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Fall 1990
The subtle flick of the hair
The wonder in the eyes
Might I dare
Stare
Happiness
Happiness
Is the key.
to what?
Death?
Opening (2 Versions)
The Window is finally open.
I can see it there;
Why don't I fit?
The window has opened.
The door of love.
I can see it there;
Please give me a shove.
Fall 1990
Fringes of Asthma
Block my Thoughts.
Please be my Friend.
October 1991
I sit in my chair and stare at the air that's nowhere.
I lie in my bed and prop up my head to see it all.
I stand around and then I can see it too.
But it is nothing, and yet all that we have.
Sometimes I call it God, and sometimes a lot of nothing.
And then there are the times when I don't think of it separate,
I just life.
And sometimes I call that God.
And sometimes I call I God, and sometimes God is fictitious,
And it doesn't matter, after all, because what good is He anyway.
Sometimes I think about God and say He, or She, of It, or he, she, or
it.
My roommate says God is understanding the passing of the Seasons.
And I say to that, God is understanding whatever life we live.
But he disagrees, and we have no proof, either of us.
And sometimes God is love, and sometimes ability to love.
And sometimes God is all, and sometimes all and nothing both together.
Dad said God is the Earth, and Mom, us.
The Chaplain motions with her arm that God is up.
But I say, God is here if anywhere.
I suppose she was told otherwise by someone more convincing.
Then maybe that person is God, and all else rumor.
My roommate says religion is from fear.
But I say that is no religion I would call mine.
And then it is said, Joy is God,
And I like that God and wish to be there always.
And sometimes I think, the search for God is only accomplished
passively, for to try and find God consciously is anti-God,
and the two are opposites.
And then I say, it depends.
Or who cares anyway, which means I do.
One God is a hypocrite, because he made Abraham betray a commandment.
I wonder if the same is true of every God, or maybe some are
uncontradictory.
In ancient history class, we invented a society where pot was god.
And got an A.
But I just do not like the idea at all that God is mean, for then my
life is a waste, and to that I say no no no.
When I'm at home, I say to myself, I am with God here.
And when I play my guitar too.
Listening to Bob Dylan, I say, he knows God, and his music tells the
story.
Karl Marx insists that God is some kind of opium.
But like I said, what's so bad about opium?
As long as it's in moderation that is.
Mr T seemed to think he knew God, and algebra was his domain.
But I said, I have more fun making puns.
I wake up in the morning sometimes and say, ah what a beautiful
morning.
Or sometimes, I wish that alarm clock didn't just go off.
But the Buddha said 'in moderation', and I tend to agree.
So I guess the alarm clock is my friend, but not God anyway.
But in the deepest moments of thought I just say God is here,
and God is feeling good, and in that case I feel God with
me, and I like it, and I love it, and I love God, and I
love to live, which are all the same maybe.
And I love to write, and to write feels good.
And it feels good when you smile, and it makes me smile.
And then I say, I am with God.
And I am.
And I am.
And I am.
Usually the eyes are the seat of my ego.
But sometimes it is my ears,
Or my hurting left toe,
Sometimes my groin,
And at night my ego is everything.
My dreams give me the world all at once.
I see, but really it is only because I know.
I hear, but I make the sound.
I feel, but I choose what to feel.
I move, but I go nowhere,
And at the same time I do my little flutter kick and whip
around the trees, into the grass, into my roommate's
ear, where I find the stories from the disk he didn't
mean to erase.
And climb back out through the porthole, pushing aside the pile
of clothes, making room for me to climb back into bed,
giving me back my separate ego, and getting me ready
for the message from my bladder, the wake up call.
And I open my eyes, and here I am.
Fall 1991
Brown Eyes, small pupils, talking
Mouth, always closed
Dots of pigment, marks of somethings past
Coarse, Brown, Long, Unwashed Hair
floating against my face, brushing
Thin fingers, those short, unpainted nails, those fingers
sweating, sweating into mine, mine into hers, hard palms
meeting softly
Thin wrists, her flexible, dangling hands,
but thin so the life is concentrated, not less.
In sign language: Your nose is happy like the moon.
Weight lifting, building slim tendon-like muscles now like trees
(striped maple, which dies after 10 years still thin)
Her calloused feet, walking the grass
and feeling the world, the dew, all the dews of more mornings
here.
