Spitting cherry seeds by the roadside. Late night Rocky Horror on the back patio.
When we listen to jazz on an old timey-radio, we don’t hear echoes of the past, not our Great Depression.
We hear disillusioned violence, a turn of the century.
They want to turn it on you, rest your body on the side of the road, the world a sepia photograph.
It develops slowly, darkness clinging to monotone like the smell of gin under the juniper trees.

In the morning the world will seem so bright, flamingos on the green
screaming at the technicolor tv fuzz as teens gut them with penknives. We won’t join in.
When I look at my face in the mirror, all I see is radio silence.

When I look up at the sky,
the night glittering iridescent,
winking like a beetle shell,
I think I see you.
You, the unknown,
the fear of faithful men.
You, new knowledge,
wisdom beyond might of human minds.
You, the song of the universe,
harmonics echoing through the stars.
I stare into you.
Do you stare back?

I have no right to feel this way.
Everything is too loud, too much.
I want to cover my ears, but it gives little relief.
I tear at my hair, and the pain gives an anchor.
My patches are hidden, small secrets.
Mors ultima linea rerum,
a constant threat,
the sword above my head.
Not death itself,
but the inability to find peace.
Sleep is similar, but it is not death.
It is similar, Tarkovsky observes,
but it is not permanent.
Sleep is universal,
but so is waking.
The fool, shepherd, wise, and king
rise with the sun.
Mors sceptra ligonibus aequat.
Mors ultima linea rerum.

She leaves you a gift,
rough purple ribbon
with a wire rim to keep the shape.
She ties it in your hair,
fingers soft as they brush the curve of your cheek.
She puts a chain around your neck,
delicate and thin,
leaving goosebumps where warmth had been.

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.