Lark

Tired of the usual sonorities and discords,

we drifted into the gravikords orbit,
only to be flung into outer reaches
inhabited by gu zhengs and gopichands.

Our fingers knew the basic principles
of striking, bowing, plucking, strumming,
our mouths the calisthenics of breath.

Far back in our closets lay dusty crwths,
unstrung tromba marinas. How hard, we thought,
could the Sumatran banjo be anyway?

Children, we zithered away at the kantele
and sent our Finnish hero Loplop reeling
through dwarf-strewn forests for gold,
or rings, or maybe a gold-ringleted girl.

Regrouping, we paired the Gamelan gender
with oceanharp and sui generis foreskin bodhran,
inducing humpbacks to, well, be themselves.

A boatload of ecotourists applauded wildly.

For encore we twanged a host of rebabs so
passionately, so rudely that Taliban came down
weeping, rueful for blowing Buddhas skyward.

After that we may have gotten a bit drunk
on stumph fiddles and shruti boxes,
their clanging drone enough to turn
any waste into a Tibetan beer garden.

Someone said, Do the music of the spheres.

We bit, leading with a morin khur,
a guilty nod to all conscripted animals.

The idea, such as it was, was to rise on waves
of seed rattles through reedy ranks of
mizmar and mijwiz to crystalline heights.

Atonality and dissonance too had their parts,
to be swept up in the total effect.

Could it be we overplayed our hand,
hit human and orchestral limits?
That instrumental clash: dramatic or catastrophic?
Was chaos being resolved or congratulated?

Some blamed the percussion, particularly
the cocobak and danmo contingents.

Our audience grimaced ecstatically, gnashed
its ears and launched a Tasmanian fling.
Critics snickered that Atlas dropped the ball.

Were not so sure. In our brighter moments
the word sublime keeps fetching up coyly.
If indeed its turtles all the way down,
their shells just might be vibrating still.

























The World According to Merriam-Webster Illustrations

Would have plenty of critters and music,
not quite symphonic, more after-dinner,
the meal itself long on meatlamb, veal
with grilled opah to cleanse the palate.

Vegetarians would despair. No fruit or salad
unless odd ingredients tossed together,
spearmint and onion, dry, little enough
to leave them eying the phlox centerpiece.

Granted, brussels sprouts, but who wouldnt
rather feed those to the dik-dik?
The guests? Clotheshorses mainly, the ladies
in polonaise, the gents in puttees and peruke.

Following the quartet for accordion, French horn,
rebec, and shofar, all could amuse themselves
at magic squares or attend a match
between twins, forehand vs. backhand girl.

Or they might just lounge about the chalet
on Barcelona chairs and recamiers
admiring the Franklin stove or canopic jar
where dear Harlequins belly laugh is laid.

In lieu of liqueur servants in Prince Alberts
would tender roast potatoes on lazy tongs.
Talk would, as usual, drift skyward,
and end, as usual, with a catalogue of clouds.

Then some might stroll to the runway,
sidestepping muntjacs and mud puppies,
to board the detailed plane bound for
the saltbox town on the alluvial fan,

As others, Abyssinian cats in arm,
descended to moored felucca or dhow
and set sail for the sea of atolls where
houses come in one of four rooflines.


Exegesis

Not your standard cardboard hard-luck story
but a stencilled sandwich-board revelation
on a lanky black man with a white dummy
hanging from his neck. The sunshade makes sense;
that megaphone, though: whose mouth is it for?
Theres a recessive metaphor at work here
involving vessels, mouthpieces, controlling hands;
its a street performance in hermeneutics
more demanding than the water-from-sand act
or the guy who folds himself into a small box.
Notice how the text rides his back:

SENSE 2000 FED ON HIDDEN MANNA
AND NAMED ANEW IN THE WHITE STONE.
FLASH: TRUST NOT IN RAYGONS AND
MIDEAST BURNING BUSHES! ONLY ONE
GATED COMUNEITY JERUSALEM HIGHTS.
12 FOUNDATIONS (REV. 21: 19-20). LOTS
GOING FAST. ADMISSION PRICE RIGHT-
OUSNESS, THE BLOOD WITH BLEACHING
KRYSTALS. RENOUNS FALSE SEALS.
TURN OFF A/C. ROLL DOWN WINDOWS.
OPEN TO THE KNOCKING (REV. 3:20).
HEAT WILL PASS (FOR SOME!). REJOICE.
GREAT TRADE-IN. CHRISTOPRAISES
FOR SINNOMAN.

Is this a Gulf War vet turning tables on the Man?
And the spoken parts, do they gloss the placard
or spin it like some bizarre McCarthy hypertext?
If so, he does the Lord in different voices.
To cut the babel of radios, cell phones, and engines
that megaphone has to ventriloquize keenly.
Then the timing of his red-light spiel must be
stand-up sharp to catch the muzzy sheep.
It all seems too much to ask, a camel squeeze.
As the light changes, the pharmacy sign announces
its 92 at 4:47, and sleep aids are on sale.