Sous Rature

Adam Fieled

Zero to One: A Probability Field


.0               Potted ferns             Brooklyn sunset        you in it            open window         
you sit before               combing your hair           thinking of me             that I’m here
Philadelphia             dull streets         dull city      I’m “sand grained”          thinking
what if      my “sunned” orbit moved            to Brooklyn            tenderness
me the shell            protecting you              as we circle Manhattan        with guitars
and songs          consecrate to love and beauty               singing at the speed of light
loving at the speed of sound                 shaded by energy packets           concrete
plastic          gin and tonic          kind bud            and our own hardy souls

   .1       cell-phone rings        you answer              your voice has a catch in it      
from crying               you’re easily moved                perhaps I’ll move you again
and I do              resonant tones        that happen when you’re “seeing”           and it’s blue
a movement          (energy transmission               in space       in a vacuum)
is initiated          Brooklyn and Philly           move closer on our maps            interior
terrain               electron waves             reinforce a centered connection              you and I
moving easily               around a core we share                  called emotion

.2         I lie awake                    feel you with me          “arduousness of appearance”
crossing physical boundaries                      microscopic & making a difference
something has happened between us                       no impalpable “thing-in-itself”        
beside your voice                   playing on this CD                        you sent me
you cry out                      and the cry comes from inside me            somehow       as if
we had become one being                  already                somehow space is no
vacuum           the night is close and holy                what’s dark is light    
and vice versa                       but I can’t sleep                and my nerves hum

 .3    Bonding between artists             is like bonding between atoms             energy shells
open when the Muse lays down                          the law of gravity       and I am
and you are           swayed in its’ lull               down together            so I open yr e-mail
“nothing like the sun”,              it contains poetry                  and an invitation
my arms are “rag and boned”            they should be full         quanta
specific energy surges                 predictably unsettle           when I want peace
the only peace                 I have                 is in my imagination          of candles
lit on dressers          and we’re there          the neutral bed growing partial

   .4   Unlike electrons             observed only in groups           we know singularity
thus, becoming open           receptive            as the Book of Changes advises         is tough
I can’t see through yr eyes                    though I’ve tried many times       & been wrong
yet this is why I come back to you               some primordial mystery you encapsulate
in photons you emit              also in a simple smile           that’s still complex
particularity               Polynesian eyes & mouth                tough delicacy      cheekbones
yr songs are love-songs              “in just-Spring”              w/ death in them
you’re a complete package               I haven’t totally opened        I’m getting there

.5      We make plans                 (poor people have plans too!)            noble poverty
the Chinatown bus                 only $20, Philly to NY               I at least have that much
you’ll meet me in the Village                    any bar you choose             we’ll drink
I’ve vowed to make each moment precious           “let us live only for loving”
even if we face                  energy transmission in a vacuum            even if we lose
some sense of continuity                     when the rush is on and in       for the prize
subway kisses               New York creates whoever’s there          out of its’ own
ineffable material              the thing is to notice the creation         and own it

.6     “Hard & moist & moaning”                 beyond distances            struggling to place
divergent strains            undertones                cadences               a dying fall on Avenue A
laughter in Tompkins Square               is this what we hoped for                maybe
at least I’m with you              to whatever degree New York allows       harsh mistress
depositing trash           internal and external           at each doorstep          but we
must move through         keep our “assets” uncluttered           hanging together
like a threaded afghan                blue shades            red eyes          nights fast & slow
and here in your arms       I feel upwardly mobile      “trade in kisses” is valid at last

.7       Who could’ve guessed              that this would be             our expressive arc?
frankly I have no objection               any kind of touch heals             a seared strip
such charity in your tongue          you make me believe body & soul do interconnect
on some meta level              far beyond the reach           of the abraded Brooklyn streets
which cough up their own phlegm                 in steel squeaks & clanks outside
inside only this               you have made my center      a nucleus        you dance around
what talent              I can never repay you             for this interlude          except
to whisper sweet things that aren’t nothing              “endowed with Love’s refinement”

.8     Watching you sleep        I feel close….        to what I don’t know             earth, stars
sun, moon              God, rose             (God may well indeed be a rose      of some sort)
not that their aren’t distances            yet to be crossed        or that we’ll cross them all
by morning           but I’ve learned that in this world       any progress is a miracle
any step forward into “not-death” must be treasured          inscribed in whatever book
happens to be at hand            so I sit at the window & scribble             these words
not ready for the day             or anything but more kisses           the kiss of sleep
love, life, light          immortality            wells of secret joy        Brooklyn-as-Elysium

.9       You’ve got to work                  banal quotidian disaster                I wake up alone
buy coffee at a deli      hop the train back into New York         something inside me
has grown older         and wiser          merely through being your lover       I feel
an interior beard         grown over my soul’s face             nothing boyish has lasted
I can’t say          you’ve made a man of me          but what we made was as full
as any ripe orchard           I think of orchards           passing through Washington Square
old Henry James novels               Frank O’Hara’s mind            caught
in the branches          of intellection and devilry      I’m deliriously           complete as he

  1     This is what it means to be intimate              the solidity of the intangible       settles
on my kitchen table                 wherever else I sit & ruminate        touch things that
remind me          of your body         what’s done is done          and what’s done is good
memories our only permanent possession           of course I’ll see you again
but this untarnished something            can only have happened once     in this way
at such an angle        that my guts are encompassed           in a circular swirl
of colors and smells and your skin            sentiment acceptable for once      unforced
love is love is love        darling           sweet baby            honey child       yes
“at the setting of our own brief light                we never waken”    



~ ~ ~



I often remembered kindergarten: we would nap on the second floor of a two-story schoolhouse, and every day I would be unable to sleep, hoping to fall through the floor and land on ground level. On the last day of kindergarten I thought to myself, this is the last chance, if I don’t fall through today I never will. I didn’t, and it was my first experience of imagination being disappointed by concrete reality. Now, with words and music, I saw that I could build an imaginative world in which I could always fall through the floor. It would be a place of light and laughter and play and others would be invited in. I was aware of a new hunger for which this world was the only appeasement, and the world of sports and grades and television that surrounded me was but a dim reflection of it. My guitar and my books had grandeur that cast a shadow over everything and everyone that was ordinary or broken.




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