...so the now is an elastic presence,
an almost-being-there
running within itself,
about itself,
of itself
the long way from crown to sole –
& its character
is of the waterweed kind,
Nureyev-dancing,
wind-winding,
swarm-swirling –

in the visions of the blind,
in the racket of the deaf

Beethoven hears the Ninth Symphony deaf-struck;
defiant, alcoholic, lead-poisoned;
conducts the choral movement’s choral canzona on and on,
shadow-guided,

& John Cage
lets Pandora’s unpredictabilities creep forth
across the cuffed piano
in 4'33"

while Terry Riley paints
the now’s motionless Teflon flows of Untitled Organ
in a Manhattan loft,
and caresses existence’s dark materiality
out of Persian Surgery Dervishes
all the way from Los Angeles to Paris

My reservoir pen writes itself free
from grammar’s coercive care
in thought’s bicarbony balancing act
through the sentence-buildings’ Million Programme,
as the Niemisel-harness is drawn taut for
my last rickety rasp-cries
shooting old-mannishly at breakneck speed,
thin-skinned and sail-taut,
past Nåtarö, Ålö & Utö, zur Sonne,
while the pen acquits itself
of every sentence-building,
watercolorishly dissolving
over rainy wind-eyes, winding
by der Wanderer & sein Schatten,
in toward Andromeda with a flourish of the hat
in the blowtorched cosmic Armageddon night,
where Rune Lindblad drags tone generators
through Slottskogen
down into Doris’s valleys,
& Ingvil Stille bows heads in hands
as Harry Martinson cranks up
Stockhausen’s escape flight toward Sirius,
and the angels in the Northern Lights’ sewing-circle sarcophagi
knit full-body sheaths out of glowing hair’s breadths