Title: Traffic III / Traffic I Artist: Fred Frith & Ensemble Modern 8 plays

song: traffic iii / traffic i
artist: fred firth & ensemble modern
album: traffic continues

2 days ago on 10/18/14 at 09:42am

no kingdom by carl phillips

So little wakes you — why
should a little rain,
or my leaving 

to stand under it
and naked
because I can, 


all neighbors down,
at last down,
for the dreaming, and 


every wasp — daily, the yard’s
plague—gone,
returned to 


whatever shingle or board
roofs their now
thrumless heliport. 


Tremblefoot,
mumbler,
you’ve left 


your glass on the porch-railing
—neglect, as
what is fragile, seen 


through,
but not at this hour empty:
the way disease does 


the body, the way desire
can, or how God
is said to, 


slowly rain fills the glass.
Never mind
that no kingdom was ever won 


by small gestures:
I’m tipping the rainwater out.
The glass I’ll put 


here, where you’ll find it.

carl phillips
from the devotions
1998

As a scar commemorates what happened, so is memory but itself a scar.

carl phillips
the need for dreaming | the kenyon review
2010

dondregreen:

bowery

Title: Art Artist: We'll Make It Right 32 plays

song: art
artist: we’ll make it right
album: house

5 days ago on 10/15/14 at 07:22pm

steeple by carl phillips

Maybe love really does mean the submission of power
I don’t know. Like pears on a branch, a shaking branch, 
in sunlight, 4 o’clock sunlight, all the ways we do harm, 
or refrain from it, when nothing says we have to…. Shining, 
everyone shining like that, as if reality itself depended 
on a nakedness as naked as naked gets; on a faith in each 
other as mistaken as mistaken tends to be, though I have 
loved the mistake of itstill do; even nowas I love
the sluggishness with which, like ceremony or, not much 
different, any man who, having seen himself at last, 
turns at first awayhas tothe folded black and copper 
wings of history begin their deep unfolding, the bird itself, 
shuddering, lifts up into the half-wind that comes after
highersoon desire will resemble most that smaller thing, 
late affection, then the memory of it; and then nothing at all.

carl phillips 
2013
new republic vol. 244 issue 8, p. 49