" by the snow--

and now having written this--time to turn the eyes back to these forms here which via dreams lead onto --an essay of an essay which is filled with the skies and sea torn from a page of a memory of a dream of a film which was never made yet suggested by one that was---