THE SPIRIT AND THE VOID

one man on the cover of the Ravi Shankar record
had evil eyes, their waters were murky,
and his smile was out of a Cracker Jack box:
I listened to the music, and it was sweet,
sweet as toffee, and it stirred up my soul
and I paced back and forth as if on coffee.

the man on the cover of the Thelonious Monk
record had soft, brown lively eyes as if
deep pools of pain had made them light
and the music therein was sharp as a pin,
as pungent as a skunk or bright as a star,
like ten thousand pinholes in the pink sky.

the man on Jean Beaudet's record cover
was not a man, but a painting by Bosch
under the guise of Hugh John Barrett:
the music was like a dervish dance, fiery
and dark as blues in a dark market place,
where shadows dance along brick walls of ivory,
where fingers run riot along keys.

the man in the mirror made faces at me,
feeling maladjusted to this adult body:
the music in his soul is like Lent,
like soft wool, like puffs of wind
in a reed blowing under bad moons,
this music reeks of discord at times,
and begs the listener for a dime.

I felt the Spirit's might tonight,
and it made no music at all,
it just walked tall and kept silent,
breathing through my lungs
and feeling through my fingertips:
this music was made of solid Rocky Mountains
and deep ocean deep under dark skies
like falcons and hawks hovering,
hovering with sharp eyes.

the music from the Void is deepest
when you listen with your heart,
and the wind blows through a screen,
perhaps at high noon of midnight,
perhaps when the Spirit shines
at the end of journey's night:
this music is lost on most men,
and not ignored of children's sight.

I hear an awful hum in silence,
a sound OM and a buzz of fingers ticking
on keys. I hear the Son of Man walking,
walking. He's coming nearer and nearer,
as his day walks up on the horizon,
somewhere between Baghdad and Jericho.
When you hear the thunder crash,
it will probably already be all over by then.
								
I hear ten thousand prisoners in the night,
lending an ear in the pen, doing a year,
or ten. They wait for a court appearance.
They wait for bail money at the end
of the rainbow. They wait to score.
Everyone's on edge. Of suicide, of despair.
The answer's on everyone's lips,
loose lips sink ships, they say.

I feel the night, raindrops in the puddle,
circling around, hovering over, grabbing
you grabbing me grabbing some soul hither
and thither and summoning us all to court.
Feelings of death grow deep roots
in hearts without colour or race or creed,
we all feel the breath of night drawing near.
We all go to sleep with a twinge of fear.

BANG, your number's up!
								

Robert M. Smith

smitty@total.net