Waking to a yellow poisonous sky in Paris
A dark kitten purrs softly on my hotel window ledge….
I cross the early empty streets toward a taxi….
Heavy fog at gateway
Small rabbits running across the tarmac….
In the airport lounge in San Francisco hours later
Sipping an old crow and seven…..
Later in a rainstorm in a phone booth
I light a cigar….
Drifting toward a waking dream….
A white field of broken skulls in Yemen
The only darkness the holes….
Where their eyes were…
Lines from a revisited image
Under storm clouds of mythic gifting…..
Beauty as life….
The dust of human words on the outskirts
We move within the infinite…..
What has arrived out of this silence
Secretly kept….silence of tears…
Silence of years….
The one who has slept to waken to the shining you
A shining so pure so alone….
Standing now by an ancient road
Made of blood and stone….
This glass dream that sounds of rain falling….
This dim recognition
Where emptiness folds itself into everything…
Watching from a distance….
Shards of burnt spirit light all around….
Pieces of grey fur caught on the stacked wood
Old ones have passed here….
‘It is raining hard’
‘It is a strong wind’
Sweat lodge song
For peter and Lynn.
October 30, 18
My grandmother whispered to me in a dream….
Beware the white cities…the ones filled with hatred and fear
The ones where the ones who can see are
Imprisoned by the blind….
The ones who live from the dead meat of others…
Devouring their eyes that are staring at them….
The ones who have arrived from the putrid underbelly
Of human waste….
Formed from the shit of their ancestral darkness…
Carrying the heads of their dead gods
As tokens of their devotion…
Eating the white plate of their deities
Forced upon her as a child..
She looked at me whispering
The white cities.
Why have I awakened here
With the watches of the dead scattered like eyes
On the floor….
Somethings that are left of me
Have found their way here
Where I am kneeling….
Praying for you….
Along this rain soaked columbian road
Where singing arrives out of the darkened trees
sitting among the tears
Of the missing….
Drying on the frosted leaves….
In the Andes above Medellin
The aorta spattered flapping against hope
Innocence the last gurgling sounds
Of a baby….
Fissures of unconsciousness
Drying as blood on a broken prayer….
The dead zone texts
From a twilight dream
of open eyes in a dark room
Hope an emaciated silhouette standing in a burning forest….
Our seized breath….
Guardians of an emptiness we cannot remember….
We cannot forget….
From the stronghold
on the occasion of Lance’s birthday.
Gerald Schwartz sang:
We are the brass locusts, as tides wane/ and the air is rich/ with what would rather be forgotten;/ and hard on the moving/ on these changing winds/ we are the eternal locusts sounding our sharp despair:/ This rasp of autumn, this rasp of heat,/ metal of prophecy but not of peace,/ awl in the ear to make us/ bondsmen here,/ brand in the flesh of mind;/ beneath the beat/ of sun, of light rain, of dazzling/ earth/ we lose the visioned,/ the encompassing eye;/ we are the brass locusts boring into the noon/ speaking for the alien/ and all to come:/ the fools lift their heads,/ remembering cold,/ regathering wisdom,/ as the sun grows old. …… The Very Best of this Earth-Arrival Anniversary to you! Cheers!
Lance Henson sang in reply:
I saw beetle…
carrying a piece of moonlight toward a secret place…
fish waiting there…
in the lighted water, out of our Great Mother’s womb,
weaved into this patterning of life,
where Sundance and peyote songs thread into war and sorrow…
laying these burdens at the door of peace…
hoping someone is home.
we are home.
thanks for the honoring.