The Ghosts of Jay MillAr (5 page)

portrait of Conwenna Stokes by Alex Cameron

Alex Cayce

 

The myth you were writing right now

is fine, though the plot needs a little work.

fix it. i dare you. nothing

but bursting tedium

out of the sky

could view life as an ongoing experiment

within the limitations of the flock itself

it offers several variations

upon a theme that can be directly

and intimately examined

because you are one of them living.

but could the world suddenly find a self

actively involved both mentally and physically

(wings are a shrinking structure) a language

singing of the immediate surroundings of soft air

instead of a viewed force

impossible to separate the drifting from the

poke and prod, prod and poke

that which uses hands (wings) and thinks

these things aren't attached to mind

   J.M.

Revolutionary Hymn (for the flocking birds)

life is not boring

                         life is not tedious

if we woke up this morning we're probably alive

and all the sad fuckers

out there in the universe

they don't even know how we died

We

Don't

Care

Four Small Birds Are

sitting twenty feet away watching me through the open window. Two rest in the dead oak behind the garage, two sit on telephone wires that lead to our house. If a sound or a sudden movement occurs in the atmosphere they burst apart, and I watch these quiet explosions knowing somehow those involved will always meet again. And they do. Sometimes they meet closer to me, then further away. Together, each of their weightless heads flit quickly, seemingly at the same instant, but then one shits upon the laundry Hazel hung out on the line to remind me they are only four small beings, each one living inside a little head, singing so alone, quietly beneath the soft breeze of their feathers. At the moment they have vanished, but they don't seem too far off; they never do. The sky gets so huge sometimes, and we the birds are so alone within it. The four again explode to what remains of the light, and I watch the feeder I hung last fall sway empty, and all of us remain outside, remembering this small unscheduled visit.

Morning Sky

Strange unpronounceable red outside

of the birds (Erik Satie was of

the birds, knew the plenitude of

clouds) wakes with a mysterious roar

the sun shoots out rays of red, orange,

blue and gold, and we are told our size,

somewhat larger than a squirrel

far less interesting than our own train

of thought speaks directly out of (time)

gathering a language no one tried to

learn (Erik Satie knew the lurch and

stretch of time) makes us so very small

just to wake us, just to make us small, ‘we

lay at the bottom of a strange ocean, in bed

where the trees were pure sexual beings, swaying

in our heads and your breath was the smell

and Satie was the sound of the sky, slow

moving, promising whatever came to mind'

The Blue Sky Was Made To Float Against

Listen to me, the birds are here too, they have short, intense

lives, sparks of whyng-drift, a light shudder

AGAINST
the light, and not in it. They will flyrt from

the innermost regions of any space or time into a

quantified moment of being alive, full of song (
NOTHIN
') a

language working in oppositions, present even when the body is not

(Present). Definitely the least threatening of all beings,

any species you like, Rose Breasted Grosbeak, AmErican

Redstart, the Killdeer, take your pick. It is

entirely worthwhile to pay attention, for if you only listen,

nothing but recognition of something invisible could be learned.

Listen to me, the feather was formed of light some time ago

in order that light might be carried thru the void. The Earth as

host for the migratory patterns of light. The bird, which is light,

comes from the egg, which is gravity. In turn, the egg comes from the

bird. As it is, things seem destined to move against their origin and

with it simultaneously. Such it is with the bird, and since we are

creations of imagination and continue to use it to destroy

itself, we should notice them, the birds, yes, we should, but

not because they are beautiful (and they
ARE! THEY ARE so BEAUTIFUL
!)

But because thru them we might see to defy ourselves, yes, and the

intensity of that is a firm press upon the head, heart, hands, or genitals,

a soft tuft shyning, mixing consciousness, the full capacity of awareness

first thing in the morning and happy to be

that way uplighting whatever yr made of.

Sing where you come from and what you are in the space below.

Broken Wing

‘A single specimen of the eastern tiger salamander
reported for Point Pelee in
1915
has not been seen since that time'
–Darryl Stewart (1977)

As you drive deeper into the album there is the distinct feeling

that something is coming apart, divided down the middle by the sound of it.

All that screaming only makes you want to drive faster, until the trees

are a blur of electricity. The effect is enough.

There is a gas station in a small town along the way, a beautiful girl

with black hair and fingernails who flies in

on a bicycle and fills your car with gas, the silence overwhelming, as

the wind and the universe

continue to collapse every second

you settle back into your dream of destination.

A casual disembowelment.

Headaches expand the soft skull to fill the driver's seat.

Aneurysm on the road. Annul that screaming.

The slight panic to keep them all awake.

There is no one in this place who will slit your wrists for you, so you drive

deeper into it awash in the white

blue sky.

Dream: (Destination

Where is it you want to go and will this recording take you there?

Where lyrics are sung by birds heard and not seen ever screaming

Screaming

Screaming Their Little Heads Off.

And the wind records each tiny extinction as the doorway opening upon the
            nature

of their tired thoughts

Nature the casual song

Mind the disruptive element

(In the dream you slowly begin to realize you have gone missing

as the parkland begins to unfold around you

the major life zones display their distinct lines, tired landmarks,

tired bones the size and shape of trees

merely convenient labels which blend smoothly into the recording.

Even at this point the sound of waves are invisible and you remember

that if the nature of song is to control, then this is where the album severs into
           melodic