Legs -- unbowed -- slim quads, hams, calfs, just right for my bum
now shaved like biker me, and then not like the other me.
Those small breasts, bra-less, soft, warm whispers in my ear,
whispers of whispers and whispers of wonder, whisperness of
sharp thunder and dashing light
And her blood, milk of life.
The few fat portions, for God, freckles for me, and warmth for itself.
Four curved cheeks, you know, smiling, talking.
Skin tough as kevlar, soft as a foreign poem and full. You can tell.
Her armpits, hairier than mine even, smell but don't stink, sweat
but don't pour, which wouldn't matter.
A tale of riding on the whispering trolleybus,
or LF's wonder rebirthing again and again.
BUT,
Such bad coordination between her and I, such bad --
Five months at my doorstep, honking, blinking lights, screaming
driver, or waiting, silently, silently smiling, whispering
Waiting for me to open my door. But five months she waited, and it
took me six.
So cold wind, passion, uncomplemented, sad memory of a thirty-second
walk my driveway long, contemplated but only imagined, shiver
of sweat cooling in a gust, smack of ships at a distance.
11 Dec 1991
The Dumpster of Bourgeois History (A Song of Sorts)
Chorus: Throw it into the dumpster of bourgeois history. Toss it in,
pitch it out, nod it off, and shoot it down but make it into the
dumpster of bourgeois history. 1 Lenin and his Bolsheviks sat around
eating snack Looking at what they'd gotten into, and how deep in the
mud Whites and japs and reds whites and blues all on the attack And
here they were eating lunch and discussing the very lack Of food and
guns and tracks and socialist ethic, non of which was seen And that is
precisely why Lenin was shot in the spleen. 2 Now Lenin was fine, but
the rest were all not The whole country, it seemed, was in an eternal
rot So to fix it all up and give them some food Don't mind if I'm
being a little rude. Who cares if it's not socialist at all. I've lost
my spleen, folks, and all's left is my gall. 3 So Lenin came out with
N E P plan And sure enough everything was fine as it ran And the
government tried the best they could To make people who hopefully would
find that socialist ethic somewhere And they looked all around with a
kindly sort of air. But later that night as the mood gladly showed A
little vessel in Lenin's head did explode. 4 Before anyone knew it,
before dawn had come Everybody was getting drunk on Stalin's rum They
trashed the old Lenin's dreams all for naught And gathered themselves
up, and refused, but still fought. So The Dream was then lost And
Stalin embossed On the new seat he'd made (the old one he'd tossed) 5
Makarenko was in to his velvet nice room and Stalin finally took his
place in the tomb But before that he'd fixed em up all mighty nice and
stolen their leaders, their tractors and rice And that was the end of
the dream, it was old And look where he put it -- the old fool --
behold.
March 5, 1992
I met a stranger on the road
Held close her full breast
The sky dark and smothered full
As truth came down and cawed
The gentle falling of the leaves
Upon our backs exposed
Shivered us both, and then Alone
I stepped back on the road.
March 9, 1992
1
I am getting ready for the sun to rise in Maine. Five forty
five, and the light shining on the edge of the world. I feel the mist,
salty mist of the salt water, splashing on my face, through the chill
air. But the real wind has not yet begun. I sit down.
I hear the caw caw of a single gull, spot it, and watch it
land on the rocks downshore.
Waves propelled from the coast of Africa perhaps, or Greenland
or Bermuda. The light grows stronger, and I stand up and "sound my
barbaric yawp" -- I let the air of the sea fill my lungs and rush out
like a torpedo from a U-boat. Approaching six, and the wind starts. I
love its smell, my home. It is since last fall, myself alone, on this
rock. Dark brown hair swirling in my face and disappearing back behind
my ears.
Slowly and deliberately I take off my shirt and throw it
towards the seagull, who takes off in a flurry of wings and squawks. I
pull off my pants and climb along the rocks towards where I will jump
into the waves.
A wave comes, and I enter it -- my full length has entered it,
and i am engulfed in a frothing warm ocean, the water flows around me
and I shiver the numbness taking hold of my body. Surrendering, I
float and paddle to the beach, climb up on it, and walk to my
shirt.
