b e   a t   t r a n q u i l i t y   h o u s e
w h e n   t h e   t i m e ’ s    r i g h t
a n d   D o   I t   N O W

b y    R o b e r t   B o h m

We have to bring back
the concept, be-

at-
itude. As in beat. As in
nicking

(according to a certain rhythm)

little holes in things, tiny
tunnels of focus through which we
maneuver
into zones of the most

intense lucidity. Soon
neither relaxed nor
obsessed make sense, only

seeing does, only
being so in tune with beauty’s ruthless
hereness does, and so

(knowing how only outside of poetry does
poetry exist)

we glimpse through
an open window on a July night
on 113th St. what we always knew

was there, Emily and Malcolm
lindy-bopping to
a song called “I Felt

a Funeral in My Brain” and then
the lights go out and only

the unexpected, so
miraculous yet commonplace, is left

as is
the beat, this’s pounding and

-- listen to those tablas! --

a whole lot
of other
thumping, too

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