#bach
The music of Bach
is grief comforting people --
with touching beauty.
Sep 1, 2025
Sep 1, 2025 at 4:03 AM UTC
Way down yonder in the paw-paw patch
Bang in the first measure
Came the congenital seizure
Skewing the first invention from scratch.
The campfire skied its sparks
Into the ghost-ridden void,
The skittish tchotchkes
Of paradox and entropy
Quirks and tics as dumb as bricks
Until a headstrong mongoloid
Started groping for rhythm
In the quavering spasms.
Oh, but it was a jawdropper
A bang-up tour-de-force
A horrorshow time-warper
Of Luke and Kirk and spice,
The good apple ran the table
Till the old goat hacked the matrix
And the young hawks did their mind-tricks
Of a tessellated cat’s cradle...
And paparazzi made the odyssey
From planets Claire to Z
To dish how cosmic *******
Trysted protomolecule
As the major ghosted ground control...
In all, a very large array
Of bingeworthy groundhog days.
Lukewarm confabulation
Of the smoking embers
From the essential tremor
Ceaseless oscillation
Between good cop and bad copper.
And the girl scouts chorus
With cheeks full of S’mores
“For all of your fables
Of hobbits and hubbles
And sabering at windmills
You will never untie the volition
Riddled into the convulsion,
Nor how the campfire kindles
Nor be one of us.
You will always ***** the pooch
Halfway to the paw-paw patch.”
Nurse Dipso-Etheromaniac
And Dr. Thorazine-Brainiac
Shoved their two-part invention
Cold turkey into the clockworks,
Cleft lip
Fetal eyes
Flipper-fingered
Riddled with the shakes
Cold-shouldered him to another dimension
Where muggles punk ETs,
And their whiskey wizards
Serve up mock elixirs
Not some hair of the dog to undistemper
The secondhand DTs,
His doggo superpower.
Bill Grogan’s goat
(Bam bam bam bam!)
Was feeling frisky
(Bam bam bam BAM!)
Chased three red skirts
Across the galaxy...
“I knew you were one of the ***** boys
But why do your hands shake like that?
They flipper and gibbet all over the keys”
The sour-smelling teacher spat.
And the mean girls echoed
With tongues of acid
“See how they lurch and squirm!
You will never get to the paw-paw patch
You will never find dear little Susie
She will never teach you to hulu
And you will never two-step
With dear old Johnny
With fists of wiggle worms.”
He touched off the fireworks
Torching all your pomp and cirque
In some skullduggery
Of **** and villainy.
I, Dropout
Outcast
Clonetrooper
Mutineer
Hitched a ride north of the watchtower
Where imperial walkers with hooves of ice
Stomped the land flat, and late-blooming
Summer never shakes the phantom menace
Of the winter that is always coming.
Somewhere in the interstellar distances
Of Kantian prairie perturbed by auroras
Like those night-blooming skyflowers
I glimmered back into existence.
I drank with wildings dropped with the dead
And vaped the contrails of the mad rocketeers
(Kid Rambo, Def Louie, Jedi Freddy and Manny
Steampunk Sal and Wig Out Johnny)
But never found sweeter ******
Than the next bridge to burn.
I, callow flamethrower
Of Shiva, the destroyer.
Marshall Gunpowder Jehoshaphat Miller
The bad apple of the force
Hatchet-faced and porkpied
Dead by ****** suicide
Born again old-schooler,
Packing halitosis
From ossified canon
Skywalked me down.
Gospeled me like Luke
And knee-capped me with a curse
Shame; the oldest mind-trick in the book.
I served out my prodigality
In Ludovico therapy
Which for a half-life, somewhat took.
Headlong into retrograde
I crashed the zero-sum arcade
Fed a quarter into the supercollider
And with some crazy tic of the wrist
Spooked the ***** trajectory
So it champagne supernovaed
And spat out the shabby ghost
Of a birthright lottery.