The same single seagull lands and pecks at the dirt, hungry. I
reach into my pocket and throw a handful to the creature. It runs to
grab every piece before the wind takes its share.
I too turn my back to the sea, the sun at my back, walk, tear
the shirt once more off, and lie down on the warm grass of here.
Slowly, I stand up and walk barefoot along the dune, sand cool
from the night, smooth between my toes.
2
My warm hand, softly held in hers
The rubbing off of it -- us -- back and forth,
The taste of toothpaste, faint, there, soft caressing, exploring
tongue, back smooth, warmth of life and reality en masse,
tingling, whisper, words, screams of desire from my gut. World of
inside onto the wall.
Brown hair, slightly curly, falling around my face, smile of
real life and knowledge and trout fishing after a night of night
crawling.
Hair thick with life, life pouring forth, life holding itself
tight, being held together in the hands of life.
voice of my desire and voice of wonder of now.
Holding the breath of life between us, her breath all around
me now, sniff of pine tar, warm air, hot air on my face
3-2-1
Sweetness of Christmas Cactus petals dissolving into my mouth,
maple syrup, honey, engulfed in the fat -- drunk on eyes; then closed,
and soft snore.
3
hold me close, hold my breast to yours, hold my right hand and
left in yours and smile at me as i do at you as we find the ones who
can be and we will throw ourselves at life as if to signal that we are
really real but that at each other. the sky brightens with each star
we have between us and our eyes reveal a complex web of us in the air
i reach my hand up and lay it down upon your head, as your hand rests
on mine and we smooth the hair around and walk slowly about the room,
exchanging glances and giggles as the wind blows beneath us in the
trimble trumble world of life
sliding along a banister erect heaving uttering wanting
reaping weaving but not knitting i run to the doors of life and open
them high wide heavy red barn doors into the world of you as the sun
sets over the hill
we walk slowly in and sit on the freshly cut hay and sneeze
but it doesn't matter -- we are us and snot is almost as good as honey
so rest your body on mine and we will grab the reigns and pull
ourselves along at a hundred miles an hour minimum as we run down the
road leading to a home in vermont and the seashore in maine.
hillside sloping south, waving to father as the sun wakes up
in the morning sky. windy torrents blowing into our faces, stopped by
the aura of us.
March 15
The Resting Spot
Brown, Graying Dog
Sleeps and snores
All worn out from
Years of
ball playing, paper fetching, dozing, hay ride chasing,
lounging, begging, being restless
too old to jump
without help
Silent -- then
Shivers and Snorts,
Rolls Over.
I see
a thin spot
on the Old Carpet.
March 30 92
in nights of flaming life i hold you tight
and rest my sore feet upon this ground
i live on a bough of seething imagination
feasting upon the ripening
fruits of sweetness,
days in a kettle:
you walk in
my mind whirls
and i would give of myself
for this look at you
of the wholest portions
there are
and that is this
dripping juice of my life
mixes into my mind
in a rage of hot thrusting
being
spinning loops through myself
i grind your image
and yet it remains as you
as life
and binds the twines of my mind
into threatening poses of reality
but nervousness overwhelms,
makes this the last,
(a fear of cramming
you
into where
you
are not)
ends this night
i mean for no guilt,
let the sweetness of your voice
explore its worls
without further hampering
but truth-
my mind will whirl yet
and my fingers wander here
adrift in the sweet moon's tide-
a beating heart
may 6 1992
the wonder that comes creepin around,
sneaking, always gaining ground
holds me tight and to your breast
never makes me pass a test
never makes me wear a vest
never makes me win contests
I hold you tight around my waist
I feel you pressed onto my face
I hold your hand inside my own
and know that we both have sown
the seeds of joy that must be sown
the seeds of joy that are seldom known
that we have found the seeds of life
and they've become the wanted ripe
The seeds we sowed on fields we plowed,
the fields of love that echo loud
we sit both silent in each other's grips
feeling for the life that fits
holding her pleading virgin tits
looking for the word that lips
utter silently while we sit
gripping her as her hands rip
my clothes off madly,
my balance tips
We roll around, nosound but loud
in knowing that we've both been found
in knowing that our flesh has met
in knowing that we still have yet
eternity of feeling that,
knowing there exists no net
that can keep us separate
make us live as defendent
knowing that we have been this near,
that we have no more need to fear
that which we have yet to meet,
that we are less than complete
can we sing the song that's never been rung
can we ring the bells that've never been rung
can we hang the ones who've never been hung
can our youthful love stay forever young
how long can we all forget what is warm
how long can we stand in this cold, windy storm
when will we not give joy and give thought
how long can the circles around us grow so
and why let the poor hurting daughters and sons
and why do we still use other people's guns
and why does the one who's always seen all
never look here, inside of this wall
where we have found life at sweet life's call
where quietly sigging we always forget
the rumors they're saying, and all of the sweat
that sits on our backs and drips in our eyes
While Davy Moore cries, these drips tell no lies
where that what we feel is stopping the weather
where life is not stained, nor wrapped in black leather
where nobody hears the propoganda's words made for the ears
of our children unlearned of society's hurt and all their turns,
of their unhealthy yearns,
and the people of hatred that never has learned
of the blacks and the blues, the hurts and the burns
and the ones underneath who live their ways through
and the ones on the search who seek to be true
to the life and the love that's been given them
to the right and the song and the earth that's...
