Crossroads are a particular
kind of place where mythology
and actuality combine,
mix and dance with your shadow.
Limitlessness has a name
and social security number
in your restlessness
and your ambitiousness.
I've performed in cafes and on street corners,
In bookshops and depots,
woods and public restrooms
with the junkyard profits
desperately clutching to my clothes,
refusing my money
but begging for my love.
But now I am at the crossroads.
The smoke from my soul
comes in, forces me to turn around,
turn around turn around,
and see the faces,
so many different faces,
all those who have
loved me,
mocked me,
befriended me,
mentored,
hated,
changed
maimed
spit in my eye
called me what they thought I was.
So many faces.
So many eyes full of dreams and ire.
How many would I come to know again?
Who would become fortune tellers
blues-men
teachers
cops preachers
mathematicians builders destroyers
soldiers of fortune
businessmen liars or junkyard prophets?
Who will become like smoke in the fog,
slightly hazy lost-boys
off to never-never land,
never to be seen or heard from
except for the cries that whisper
the time?
So many faces.
What will I be to them?
A companion
friend
liar
hater
lover
brother
sideshow
an I knew him when
a face that looks at their back
at the crossroads,
a wisp of smoke?
I turn again,
turn turn,
a cymbal shot
pushes me forward,
left and right,
but I can never go back behind.
Johanna whispers
Even salvation must get old.
I know she must be correct,
at least as far as I can turn my head.
The right is barred,
the left is guarded by the beasts,
the faces hum a dirge or a lullaby,
I straighten my jacket,
pack my self into a slip bag,
and blow away with the smoke.
Apr 16, 2011
Apr 16, 2011 at 11:44 AM UTC
Crossroads are a particular
kind of place where mythology
and actuality combine,
mix and dance with your shadow.
Limitlessness has a name
and social security number
in your restlessness
and your ambitiousness.
I've performed in cafes and on street corners,
In bookshops and depots,
woods and public restrooms
with the junkyard profits
desperately clutching to my clothes,
refusing my money
but begging for my love.
But now I am at the crossroads.
The smoke from my soul
comes in, forces me to turn around,
turn around turn around,
and see the faces,
so many different faces,
all those who have
loved me,
mocked me,
befriended me,
mentored,
hated,
changed
maimed
spit in my eye
called me what they thought I was.
So many faces.
So many eyes full of dreams and ire.
How many would I come to know again?
Who would become fortune tellers
blues-men
teachers
cops preachers
mathematicians builders destroyers
soldiers of fortune
businessmen liars or junkyard prophets?
Who will become like smoke in the fog,
slightly hazy lost-boys
off to never-never land,
never to be seen or heard from
except for the cries that whisper
the time?
So many faces.
What will I be to them?
A companion
friend
liar
hater
lover
brother
sideshow
an I knew him when
a face that looks at their back
at the crossroads,
a wisp of smoke?
I turn again,
turn turn,
a cymbal shot
pushes me forward,
left and right,
but I can never go back behind.
Johanna whispers
Even salvation must get old.
I know she must be correct,
at least as far as I can turn my head.
The right is barred,
the left is guarded by the beasts,
the faces hum a dirge or a lullaby,
I straighten my jacket,
pack my self into a slip bag,
and blow away with the smoke.