tomorrow

church bells

a festival

a woman

singing

soul and flesh in

a single ecstasy

tapping at the window

a curious bird or

a friend coming by or

a branch in the wind?

stretched legs

from hips to toes

a woman

letting

go of tension

a turning ceiling fan

sweetness in the air   

a gift for us or

for some other species or

for sweetness itself?

a new coin tossed

shining in her hand

and dare she look

at fate in her palm?

at unplucked berries  

warm in the sun?

buildings coming down

here, a slice of steel and glass 

a sky-high stack of offices

a mirror sixteen stories tall

to check your teeth for greenery

buildings coming down [[ pause... ]]

to the seashore

buildings coming down 

to the sea

look, a building knifed in two

a bathtub hanging in the air

this is how the joke plays out

when we are old, when we are grey

buildings tumbling down [[ pause... ]]

to the wrecker

buildings tumbling down

to the sea

the sigh and the shrug 

of a building facade 

melting suddenly 

into the sand

the crack and the roar 

of the air between us

turning suddenly

into a cloud

[[ it might be about aging, or urban renewal, or terrorism ]]

now where were we?

[[ a song about how we try to find and describe our own consciousness ]]

now where were we?

the parts of the thing
try to trace
the shape of the thing

a beam of light
tries to see
the source of the light

the wind in the air
wants to know
the sun and the air

we are
nowhere in particular, we are
a bend in the road, we are
a draft through a door, we are
the iridescence of fly, we are
an eddy in a river running down to the end of all time

now where were we?

dispossessed

[[ An ambiguous song about an ambiguous persona imagining a home he (could be she) used to know. Someone else is in the home now. A feeling of dispossession, real or imagined, some sort of revenge planned or fantasized. Fire and smoke imagery, maybe imagining the old chimney smoking, maybe imagining arson, maybe just a crazy phone call, maybe all in his head. The old phone is there for strangeness and to evoke an old time, dialing the number like a secret combination on a safe, with the phone's "cradle" doing double duty for imagery. Senses (taste and smell, fingers, warming, creaking) to introduce an uneasy nearness. And is he thinking of someone else (an invader? just a new owner) in his old home -- or is that "someone" just the persona sneaking back and creepily intruding in (calling on) his old home? It's coming from inside the house! Or not. ]]

smoke will be coiling

over our old home

sparks will be floating

floating on air

someone feels like he belongs now

in our old home

someone tastes the fruit still growing

in our garden

someone smells the flowers planted

by our mother

smoke will be coiling

over our old home

sparks will be floating

floating on air

someone opens creaking cupboards

in our kitchen

someone warms his chilly fingers

round our fire

someone feels like he belongs now

in our old home

now I am calling

dialing the rotary

my combination

into the past

lift the receiver

out of the cradle

lift the receiver

out of the past

fire will be burning

up through the blue air

sparks will be floating

floating on air

where to begin

[[ The destination might be almost anywhere, but I was thinking of Africa, our origin  It started while reading Ryszard Kapuściński, 'The Beginning: Collision, Ghana, 1958', in The Shadow of the Sun. I like the contrast between travel in the old days, when a traveler grew accustomed to the destination on the way there, to travel now, when you hop into a pressurized plane this morning and hop out of the plane on the other side of the world this evening. Also, the typical conflation of all countries and cultures on the African continent into the monolithic 'Africa' of Hollywood. ]]

not the romantic sort,

this is no port-to-port

idyllic expedition

there is no getting used to it, no getting used to it

this is the cheap flight

sleep upright overnight

no acclimatization

there is no getting used to it, no getting used to it

you're still breathing 

your own atmosphere

when they open the aircraft 

find your way through 

strange customs, the frontier,

before you feel the first draft  

and you're out 

in a street

in the heat

this is where we all began, where we all begin 

this is where we strip away and get down to skin  

let's take shade under this tree 

and --  listen to me -- let the continent 

drift slowly away

how many

languages,

cultures, and

kings here?

start by ad-

mitting you

don't know a

thing here

but 

welcome to here, 

welcome to here

one street in 

one city,

one nation 

traced out on 

a piece of earth

drifting slowly away

there is no getting used to it, no getting used to it

start by saying you don't know a thing

intentional love song 12: the breathing

when you call 

I feel the phone

in your hand

I hear the shape 

of the room

where you stand

I hear you breathe

and I know

you are there

how real you are 

even though 

so far so far so far

how real you are 

faith is a hovercraft

floating on its own breath

I think of how 

you are breathing 

other air

I think of how 

you are your own

atmosphere

I hear you breathe

and I know

you are there

how real you are 

even though

so far so far so far

how real you are 

faith is a hovercraft

floating on its own breath

how real you are
even though
faith is a hovercraft
adrift on its own breath

gasoline and perfume

the peace of the past

is gasoline and perfume

burning off surfaces

me pulling the zipper up 

the back of her dress

and watching her fix sticky lips

this is the soil

I am rooted in

this is the air

I inhale

me peeling his boots 

from his feet after work 

and watching the earth fall away

this is the soil

I am rooted in

this is the air

I inhale

gasoline and perfume

burn away in the sun


[[ smells and sights of childhood ]]