Between The Rain Scarlotti, His Stabat Mater, And John Coltrane, His Birthday 9/23/23 Poem by Warren Falcon

Between the rain Scarlotti Stabat Mater and Coltrane, two wildly different stratospheres, I veer once again to the espresso pot, cast lots for what remains of sacred dregs, boil an egg, talk to the closed curtains voting for outer darkness which agrees with me believing with my ears, in harmony, in Coltrane's primacy of breath and brass, here's a brash Shabbas too-full-in prayer,

pigeon and dove wars going on other side of curtain, their flutings shakuhachi-like pipe in random chorus tandem w my aged but still high fidelics.

Good start to the weekend, a titch of lonely but not really since 'I have been faithful to thee, O Cynara [Ernest Dowson].'

I have re-sewn the decades old wine-dark satin housecoat redeemed from thrift near a sacred mountain known only to itself (and to me - shhh) that it is sacred. There's still some sheen to the old satin. Not sheen. What's the word? Yeah, rather, 'patina' with pinot noir notes, old, brownish, bones brailing clay, what remains pliable, at least nerve tendrils, remembering to be gay.

Second cup. I gloat.

Scarlatti turns to Pergolesi, more violins than the first Stabat of the afternoon. Radio, remember that? D.J. plays quilts of Trane. Volume up, Volume Down. See Saw. Lean in to hear. Lean back to mercy ears'whelmed, Coltrane's fingers ever the the helm. Sense whence such, his furrowed look, having laid down all scores but one (but he'll never tell yet we listen still, such notes as hints about John hints about) .

But I'm now out of heavy cream for ever blacker brew, but no dearth of sound.

A peek of Autumn color, 'so much depends on, ' even or especially, W. C. Williams's spokes and strokes, the window 'slicked' tho dinged, lone ginkgo golden tresses in honor of the Holy Child from Hamlet, NC regal displays below the grayed out pigeons, the consistent doves' dulcets, holy too, in retreat to ledge and iron across the street, other windows.

**

What the window does, rain, the street and the district houses, my humble camera greatly battered, years old, flatters, is 'Ash Can' meets some bereted French 19th Century art 'school' or painter tobacco stained, slow poison in the tints back then used (O Vincent) , one wonders if they, all or most, were in altered states from toxic chemicals in the tubes ginning veins, organs, brains, so they, artistes, literally painted what they were seeing from within, all that literal alchemical combustion of optics, nerves, lungs pulling heavy for air, another draw from the pipe or fag.

Bless them each, leaving their scrim for us to gaze. Our eyes are the better for them.

Enough. Fin.

Words of an old teacher come to mind, a kind man, a bit severe, spare, clear as all raw day, he reminds then, and now, each and every,

Don't try so hard.