may 23 92
she
having been made golden
walking down the street
and me seeing her eyes
and her hand
hesitation-free
having met mine
let our juices
all
shiver forth
Summer 1992 (in 3/4 time)
All I know's your phone's blank number Em Em/G Am C
You don't say your heart's Am Am/G Em
All I hear is that voice you show me C Am C
Not the one that's yours Em GD Em
I try and allow ye all the room
And give you time to graze
I keep on telling myself
That this is just a phase,
And that I actually won't stand here longer
Lost inside this daze
But when, my love, is it gonna end?
When you coming home?
For my love may leave, and take time off,
And you won't even know the phone.
I love you as the songs all say,
And seek to hear your voice
Echo into my now barren ear
That you want me in this night.
July 1992
what makes me god of the rain?
(she asks)
having stood in doorways
counting as the thunder crashes
built dams in swollen waters
and having built dams in dry streams
hoping for better results
skied on the frozen drops from the sky;
busted my ass flying downhill
"snowboarding"
yes, i have fished in the waters
swum in the waters
spent money to dam
the rain's swarming
laid
shirt off
my bare chest against yours
in the smash of the rain
crawled under appletrees
in the thick grass
in search of the ultimate nightcrawler
constructed ingenius
atomic fishpoles
prayed for their power
and cursed its absence
felt moistened lips
wet from the dew
pressing against mine
screamed and howled
nights
and days
for the rain
to cease
and for the rain
to
come and water my plants
swum nude
cruising
in the waters of shadow lake
my roommate at my side
snuck back in as the mist fell
swum as the lightning lit
the sky
over my head
fished in the dark of night
bitten to death,
but with no bites
have i not
dreamt of the ultimate
w
a
t
e
r
f
a
ll's
cave?
searched for the never-empty
trout-eden?
fished in shadow lake??
and dreamt of baiting a line in a car
in the lot of the vernon fish ladder
late one monday night
have i not opened my mouth to the sky
and drank a drop of pee from my
ancestors?
predicted
against
the weather \person\ and for \him/her\
been both right and wrong
skimmed my surfboard across the waters
and sat on the shore's edge?
is that not enough?
am i not now
god of the rain
?
September, 1992
t.a.
thank you so much (they say)
so selfless
helping us three
woed physics women
but (i ought to say)
for
those who i teach
(teach:
let become)
today
tomorrow
those who taught me
everyday
women who are (women!)!
(!), who i have not known
who i live to know
!, who i live to know
"I AM REAL"
October 1992
Virginity
so here i'm sitting
(she enters)
me crosslegged
music? no memory-
she,
taking my hand
kiss gently
(this being my first time:
and, each of us
taking one pull on a
ritual cigarette
smile
and she
(giggling
(thinking meanwhile:
nu?
of course,
realizing madness,
(wondering,
me already nude?