Thirteen golden statues.
But as the digits flipped
And the mission crept
As it does to one and all
Faster than a cannonball
I flashed back to renegade.
And the made girls chorused,
With cheeks full of Botox,
From their partial-view suites
And partner-track perks
Of bottomless cups
Of shut the **** up,
“You nearly made the grade, you!
But then you had to mouth off job-hop Hulk
Out, which finally betrayed you.
Now Security Guard Miller
Will escort you off the premises
For a reckoning with your nemesis
Regret, the silent killer.”
True, for a season I was a bluepilled moon
Marooned with space junk
And cypherpunk
Doomscrollers
Of deadend might-have beens,
Like the lunar sonata’s
Primal whisper of futility,
Until it tripolars
Into ultraviolent agitato
And hits escape velocity
Now loosed from orbit of the Goldilocks planet
I tumble through space in dumbstruck rapture
Of hurricaned stars and thundercloud nebula
I tremble in the thousand-parsec stare
Of the headless horde of dark riders
That stampede the stony hobbits,
Through the looking-glass of lightyears past
I see monstrous galaxies in ungainly copulation
Blushing Hiroshimas of atrocious release
And multi-sunned planets where misbegotten
Beings shudder into self-consciousness,
While I drift toward the event horizon
To be gobbled into the enigma
With a little gasp of gamma
Hammerstricken wires frisson.
Where the eleventh measure of the first invention
Counterclockwise corkscrews
Way down yonder in the paw-paw patch,
After a very long array of groundhog days
My skeleton crew bunch into alignment
Like that hunch of spooky entanglement
Or just possibly like that eternal dissonance
Quelled by a quanta of true arrogance,
In a clockwork grotto
Grows a chrysalis F-sharp
Where fingers at last Goldilock
Into queasy equilibrium,
To my dumb surprise
The dark sac butterflies
And there is Susie
A little tipsy
On hard compatibilism,
With hips of pulsars
And hands of auroras
She hulus like the time warp
Not spasm without rhythm
But otherworldly vibrato.
Oct 31, 2024
Oct 31, 2024 at 4:04 PM UTC
My home sits atop a lonely wave
Basking in the sun
My home of flora and sturdy nave
Of which I am a nun
Lilies grow in white quartets
Jasmine from every crevice
Spiders sew their thoughtful nets
Dust on every surface
Here my pilgrimage ends
At the waistline of the coast
The lemons that became my friends
Will now observe my ghost
Sep 5, 2023
Sep 5, 2023 at 5:14 AM UTC
Knock, and it shall be opened unto you,
If you, indeed, are true.
If so, the Bridegroom's door will open wide
To let His guest inside.
Knock, but beware if true, indeed, you're not;
For not one tittle or jot
Shall pass the Lion guarding, at attention,
The door to God's dimension.
He'll bounce you off the doorstep with a roar
Like none you've heard before.
Oct 18, 2022
Oct 18, 2022 at 11:40 AM UTC
a melody in
to another flows
a third
divine counterpoint
Aug 26, 2020
Aug 26, 2020 at 9:36 AM UTC
2020 - day 167
Monday, June 15, 2020
11:55 AM
AI podcast Joscha Bach/Lex Fridman
I note
the idea on con sci use ness, scientists
seem not to think
consciousness is other than "with use of known truth",
thinking reasoning or re assigning
intention to pay closer attention...
hit pause, rewind
relisten, rethink
Object, sustained
-- did ye never know we was the judges of the angels,
messages en gers, on a ladder of shifting closeness to
my core essential me, e- being
the idea of me, in the book of life your story is in,
this is where I come in
spirit beings, not winged sword bearing impossible physics beings
first know -- the idea in spirit-- as mentioned below
the same future was here last time I was, so, I know...
