We link our minds
you are our mother
Direct us to the sun
Art, Love, Music, Rebel
a Warrior, eyes open
Wide mouth muse, give us our religion
Moon salutation, give us new praise
Reconnect, Brothers
Sisters, Reconnect
All the people of the earth
come greet your creator
The sun made stars on her cheeks
and eyes as dark as her skin
Sweet fire of the spirit
you give us rebirth
you give us ***** baptism
Shake free your slave name
follow the beat of the drum
the universal rhythm
She screams and blood runs hot
She lowers herself to the ground
She stand high with the masses
A teacher of humanity
of jazz and blues
hip hop rimshot soul
Culture that may not be ours
Still welcomes you
if you learn to feel

When you close your eyes, restless dreamer,
what do you see?
A dusty blossom, a crown of feathers, claws reaching?
Do you hear music? Whispers? Darkness?
Pulvis et umbra sumus, my dear.
We are ravens in flight, the arrow chasing our wings,
reaching towards slumber.
We sleep, but do not rest.

Numbly perform before the crowd
the sign of the cross,
a bow before the altar,
a melody or two.
Why do they burn us?
We are no sirens,
and song is no witchcraft,
not the kind they douse with holy water.

Lift up your hands to the sanctuary
and bless,
But do not let them meet.
Do not praise.
Your God is not found in music and dancing,
though he cries for the horns,
begs for a drum,
weeps with longing for harp.

You give him a voice,
monotone with no emotion.
Is this how you hear him?
A drone in your ear,
harsh admonishment,
one voice,
or silence?

My God is music.
He sings in the breezes,
in the hum of the earth,
the clapping and stomping,
the praise.
He is the breath in my lungs,
the words on my lips,
the touch of fingers on string.
His voice is many,
raised up in song,
raised up in the praising,
raised up in the "Hallelujah! Amen!"

Why don't you hear him,
those with ears among us?
You are not deaf.
You are dead among the living prayer.

You offered me your body,
I offered in return:

A tuna fish sandwich,
A nice piece of carnelian,
Maybe a book or two about odd things
like death by electrocution or Leonardo da Vinci
or the history of the upright bass,
Endless records,
Enough jazz to paint the world blue,
My mouth forming the shapes of notes,
A breath from my own lungs,
The scarf which was lovingly knit for me
by my one remaining friend,
Lipstick, bright red and smooth,
Feathers from a hawk that I found by the road,
Dried pink roses from a corsage,
Two baby teeth in a container that once held film,
Hair shorn with a dull kitchen knife,
A collar of cracked burgundy leather,
Sachets smelling faintly of lavender,
A mirror which was cracked on my thirteenth birthday,
One lace glove.

Why did you leave?

A new refrain,
something fresh for the tongue.
A bright lemon in the wake of
chocolate
and chilis.
Something softer,
less harsh.
Not quite sweet.
I could never stand saccharine sentiment.
Not too sour,
acid leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
Not ice cream.
Italian ice while walking the streets of Venice,
smiling and nodding at the men whose words we can’t understand.

Admetus swallowed the sun.
His throat was raw, tongue heavy with words.
Words of praise, of worship,
but the sun refuted him.
His light was dimmed,
hidden by dirt and muck, things he chose.
He seemed more human than God,
and Admetus loved him for it.
Still, the sun shows affection by shining brightly.
He glinted off coins, off crown, off sparkling seas.
He crested the horizon, casting shadows.
He shone on Admetus,
illuminating,
reflecting the deep bronze of his skin,
the curve of his spine,
the length of his fingers,
the line of his waist,
the tip of his tongue as it passed his lips,
the shadow of hair on his jaw,
the ridge of his calf.
He seemed more God than human,
and the sun loved him for it.
He fought for Admetus,
gave him all he wanted,
and took what he too desired.
But still, the sun is eternal.
Man is finite.
The sun shone on Admetus for as long as he could,
longer than he should have,
stealing back time from the grasp of silver scissors.
But it was not enough.
And when Admetus’ time came,
the sun was dim.
The twilight fell upon the world,
and the darkness seemed to last for an eternity,
though it is not told in story or verse.
Admetus swallowed the sun,
his body warm,
his eyes bright,
his fingers spread.
And then the sun swallowed him whole.

When I hear your voice,
I feel like I'm feeling.
I am no longer numb.
It isn't quite joy.
It isn't quite anger.
It isn't my righteous indignation.
I feel like I might be me.
I might be something similar.
When I watch your hands,
they look warm,
I want to sing with you.
I don't know the words,
my hands don't.
But I wish to silence my tongue,
speak with fingers.
Soon, I will no longer hear,
so I must learn to sing without a voice,
paint words with steady hands.
Mine shake,
timid and frightened to convey
what my lips cannot,
vibrations slightly off from the violin.
You instruct me how to feel,
how to not feel and gain substance.