In the beginning was rock, and vibrations of rock, and bedrock rumbling,
the big dog woofer grumbling, rolling big bass lumbering,
Yea verily, reverb careens from the valley of darkness and psalms of the heavy rain down,
consumed in cataclysms of holy rolling boom,
rattle the room,
can’t place yourself in space,
reformations on the face of the deep.
And the word was dub, on a black edge of sunshine,
the monster massive slowed an octave
the rootsman on a big beat earth. He came rattling in star-raked canyons,
quietly at first,
entire galaxies on flickering pins in the firmament,
deep in black immensity.
He met a parallel lover.
She didn’t matter; she was anti-matter.
He reached for her hand and space inverted with a pop.
Heavens hurtled out at terrible speed into something like nothing,
clutch onto something, in reverberations of flung orbits,
the enormity of the smallest secret, the force, the source,
the maker of nebulae where prophets flail and earthquakes die,
where angels and devils and soaring temples immortal erode in tricks of rain.
And it might all come back.
They say crucial mass is five atoms per meter;
anything less and it runs to ether;
anything more, the yo-yo sky. Is it a blowout,
or rubberband stars? Action, or reaction?
Creator, or creation?
Matter, or space?
Dark matter or light?
Warrior or the fight?
We pictured we at the center of things,
and we are,
the center of careening axes as it were.
In the beginning was no beginning,
a time riddle middle of eternitude,
shade of a garden unknown, and the universe was happy,
no way to know.
In the beginning there was no time until a big bang apple.
And hands began to turn,
deities and cosmic wreckage hurtled out,
rock began to grind and magma rise,
planets began to weather and spin,
and good and evil surfaced in hideous gorgons on billowing skies.
And wind spun itself into oceans, a desolate mother sea on gothic granite eons,
on gargoyle crags
weathered by thrown crystal plumes,
tatters and smithereens,
mountains dismantled one grain at a time,
the pure animal truth of annihilation,
dark without edges,
constellations painted on black,
and you hope sparkle won't toss a lit cigarette from the overpass.
Blessed are the poor in spirit.
Everyone got a come to Jesus moment,
and blues fill in black corners of space;
one note clipped, one full of flavor, that’s how it start,
and new constitutions shoot from a fret board.
He can wail that 4/4 setup. Sorry Tchaikovsky, Wagner;
you got genius in that cannon fire but we need the smoking volcano throb gospel,
the soul shimmy shake quake. Starts with nothing, bad luck, bad moon, the first note.
And blues begat bop, gone smoke rings, three beats past syncopation, no hesitation
levitation, prosody twisted in the crook of his bey-rey, and sax go berserk and stars screech,
gone to a better place,
infinity of swerve, wailed in the key of three feet off- the- floor.
Street noise drifted in; he paused in a split-second planetary epoch,
gathered himself in smoke, then all quiet rhythm and blow,
lost in orbital swirl.
His eyes were on the moon, vagabond moon,
and when your city is gone, you are the blues on a smoldering stoop,
picking a smoldering trance,
the last simmering summer, in all its rich, full-bodied smoke flavor,
the big beat pulse of it, and notes drift and hang.
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