Hot as Heat

It's hot as heat here and we didn't expect it to come so early.
The mosquitoes are eatin our arms like hell and even the restaurants are sweaty like Lousiana.
People are everywhere, running around like animals, crazy as prostitutes, bewitched, bothered and bewildered. That's what happens when things heat up so quick.
What was ice melts so fast and then you never espect the thick glaze of the sun to soak into every speck of dirt and crack the land that way. That's the stuff earthquakes is even made of. Shifting, sudden shifting, suddenly in the night, cotton shifts take the place of thick blankets that so soon ago held out the frost.
The motel parking lots blaze like pools of hellfire and brimstone. At two in the morning cars speed like rockets, confused to the lanes, screaming electric thumps from ipods. The age creeps onto the faces of the older ladies at lunchtime, they can't hide their histories or their fret. (Oh how I never want to be that thing) Clothes shrink like withered plants, leaving limbs all bare, some pretty and lusty, some hideous as dying cheese. Curses spit from the lips of the traitors like little razors, white-hot.
The donuts melt, the cars shriek, the sidewalk could cook an egg. The hair sweeps out of eyes like piles of honey and curly. The good priss-tians ice their homes endlessly, mindlessly with so much carefree carbon dioxide that by September they may easily take out one or two ancient arctic glaciers.
The slugs dry up, the flowers flop, the sawdust sticks to skin, the teenagers scramble, the ice cream cones play magic tricks.
Girls shuffle their feet together at rooftops, staring out at the forever moon, a white bucket so heavy it could fall at any moment. They drink from flasks and share the tales of lips and liquor. The boys hang at old stomping grounds, stare like cats and dogs, boys pretend they don't care, panting at passerby hips.
The moon sings robust and dark, sweet and wicked, cool and soft.
The sun shrieks like a raven demon, content to fire us all to see his holy self take over and have everything be as he is.
I dream like a lost little girl of nailpolish and diaries, coffeeshops and poetry, but mostly, I dream about when I see eyes like magic.

This Property/ Condemned Song

Shack down by the riverside all tied up with lace
harmonica she gave to him he plays 3 in the morning
He plays 3 in the morning,
3 in the morning cigarettes glow
off of the back porch where the wanderers come in,
Whistlin' high and their whiskey's low.

Pockets full of stones and shoes broke open
They come in for food, from the railroad.
Brown sun speckles and dust on their faces
Back to that ramblin' trainside southern home.
They play 3 in the morning,
3 in the morning in the full moon shine.
Throw ropes to the water where their clothes are floating,
3 in the morning is as good as anytime.

And their babies are wild as flowers grow,
Eatin dandelions and watching clouds blow.
Those strong ladies are turning to maidens
Brown shoulders are freckled and fading.

With or Without Heart

The dreams bring me earthquakes and floods
So my heart is the same but with life there's more ruin
How can I divert a river that runs its own course
How can I dig to places where I can't detect a pulse?

The pattern of this soul is written clear
I've always been a historian with an obsession for family
The ones that share blood and then the ones without
The ones that share the pattern that coils and spouts.

And the mystical ways is the music I hear coming through
in waves
Breaking in between the cracks when the dream fades to white.
And I will never deny that you're the brilliancy on high
But I want closer to the pure and without love I forget.

You have a crystalline smile, I'll let it shatter for a while
I'm too old to care whether I crumble from a trial
Your heart is spinning on repeat your eyes are children for your feet
I'll take the honesty and sleep into the dream.
You are all that you'll ever need
You'll find the thorn is gone now, you can breathe.
There is no grasping at grasping to seek
You will arrive....
and with or without heart the path makes up its mind.

Working Hard About Music

I realize that I am so lazy.
I realize that I am so selfish.
Working on these weaknesses is the new priority.

I want to run run run, and work at the things I love.
I want to give give give, and support the people I love.
I don't care about anything else except love. That's always been true. And yet I still find myself caught up in this selfish runaround. Am I successful, am I cool, secretly asking myself such ridiculous foolery.
Successful comes in mysterious forms. In trailers, deserts, caves, mountains, suburban houses too. But my mind judges my life so harshly according to the world. And yet, these worlds of people around me judge themselves even harsher, life according to the career, the degree, the right brand name purse.
Thank heaven our backbone, our family of seven knew better, we have spread the word that such thing is such nonsense.
Thank goodness, for who I am and who I have struggled to be.
But I have to love people more.
I have to give more in tangible real life, of my time, of my energy, of my faith towards other people and give them hope and home.
I have to work hard when I so want to drift around carelessly, I have to find the right melody to say the wise things.

wood and bone

These ghosts you live with are wood and bone
The raw smoke they breathe now is black and blown
Fire fill the swords of air
There's a woman that's dying to share
All the sparrows of other galaxies
Lost their wooden bone boats to the stars of sea.