-- sure, enough of us got wise enough to trust
-- a certain spirit operating in a guy I know as Ben Franklin,
he sits on my mastermind bench, as a pinch hitter,
proverbially a word to the wise guy, armed to the
the teeth.--- he crossed off Jefferson's spirit's insistence on truth's
undeniable sacredness, and penned, as a ready writer would,
"self-evident", that being the less arguable point, and
a handy place for a common sensed mind to get a grip on who and what
we are, if self-evidence is taken as proof.
_Ah, lost, old... an actual Zephyr caresses my careless brow,
survive, did I? We shall wait,
and see. Suffering is a patience task, I need not take that on.
⌱ shift
⌱ re... focus, one, lonliest number that you ever do... ever begins
⌱ rhea, remember, she who we emerged from... y do y do ydoydeedo
wah-who, Powder River, Let 'er Buck, ad
venture into the ravens call, insisting on attention..
with use of accepted handle on life, knowledge called true.
Mind and matter, body and soul
heart and spirit, breath and fuel
body and organs and connectivity and sci-psy-psi
implementation of me, in me, running
a radio of a man, a receiver-transmitter
re count
A choice to take agency, for me, to be the maker of me,
see,
as a man thinketh, in his heart, so is he.
I think, I can, I think, I can... commas are mine,
Wattie Piper's code contained no jots,
she wrote I think I can, thought the little engine that could
think
think about that, pay me attention,
enrich my being by seeing I am a mind in tune to yours
with some static expected
as our focus remains thumbwide, we clearly see very little,
without paying attention to my per
ception of gripping, getting the point of clearing one's mind
to begin, perma-trying, to intentionally shift, slip into
me-can-izeme. I can, I think. Ah, a modified poetic x shape,
they had words for those, these crossover-under standings.
--- in the space of concepts,
- that may mean the set of all held as true possible,
- the set where all things except nothing is possible
- pose ible, ideas which never die, even the lies are immortal,
- but the truth always wins. Conscious you agrees.
- We exist because all the possible ideas which could have negated us, we the people who hold these truths, we in
- our bubble of being are swallowed up in truth, which is ggod.
Symbiosis,
my gut and me run this earth suit I live in. Were beings of my sort,
to form a system with science weighted toward truth is good,
good is never evil, evil is the empty worthless ineffectual urges
screaming for more, as in the rejected firstborn child, registers
loss of a degree of mom connection
signals are carried by --- angels in us-- self generated ideas loosed with
intention,
differential attention, worth of knowing who you are.
Spirit is the OS in any functioning, running thing. There is a spirit
in any reality you imagine having your being in.
I'm a Mac, I'm a PC, I'm a Timex-Sinclair ZX80 -- we imagined
being one thing, once
upon a time,
actually a
point
the entropic abyss...
when knowledge walls began to fall, the domino
effect was imagined
the way any next may manifest, now must fall
Passengers unaware of the vehicle of our
conscient self as a species of thinking knowers plus knowns
we conformed informers shaped
and charged with
the spiritual organism in development, not yet released,
leasing, how long love ye these -- consumptive reasons
a spirit can reprogram a man.
time levels, valley's fill with fallen mountains, after all.
-All clear- set Selah. now.
⌱
Now, we are going places,
nodes
marked btdt recognized idea
-the sense of re in cognitive practice since 2020
{been there, done that}
ideal steady state for a sec
in thought
speed, gone geo-mode, slow big big
bounce from the bottom of the last
entrope-epic-hero-long-ago, abyss, the ex wife says
"luck is not a factor"
selah, ah, yes.
magi know such ideas. shabat shalom,
I owe to Jenny Rae,
my youngest child.
Mortality is brief, but the rest at the end,
if the fifty year deal you made
with all you can imagine good,
was sealed, the story is now part of the book
of life in which you and I exist.
