Even the Crows are Colored Here
Even the crows are colored here
Water in the Sky foots prints to forever rivers
While the woman of Betania
makes lunch for the hurried thinkers, I am
Even the crows are colored here
Where every music exists with no string
Wordless verse from the branches
And the morning pigs watch their shadows wake the mud
At best, when we sing, we tell a little bit of what was here
Even the crows are colored here
The boats don’t look like the trees anymore, they are coming to the city
Houses drift like bottles, children swim
In the hurried you have to believe this not forever water
Even the crows are colored here
The market in Belen
Where the music makers are cut and sold, a man laughs at my face
Shells and leather, luxury pens, I admire him for the simplicity of his act
At our worst, song-less, kill a little bit of what’s here
Fault in Cuzco
I blame the satellites and the oil men
For the loss of romance
But I know its my own fault
That here In the day end lit cafe, in Cuzco, between where the churches and Indians sell – one got the gold, other got the cloth
Awe can become us
The way the red of home, mothers and year fire, stacks above each other and becomes the bone trees
That the meteors might come tonight
Danced and shot by Einstein as far as I understand, long or cold
To the boots of the quiet watchers on the bench, 8 dollars a shine
Head tilting as the children go, no sadness, maybe joy in the hand
How could we not have known the stars follow the Earth?
We are heroic in our gifts and faults
The welfare dancer and the young man with the paintings
Of Ayahuasca and demons
Its not of technique, but you know it’s true
Thats art I guess
Truth, why don’t we talk about that anymore. We’re a naked lie and all know it.
And I’m running, at my faults, heroic with them
There’s a lot of money moving here, in rivers pulled by who words the best
But art , Maybe thats all of it
The rest is ego
Me trying to place some sense of me and mine over this shaking Earth of us savage clothed Indians, indigenous folk of the galaxy to the galaxy somewhere else of the folk more civil – I suppose – this is my life, and I decide it
I’ll sell you my money for your paintings beautiful man. Give me your brush, if not past. I need to discover you.
Love from Forever Away
I am back riding midnight buses from the south station
I am a passenger past millions of weeping homes
And kids with no diapers
We are all born good
We are capable of love
I am back walking in blank walk, no ink or all ink
Over the bridge past the Holiday Inn and hookers
A city portrait in dust shake
We are all born good
We are all capable of love
You are climbing a tree above your grandmother’s kitchen
While grandfather has a swollen cheek and the medicine of the leaves
There is a motor somewhere, maybe 20 miles away
We are born good
We are capable of love
I am back wondering what someone is doing, self-struck
You are laughing at mosquito blood or coughing as a joke
Like the comedian on the neighbor’s television
He is talking about a president somewhere
We are good
We are love
We are also the same
I Love You from forever away, take my hand, lets go nowhere
The music is always
The music is here always, already
This I know, the bird with the welp of a call that circles the scale
And lands somewhere in the simple hands of the boy in San Pedro
with no shoes
The flute tries to tell its story
The music is already here, always
The family of pigs below the floor, under the dead wood of the hut raised above the Amazon shore
Faces in the mud digging with the scratch of search, grunt of want
The foot to floor tells its story
Like the old bluesmen
Up the river comes the cymbal shake, carrying off the fractured shimmer of sound in light to the wild bullfrogs of the baby trees pulse below the shots of the crickets, stridulating, brushed metal to a plastic microphone on the floor of my parent’s basement where my brother once cried about a soccer match
And in the magic starlight the music is invisible but caressing, how the humans pass and their footsteps patter below the concert, worse than the leaves and branches and common things
Jaguar howls and quiets, the energy distant and falls, down from the solo of the owl and river snake, trading, listening, at the mercy of the same whatever.
Someone has just shared the best of themselves and of everyone, sound talking, you don’t come down all the way from this
The music is always
Us funny people under a great big God or void, on our way up or down
And all we can do is express
You the Brave
You are not solely information
You cannot be purchased
You are not the sum of your skills
You are not your clickings
Your information has a soul
You are not the one who buys the product for the picture
You are not this person
You are not the calculated risk
You are not the percentage probability of the focus men
You are not the possessor of a single language
You are of no country
You are not afraid
You are not a product or a consumer
You are not a product and its consumer
You are not consuming yourself
You are not produced by your consumption
You are not skin and bones
You are not in need of belonging
You are not concerned about how you are perceived
You are not being lied to
You do not allow yourself to be lied to
You do not lie to yourself
You yourself are not a liar
You are not desperate to purchase a home
You are not desperate
You are not desperate
You are not desperate
You are not desperate
You are not desperate
Remember that what’s important is not importance
And that its going to take getting up on your own
You are star dust, Mother tears, River ash, Wonder Sun, Brave Brave Brave Brave Brave, Triumph triumph triumph, new, new new end of lie end lies end of lies, You You You You You The Brave
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