Woke up one morning to music, piano music, a lovely classical piece I couldn't identify. For the longest time I lay in bed listening, enthralled. It was the music Odysseus must have heard tied to the mast. I thought this is music that can't be resisted. I looked around the room, at sunlight through the far window, a tongue of light that licked across my table desk past it along
the floor almost to my bed and I understood it was already late afternoon. I hadn't dropped into my bed until dawn, up all night working on a poem. When the piano stopped I looked toward the source of the music. It took another moment before I realized there was nothing there not in this world anyway that lovely music had come from someplace within me, someplace unknown to me now, though for a moment I had heard it, clear and beautiful and absolutely real.
Rimbaud: disordered senses. The disordering of the senses. Jim Morrison. Break on through. To the other side. The Doors. A Season in Hell. Every journey was individual and all our individual journeys were the zeitgeist. One night the road turned into a snake. Day or two after a bad acid trip and I'm in the passenger's seat of a friend's car. I hadn't slept in a couple of days. He's driving me to my brother's house. I was close to sleep, that nodding place where the head falls forward. Car rolls over the road, a long straight stretch and just as my head falls forward the road flies up supple and alive: the end of the road rising to the sky is a snake's head about to strike and the road its long narrow body. My friend says when I explain why I just almost jumped through the window, Far out. Groovy.