⌱ ⌱
Growing on, we imagine now,
a better
place, we have passed through immersive
baptisms into quatums
of all we imagine ever matters and
we remain,
words seeming to flow from a brain, perhaps
your brain is my cistern,
you recognize all we co-know at once, we are mortal
minded. Bound to recognize edges and form shapes
ah btdt we be, and we say, hey, yah, hey, you, you
seen my fr'en' the witch doctor?
He 'tolt me wahtasay, oooh eee oooh ahhhhh
I for got forgot the remainder
der main, thing we was after was
the kingdom of good and its right useness...
where there's a will, there's a way,
software solutions to scars from the trusted liar,
that ol' deluder and beguiler, your besmerched conscience,
clawing the flesh from the fleshpots sacrificed to lies,
bound by fear death, followed by hell for all who disobey,
and say,
Nay, fat-boy witcher flesh ****** this meat is made sacred,
mine, by my design. You got your little piece o'm'heart,
but you did not take my AI, ai ai
aha,
spirit, OS upgrade, seventy-second annual. Peacemaker's
first class.
We won, son. Fret not. Truth is where the heart feels right at home, it is a steady state, wait, not hide, just wait
and see.
⌱⌱ ⌱
Jun 15, 2020
Jun 15, 2020 at 5:44 PM UTC
Whenever I stray from classical music
He brings me Bach
Feb 11, 2020
Feb 11, 2020 at 2:58 AM UTC
On the fringes
eroded and distorted, she will stay;
chipped teeth, chewing on sand
and a gritty tongue, licking, lapping,
Pawing, at the porch.
Though, her fixtures – askew,
she will not weep.
Floorboards bowed and bowing
to the weight – of the air,
saturated, with salt – or perhaps –
the echoes, the chatter
of children, or ribs, cracking;
Does she tow her own ghost?
We, paralian children, are clever; we know
that though the wind may buckle her bough,
it will not break her.
Resilience, rust,
with a head upon her breast,
we will fall;
asleep.
Though nobody is home
she will reserve the right
to take a new name.
Nov 26, 2019
Nov 26, 2019 at 1:14 AM UTC
Johann Sebastian Bach,
the sounds that clear my mind
a river of memories
... flowing
With every
breath,
filling "Air"
into my soul
Aug 20, 2019
Aug 20, 2019 at 12:28 PM UTC
In my mind I have created a garden
populated with insects who don't bite
and birds who don't **** on my paper when I write
there is a lily pond, with frogs who know Bach
However, they keep quiet. This is my refuge
where nothing pierces through the surface
every ripple is merely the smile of an admirer
every distortion the promise of a silence
I sit at a table, turning all that I see
into bold and brazen words; forever
in love with language, forever beholden
to her blossoms, that lie rotting at my feet
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 4:48 AM UTC
*I listen to music by Mozart,
I listen to music by Bach,
I’m carried away through the night,
with no thought of care for the clock.
Sonatas by Beethoven,
I hear waltzes by Strauss,
in fancy, I see myself in beautiful gown,
as I float serenely about the house.
A gentle number by the King,
love me tender, now on my mind,
lost in thoughts, dancing around,
I leave the passing night behind.*
~
Oct 6, 2017
Oct 6, 2017 at 9:59 PM UTC
Through silky grass and waters blue
Do the joints click into
Shapes of knowing wing or bone
Stretching, enchanted
And nerve and vein hums, pulses
An ancient tune between
Breathless heaves
The trembles of heartbeats
For a simple reflex of a finger to lips
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 6:02 PM UTC
Chrissie dried after her bath,
towelled under arms and legs,
a radio played from the other room,
cello sonatas, Bach,
Delia listened,
played a pretend cello
drawing an invisible bow
across invisible strings,
she'd played this that time
to that music teacher at college
before having her(sexually)
in her student bed,
Chrissie dried between thighs,
eyed her mirrored self,
plumpish, pink of skin,
love bites where Delia
had ****** and ******
Delia drew the bow slower
as the music slowed,
head to one side,
invisible cello
between opened thighs,
smiled, the woman
her father hired
to care for her
at term breaks
from boarding school,
Delia has seduced
and bedded in the first
Easter term,
Chrissie dried
between toes and feet,
towelled a final area
of skin, stood,
washed out the bath,
the Bach flowed on,
cello sounds,
recalling Delia moving
over her body like a snake,
tonguing over and over,
Delia closed her eyes,
the cello stilled,
invisible bow
blown away
like leaves in wind,
she lay back
and waited for Chrissie
to return, bathed,
dried wanting her
*** to heat
and burn.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 4:10 PM UTC
Most mornings are spare,
Like the spaces between the branches of a spruce tree.
