WEBVTT

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[APPLAUSE]

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Thank you for that very
kind introduction, Charles,

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and for the invitation
to return to Tucson,

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which is a great pleasure.

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I think it was about 20 years
that I was here before, very

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long, long time.

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So it's good to be back and
especially so on the same stage

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with Marilyn Crispell, whose
music I've enjoyed and admired

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for years.

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And we haven't seen each
other in a long time

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either, so reunion
in a number of ways

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that's very resonant for me.

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I'm going to begin with a poem,
maybe two, from the chapbook

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that Charles and Jack's
press published called "Four

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for Glenn."

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The poems were eventually
included in "Splay Anthem,"

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but they first appeared
in that chapbook,

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a group of four poems dedicated
to tenor saxophone player Glenn

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Spearman, who was active in
the Bay Area and was a person

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that I got to know
in the early '90s.

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And he died in 1998.

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Actually, five years to
the day after he performed,

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his band, his double trio
performed compositions

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for "Bedouin Hornbook,"
which was music

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that he had written in
response to my first novel

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in that Broken Bottle
series, "Bedouin Hornbook."

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And we had gotten to know each
other and talked on the phone

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and ran into each other
in concerts and stuff,

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and he was an enormously
talented musician

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with a very unique
voice that kind of

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took up Coltrane, Albert
Ayler, Frank Wright

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and took it another direction
and made it into something

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that was completely his own.

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Anyway, I wrote this
set of four poems.

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The first came to
me, and then there

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were three more that came to me.

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And they made a nice little set,
which I called "Four for Glenn"

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to echo the title of
"Four for Trane," which

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was the title of
my first chapbook,

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which itself echoed
the title of an album

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by Archie Shepp dedicated
to John Coltrane,

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"Four for Trane."

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And this first one
is from that series

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that Charles mentioned,
"Song of the Andoumboulou."

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This is number 42, in
memory of Glenn Spearman.

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When the double trio did the
performance of the compositions

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for "Bedouin Hornbook."

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It ended with Glenn taking
a copy of "Bedouin Hornbook"

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and tossing it in
the air, and when

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it came down and
hit the stage floor,

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at the moment it hit the
stage floor, the band stopped.

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So that image of the
book aloft in the air

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is the image that this set
of four poems begins with.

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What we rode was a book.

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We fell out of it, scattered.

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The book fell out of
my hand while I slept.

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Page upon page upon
page, nodded out on.

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Fell from the hero's
hand on the page I

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gripped, never to be
read again or, if ever,

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only were I to awake.

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Walked each with an arm
around the other's waist,

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weathered hell, heaven's
andoumboulouous remit.

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Me the hero, we the dream come
true, I'd leave off dreaming.

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Thin line between the
dead and the living

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dead no longer there.

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Fanfare remanding
the day, dawn's burst

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anticlimactic one
or two hours in.

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So as to return, we stowed
a part of ourselves away.

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Felt we fell, found
it sleep we fell into.

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A low moan altered endlessly
braced us, broke our sleep.

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Nazakat and Salamat were there.

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I put a part of myself aside,
sought light, loosely, shone

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like a halo, hupped, marched
up Unreal Street unstrung,

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strode across Atet street.

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Remembered Glenn, remembering
Frank, remembering John,

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heard voices, Nazakat
and Salamat again.

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Stra strut it was, we called
it, crawled unbeknown to us.

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Having long bid ourselves
goodbye, we begged off leaving.

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Better said or sung than
done it seemed we reasoned.

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Leaflike the trembling
skin we strode inside.

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Torn cloth, we the
would-be thread lay in wait

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with whatsay, more than could
be seen we saw, said we saw,

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more than could be said we saw.

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One made-up step made
it seem like dancing,

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anomie's make-believe
ball, scratch of sand

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and of intimate stubble,
whatever of late went

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for love on Lone Coast.

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It was an island we were on,
anabatic sand we strode across,

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come to where, if at
all, we'd live again.

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So that B'Head called
hard rock pillow, pillow

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book the scribbling we saw.

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We lay on our backs,
rocks cradling

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the backs of our heads,
lay looking up at the sky.

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Starlight hit us with headshine.

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"Sky, be the writing we saw," we
begged incessantly, breathless,

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all but out loud.

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We lay on our backs, arms out
at our sides, putative wings,

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hands palms up, catching light.

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It was Arrival we were in,
suddenly so with a capital A,

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all we'd always wanted it to
be, been told it would be.

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Falling from the sky, an
immaculate dust attending

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sleep.

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Statuesque, beautifully
unbent as we looked on,

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arched, insatiate bodies
in the shape of trees

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bent by wind on Lone Coast.

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Shook.

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We stood on stilts.

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Mountain wind put
parts in our hair.

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We heard singing, backed by
an armadillo-back mandolin.

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It was a tavern we were in.

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We were in Peru.

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Some sung-about vamp grinding
corn on a Cusco jukebox,

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some vamp-till-ready
we sat suspended in.

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Lumbering harps had their way
with the backs of our heads.

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We held on, wincing.

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Sat with eyes averted, scattered
ashes coated our throats.

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Cough seemed all we could
do, we could hardly speak,

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not so much Peru now
as Paris it seemed.

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A train what it was
we were on, wherever

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it was, a train whatever
it was we were on.

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In the city's insides
albeit we were in Egypt,

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high-breasted Sekhmet
statuesque at the metro stop.

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Beautifully bent all
ears to inside an inch

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of hearing, said nothing,
muse meant lost in thought.

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As we were, who were
otherwise also made of stone,

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Sekhmet's Memphite rock.

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Premature rebirth,
fake book of the dead,

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burned or embalmed
cosmic body by default,

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screen outside a screen inside
a screen, dreamt immunity.

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Said goodbye,
having hardly begun,

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saying with the
catch in our throats,

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cough caught in our throats.

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Saying to have been done with
singing, song not enough.

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