And who wouldn't want to lose the grip
On black holes that stick to sinking ships
Animals grin friendly fur
All gentle souls will meet you where
No troubles boil within the sword of fire air.

And gilded coats will burn
in the fire where we still turn
in winds of changing arctic yearning
and filled with floating ice
the fires will slay and slice
the heavy hands of all the men who once not knew.
the heavy hands of men who once knew less and less.

This night I fell into

Subject this night i fell into
Posted Date: 25 May 06 Thursday - 1:28 AM

the dream was so very very strange and so bones and blacked out eyes and so many animals all around their necks and backs i watched as in the early light they gathered so many of them let us pass with our cell phones and our cheap clothes and they wore wood and stone and bone and woven in their own hands and they wore feathers upon their heads and they let us pass and there were children bearers and horsedancers and they ran their warriors in circles to be ready and i was not scared. i was not scared i was not scared up the mountain side over rocks so jagged in our car they knew we came and they let us pass others i came with but one were fear, but we were not scared and we watched them in awe -

i would like to describe so much more the child the hundreds that were there we do not own the land i see this land this land of the supposed free we are imprisoned and choking on nothing and time but they truly owned the land and the land was underneath them and respect for daylight and for the spirits and for the holy holy holy of our beating heart our growing hairs the acorns falling the dawnlight spread a ghostly fog through their gathering which to me seemed so haunted but was really only so holy and all that i came with seemed so silly like a car like the fear others brought i was so very in awe of the ghosts there i crawled like a quiet child and only one other knew and he too could not speak we walked slowly into bushes and forest dark dim early and pine trees he was not mine and i was not his and time was gone

i saw how they lived with the land how it grew in their hand how they danced ghost dance now. their eyes were sunken they were so old and steady they were so slow and ready for any thing. the house we entered was a white man's house a white man's house that had taken precedence in a flat clearing and it was too a ghost but they did not care and they kept a slow steady pace and i was told the hour was a magical hour an hour they came out early only sometimes to catch the light a witching light. someone told me the witching hour, but not in native american times there was no such word, but there was such a word. in those moments i gave up everything to follow an intense burning in my heart and when i followed and it was not there i was sorrow but it almost didn't care. i lost everything but it was ok because i was true

they let me pass and they knew i came into a foreign world of their wild and animal light and their sorrow too was there but our world will heal someday

Story Tell

The morning the morning of fresh dew and kindness
where we still swim in sleep sight of the night left behind us
their stories wrap animals on dream shoulders and rock us
and their warm eyes whisper in our night-ears and hold us

the flower of the evening is singing of the bears here,
the smells of its petals draw tiny birds of pine air
and the stories they tell as the fresh dreams are waking
a father story, mother story, a bird and her straying.

She was a lady of song, and a lady with money, and I always think all of my own time so worthy, but you were her grace and you went there with nothing and you were so young then and you were still growing She had cheekbones of silver she gave stories of the river, could have taken you away - but I'm not blind, I am a giver, so I left her a gift and I left from there to go get my sweet sister for her blessing for her eyes as a holder for my poor heart can be so weak and my mind still not bolder.

So the dream was still only a dream, not this warm life, and its walls may be the world sensational we can not die, and the dream was a warning of worth, you were calling and I don't know why it's me and not she you've been stalling, for I know that I've tried to break it down realistic, when your welcomed to life there's no name or statistic to prepare you for seeing the evidence to the mystic, to give water and earth to the magic and kiss it, and there are those who deny it has ever been breathing, but I know that you know yet the thought leaves you grieving, and I want to be the one for our vows have been spoken, and without you my good time is meaningless and broken.

But you're here, and you've always been here, with me- and I dare to tell the future and it's you and me, and I know I've been creeping through caves at the sea but I want you to know there's question I see, and it haunts and it rises and it's spellbound to me,
and it is the sensation that I want to give you, it is all the fire and fables and weaving of two, it is all the light and rock and the water in my heart, it is all the falling of water where the rock falls apart, and it is all the breath of grass like a wind in our veins, and it's somewhere between sky and earth for the rain, and it is from a place of love that I'd like to explain, and you are my true love and this story I tell for-to the visions of night I would like to expel and the welcome to life is to your life as well, and I will not forget the sensation you spoke of in the night for your heart is laced up with all gold haunts and bright and your time is with mine you're due soon to know right, and my gift is that you'll have your welcome to life.

But you're here, and you've always been here, with me- and I dare to tell the future and it's you and me, and I know I've been creeping through caves at the sea but I want you to know there's question I see, and it haunts and it rises and it's spellbound to me, but it's you that i love so true that it bleeds, and for you I would give anything your heart needs...