and, if not,
silent undressing
(no words yet having been
spoken-
she, facing me
sits
Boddhisatva-like
(our eyes closed
thereafter, she
setting herself
down
upon my legs
(smiling now
eversoslightlysliding
(her body making mine react-
(and
she knowing how it's been done before
(condom
instantaneouslyon)
and her body first touching mine now
(and (as (she (slowly
(comes unto me
(envelops me
(me still eyes closed,
arms draping her
(and mad rythmic truth
(and mad rhythmic truth
(and mad rhythmic truth
(and mad rhythmic truth
(and mad rhythmic truth
(Reichian stage IV
beginning-
((((nearly involuntary
((((((((living thought-dream/
!and cascading -)))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
)))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
)))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
)))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
-this being perhaps the culmination of more than a few-
-paranethesis-
-and, me lighting a match to the condom-
(this being a ritual)
-and later, she winking,
bye Chris))))))))
(and ((((((((((((((()
13 Nov 93
And so as I go to bed, I dream and think
Dream how it would be if I took her hand
and if she could really feel it
and how I could squeeze her fingers in mine
how she would squeeze back
and smile
and I can't keep from smiling either
in this day when no dreams die
and a wink in sleep
is an eyelash on a cheek
and a whisper in an ear
when
a word in a notebook
is ultimate communication
a wish is all magic takes
and fear is just a rumor
like dreams ought to be
It's like the Christmas mornings you always remember
endless presents to solve all the years' bored cries
and all the other mornings
we wish we still had coming
in their great objectivist feeling-logic
Dreams in all their Huckleberry Finn laughing crying clarity
Like the one where Georg raced me, he on his bushwhacking skis
through the woods as I on my super-racing machine on the road
and beat me
without even shifting down, or stopping at any of the
bathrooms
along the way
And so I'll dream here
under my glow-in-the-dark stars
in my glow-in-the-dark room
in our glow-in-the-dark world
(because, you see, i have them on my ceiling)
Dream
and tomorrow awake
to the smell taste and feel
of my still-maintained dream
and have yet another chance
to roll box cars
or perhaps
(if the night was enlightened)
and perhaps
(if the sun shines just right)
to find
(once again and forever)
that it's not just me that dreams
and it's not just me whose dreams are
alive
every day
with the sun.
March 2, 1995
are you the poet
whose words i found
crinkled and so it
sat (no sound)
hovering in computer worlds
worldly-bound but worldly-bound --
Is bound big or is bound small?
Is bound wide, and far, and broad?
Is the world a big nuf place
for your words to feel so good
or do they need a lot more space
The Universe, use it they would!
But my question for you is are you satisfied
with a world so small like yours like mine
Or must it be always growing, ever bigger, ever longer
Small pretty to your eyes? Or do limits you really despise?
Like words and poems so like lives, some are smaller and some are
bigger
Your home is small your life is small your home is large your lives
are thicker (?)
Do you need the worldy-bound, the trains that speed the speed of s--
lights?
Or home's enough, suffice.
June 9 1995, written on the bus from Minneapolis to Des Moines
Still Back In Your Bed With You (a waltz)
As the bus starts to pull away from your station G C
I'm thinking of your eyes and lips Am G
My eyes are watching the city go by G C
But my hands are still on your hips Am d7
The buildings fly by, so hard and so tall G C
I feel something inside of me race Am G
My eyes and my heart are soon miles apart G C
My heart is still back there with you d7 G
Iowa's flatter than I ever imagined
Well, at least this part is, anyway
This old straight road that this bus is taking
Is driving me straight right away.
Away from your home, away from your company
your hands, legs, back, and eyes sometimes blue
The scenery lies to me now in this prairie
My mind's still in your shower with you
Five hours so far, Des Moines just one more.
And yes, you're still in my mind
Two big, long months til we meet again
Then maybe another 4 or then 9.
But tonight as I lie down in my bed
And till I see you again
My hands in my pants, my heart and my mind
Will still be in your bed with you.
July 21 1995
Skeleton House
Skeleton House
(where life appears and disappears)-
I arrive around 730 with my bag full of cherries.
Freshly picked. By me.
Tonight's potluck night -- I'm late, but the others are later.
I hear quiet snores -- assume it's Kara -- her house for the summer.
Sit down, and begin to eat my cherries. Wild ones, small with big
pits.
Tasty. Kara awakes briefly and tells me she ran out of propane -- I
get one of those feelings she isn't dying to see me.
Then more snores. She's sleeping, and I read a book on the
Alexander Technique.
