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How to Get There

by Gary Prince Andrew Klein

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1.
you wake up and walk three thousand days and sleeps a thousand plays of Euripides, Kresphontes and his mother hand in hand a thousand times till I wake up and make up coffee and a cigarette and take a walk up Catherine to State and over some, just like that. I could fall back asleep think Shakespeare, smell peonies or Japanese maples, but still wake up and walk up Catherine Street to State Street and over some. Wake up and make up weaker coffee and a stronger cigarette, make a few phone calls or write a letter to Paris because that’s where some people are. Instead I walk over to a plaza to sit: the spinning cube in the middle, black and almost abstract— it’s five points are like fingers one straight to the sky. Someone with a good camera is circumnavigating slowly and smiling. “We’re so juvenile” someone else yells. It’s fun to turn that cube— I’ve done it before but not with someone pushing me along yet faster—look at them go. He’s hanging on and spinning as she pushes, his legs swimming and he can hardly hold on he’s laughing so hard. she’s in heels, she wants to try, and now she’s hanging on, laughing.
2.
Free Improv
3.
"How to Get There" - Frank O'Hara, 1960, New York City White the October air, no snow, easy to breathe beneath the sky, lies, lies everywhere writhing and gasping clutching and tangling, it is not easy to breathe lies building their tendrils into dim figures who disappear down corridors in west-side apartments into childhood’s proof of being wanted, not abandoned, kidnapped betrayal staving off loneliness, I see the fog lunge in and hide it where are you? here I am on the sidewalk under the moonlike lamplight thinking how precious moss is so unique and greenly crushable if you can find it on the north side of the tree where the fog binds you and then, tearing apart into soft white lies, spreads its disease through the primal night of an everlasting winter which nevertheless has heat in tubes, west-side and east-side and its intricate individual pathways of white accompanied by the ringing of telephone bells beside which someone sits in silence denying their own number, never given out! nameless like the sound of troika bells rushing past suffering in the first storm, it is snowing now, it is already too late the snow will go away, but nobody will be there police cordons for lying political dignitaries ringing too the world becomes a jangle from the index finger to the vast empty houses filled with people, their echoes of lies and the tendrils of fog trailing softly around their throats now the phone can be answered, nobody calling, only an echo all can confess to be home and waiting, all is the same and we drift into the clear sky enthralled by our disappointment never to be alone again never to be loved sailing through space: didn’t I have you once for my self? West Side? for a couple of hours, but I am not that person [copyright Frank O’Hara, 1960]
4.
related I am awakened, thusly undone, and the day alit by all the words written. An orange leather glove: possibility alights in my chest. I am a naked tablecloth or the unborn man in my head. That guy is dreaming choreography— dreaming up a dance troupe in fine tweeds no steps yet no steps just fine tweeds and all the undanced steps. A world cracked, cracked well above beyond just in this sky today. And out come all possible outcomes converging in that glimpse of a glove orange like Buddhism or a parking cone.
5.
I don’t know why I’m doing this. and poetry almost certainly won’t help or some guy telling me his interpretation of “write what you know” since knowing is as easy as opening a book realizing nothing is known it just is—like a chest cavity is a vessel of neuron byproduct, the scrapings of fired thoughts that amount to the same (unknown) thing every damn time until one hour they don’t and I’ll you’ll he’ll never know why and caring about such things is distracting vanity vanity until—look the same old bones and maybe the marrow is the soul or yoga is something important that people do or they do something else and write about it on the Internet like it’s new like they can make it new because no one alive is them and no one is as sad or as anything as them since we can’t know what we don’t know only guess at it, infer via negation like antimatter—the physicists have it right and maybe so do the people who think the Large Hadron Collider will never work because crack demolition teams from the future are making sure we don’t swallow ourselves whole with a glimpse a real glimpse of the known unknowns that keep us intact every day, within my chest and the dusted heavens.
6.
you wake up and walk three thousand days and sleeps a thousand plays of Euripides, Kresphontes and his mother hand in hand a thousand times till I wake up and make up coffee and a cigarette and take a walk up Catherine to State and over some, just like that. I could fall back asleep think Shakespeare, smell peonies or Japanese maples, but still wake up and walk up Catherine Street to State Street and over some. Wake up and make up weaker coffee and a stronger cigarette, make a few phone calls or write a letter to Paris because that’s where some people are. Instead I walk over to a plaza to sit: the spinning cube in the middle, black and almost abstract— it’s five points are like fingers one straight to the sky. Someone with a good camera is circumnavigating slowly and smiling. “We’re so juvenile” someone else yells. It’s fun to turn that cube— I’ve done it before but not with someone pushing me along yet faster—look at them go. He’s hanging on and spinning as she pushes, his legs swimming and he can hardly hold on he’s laughing so hard. she’s in heels, she wants to try, and now she’s hanging on, laughing.

about

All the words on this album are by Andrew Sargus Klein except #3 by Frank O'Hara. All the music is by Gary Prince. Everything here was recorded at home on a Zoom H4 recorder between March and August 2012 in either Baltimore, MD, or Washington, DC.

credits

released August 22, 2012

Andrew Sargus Klein - voice, poetry
Gary N Prince - guitar, loops, effects

additional music by Gary:
improvisedduets.bandcamp.com
gprincesologuitar.bandcamp.com
garynprince.com

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about

Gary Prince Andrew Klein Baltimore, Maryland

Andrew Klein is a poet, writer and editor based in Baltimore. Gary Prince is a guitar teacher and performer located in Washington, DC. They first met in 2004 as students at the University of Michigan. Gary and Andrew started this poetry-music collaborative project in the Spring of 2012, these recordings are its first fruit, and we hope you enjoy them, warts and all. ... more

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