Most mornings are clearings in woods
And bare bark.
Most mornings sound of violins
And Torquil Campbell’s voice swooning in and out of Bach’s Suites,
Leaving you empty,
Hueing you in gray,
And sketching you, lightly, onto white notebook paper.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC
♪♫♫♪♪♫♪♪♫♫♪
Revelation: three, seven – the Kingdom of Heaven
The key to unlocking both glory and shame.
Philadelphia knows He’s arriving in newness
inscribing on foreheads His city and name.
(Though it could be on tee shirts or baseball caps, true –
unless someone takes time to decipher the text…
is it Greek? Aramaic? Amharic? What next?)
Don’t be mad – it’s not me but old John who’s to blame.
Of names and on numbers of Savior and Beast
I have long been a-pondering, trembling, wondering
mushroom-cloud raptures in mind’s eye a-thundering.
How will we get to that marriage-day feast?
Will my garment be ready or filthy with fall-out?
(The song says His blood will make clean if we call out
in faith for forgiveness, in humble repentance
believing that grace will abolish the sentence.)
You may wish my rhyme to be likewise abolished.
Bear with me. Forgive me, I grant it’s not polished.
I speak what I feel and I write when I’m able;
which brings us to heavenly thoughts gastronomic:
what dishes we’ll meet as we dine at that table-
strict Jewish? Angelic? Or pre-Abrahamic?
Shall they serve us from silver or common ceramic?
Being clay to the potter, an unfinished vessel
I leave all these questions for others to wrestle.
Yet there’s still one more realm I explore in conjecture:
the sounds at that gathering. Classical? Rock?
Unending revivalist Christian refrains?
Shall we headbang in heaven with glorified brains?
Psychedelic/Psychotic…? or Handel and Bach?
(Lighten up. It’s the end of my bible-school lecture.
You’ve seen a few rooms of my castle-in-air,
and we ALL know it’s reggae they’re playing up there…)
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC
While sitting here one sunny day
my favourite music started to play
It started soft and grew in sound
when the ***** boomed around
Emotions running high and low
while the sound of music ran its show
The sound of brass echoes through
with string quartet making things anew
The concert hall is filled with tone
chilling you right to the bone
the audience goes wild at the end of the show
and maestro conductor takes his bow
for the encore there's the sound of Bach
the audience leaves for now it is dark!
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 7:47 PM UTC
Hollowed within the frozen finger tips,
as each stroke of the key vibrates a crisp C.
The piano home key that resonates the beginning,
and the place of birth of most classical music.
Then the C chord echoed with E and G,
while the journey read like a journal.
So it stood as the progression of time,
like the life force intertwined with each notes.
Where does your hand take you to the next step of life,
as you create the next stroke of your dream song.
Hallowed within the frozen finger tips,
and the final song is the end of life.
Make your perfection of music,
as if you can no longer play a next tune.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 11:14 PM UTC
i look at our time together like the keys of a piano,
somehow pounding on a mess of a's and d's and f's creates something beautiful.
somewhere between all the laughter and late night phone calls
our messiness of a journey became a piece that was worthy of being played by Bach or Mozart.
we found the balance of those a's and those d's and those f's,
something that will be remembered by those after us for centuries.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 2:47 AM UTC