Around Eight, Brett arrives, breaking up my quiet moment,
His arrival almost defining the silence that had been.
The overgrown garden -- too dark here in the woods to grow much --
It looks abandoned until Brett enters it, plucking flowers and eating
leaves.
Kara tells him about her propane, and he fetches his from the next
house, hooks it up, and washes potatoes.
Kara tells him there's some squash from her garden, and 6 avocados
for guacamole. Lemons and garlic too.
The building's getting dark, and Kara gives me vibes I can't
understand. She doesn't seem to want to talk or listen, but
doesn't seem to have any complaints either. I'm confused
and stay quiet.
"I passed Camille on the road, and she's almost here, riding bike with
some other guy" -- Camille and Erico step in with Arizona,
Steve close behind, with his home-made bong.
Eric"o" I know, one of those fellows who gives you the feeling they're
on heroin, but they're not; their excited, aimless verbosity
makes you feel sorry.
The last light disappears as we light the candles around the table,
pass around Steve's bong, opening up my mind to a new kind of
concentration, and more comfort with the reservation
controlling me.
But the three candles here and one over the stove light the round
building, and show Brett madly slicing as Kara stretches out
on the floor. Meanwhile Arizona, standing on the table over us
all, her full two feet, running here and there with Cherries,
excited, and to Camille -- Mom -- teasing her with the cherry
she knows Camille wants.
In the candlelight I see the climax of the poem -- Camille, with her
hair pulled some to the side by her head-band; Arizona at her
side, smiling too -- Camille's face, the most important and
interesting and the only existing thing because of the pot --
a few of her clumped, dark hairs hanging down sideways -- The
Mother and her daughter, Life -- Camille's soft voice,
everything hard and harsh missing, extinguished by her sweet
tongue. The blonde baby standing there on Her table. Life,
Love, and everything.
Dazzled and starry-eyed, her words flow into me -- again I am only
fully conscious of it when she is no longer there, laid down
on a futon at the side to sleep with her daughter, Queen of
Love. My queens, asleep.
My eyes searching the one-room hose. I see it also as a child of the
next generation -- all of us inhabitants and guests gone, the
contents of the cans on the awkwardly constructed shelves
eaten, the best chairs missing or broke -- a wreck of a
building. I see the skeletons around me, and myself so stoic
-- all of us together here, yet separate -- exemplified
perhaps best by Erico, who is separated from himself by
several counties and incarnations. These human forms -- this
Wednesday night potluck -- disappeared completely. Only this
picture remains. I see Arizona, a single, young woman, walking
through a place she once slept in as a child.
Still, there is delicious eating to be done, and Brett's effort is
worthwhile -- we feast on the potatoes and guacamole -- and
settle back into music, two drums, Kara's cello played by
Steve as a bass, and I play a small recorder.
It grows quiet, and Kara requests we call it a night; Brett leading
the scary Erico and myself back to another yurt, where we take
off our shoes before entering, and fall asleep -- I am glad
my sleeping bag holds only one, because he really does scare
me.
The next day I awake and ride my bike home to Jenny's, remembering
their home -- quiet and desolate -- yet beautiful; Live
through Camille and Arizona, and the sudden return to the
Skeleton House. Would I come again the next Wednesday? No
two weeks are the same. I leave many mysteries behind.
And my heart,
With the still-sleeping ones, a babe and a mum.
July 1996 The Only Way to Save Yourself Is To Leave Yourself Behind When I was a little boy I was always right G C Would always be that way, I could see D7 G If anyone or anything didn't fit quite right G C It was them or it was wrong, not me. D7 G I had my first girlfriend, and guess what I found. I found lots of things that were wrong. I told her all about them, and how she could improve. Well, she wasn't my girlfriend for long. Chorus: You can bitch, you can moan, you can feel righteous too C G But that is a kind of living grave. G D7 The world doesn't care whether you live alive or dead. G CG The only way to save yourself is to leave yourself behind. G D7 G You can try to change the ones who aren't as you wish. Your brothers, mothers, sons, daughters, sisters, students, lovers... But if you love them set them free from what you want them to be. If you love them set them free, set them free. You can moan about the world when it isn't as it ought to be Or change your expectations and life alive in peace. The scientist within me finally discovered That the first never works, and the second always does. Chorus.