sisyphus & music

hiddenreceivedThe back of Dylan's Desire had a canto w/ Rimbaud mentioned, makes me think of Springsteen's "...strap your hands across my engine": our momentum surveilling the inner-city. Rimbaud was a nationalist of sort, infallible because of the illusiveness of it. The mystery of the enemy makes him a nationalist... only in regard of his meeting him & representational of France in north Africa, where then as before he crosses to the other side, their side, if only in his mind. The attention I gave to the music I listen to, like last night's Rasta Revolution leaving off inquiry & wanting like my offering yeahs here or there, because I tune into a possibility of a message here or there. (Like less inquiry than pop on the radio I can't hear anyways.) Confusion like corrugated shadows is as old as barbs on the fencing, say down by the water tower where we'd cross a profusion of upturned sod furrowed by Mr. Ogden, whom I never met on Parkers Mill rd.-- a puzzle no doubt in the offing. A puzzle with no match skyward. What about this fence between me & my confusion? The world I know is clarity--the void of materiality offset maybe by the insanity of the Egyptian we saw on the road to the train station (in Luxor) by a fly-ridden halal? butcher shop. His frenzied banging of a tambourine upon his head and muttering looked alighted to the mosque doors let out to that street. Just his giving voice & weird credence to the pity born of ritual/religion--his music, like mine as if it is being pecked away by the hope we'd at least have something to say. This probably goes to the head of Sisyphus, going toward the valley. This is where Sisyphus begins: the entering into confidence.