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REFELCTIONS OF A YOGICOWBOY: An artist's journey
the land was dry and hot endless ancient dust peppered the thorny bretheren
the road stretched out like a serpents tongue poised to spit us into the eye of time we danced in the tombs of the ancient
ones their walls reigning fire down on us the prietess led me on her lashing words pushing me into the infinite horizon on
icarus' chariot another world the priestess would lead me to love so she leads me the eye of life the old ones of the rocks
dance in secret raising and lowering the sun from their eagles perch a mongrel dog gestures in the dry house old women painting
with their fingers while they step in and out of the void corn maidens, watermaidens all concealed in geometric robes plotting
the harvest and the new year we rid on into the burning cactus elsewhere a hundred dancers whip across the way poured out
from their mysterious doorways the deer people flow in the white nebulae their chalky faces spooking the gods we ride on into
the land of towers and dead lakes until we reach the artery of life a swift cord of crystaline dreams rushing from the heart
of the land twisting and turning throgh the bowels of time sweeping our dreams from the sandy shore the river of death, the
river of life the tourquoise maiden who sings liquid and carves beauty of the lifeless plane the crimson cliff shows us the
way no dead men in suits no plasticine warriors the way is steep mocking purple blood of the earth the jewelry of the planet
and now we must destroy the iron maiden, the ring of steel slavery live in the doors of paradise sow the seed of nature the
budding of the grain the flower blossoming is our savior we have layed our weapons down we don't eat the carcasses of tortured
animals the plastic foam rooms are not our dwellings and our minds and bodies are not stolen by mongrel bankers a magic wan
of colored lights this is the storm of seed, our green day out tombs of decaying brick and tempered steel to the kiss of pure
beauty the light of spring we escape the serpentine ribbons that scar the forest mythical marauders mymic binding history
freeing us from the rubble teachers speak the truth that they know nothing the elliptical moon gives us pleasure the poets
no longer mumble in the doors of underbellied taverns their words build our houses
In the narrow, rocky heights of a the red canyon, the rock faces pitch
out like huge wave cresting, frozen in stone at the moment of throwing their crowning lips into the infinite space that in
the sea would mean the instant of their transformation as pulsating energy waves moving thousands of miles through the water
into massive churning collasals that break with unmeasurable force against the surface.
The
waves here are stone. Their vertical curved and cresting faces unusually black, or red, or ochre, or any number of earth
tones with streaks of blue and swashes of white. minerals, water, wind, heat, sun, all instruments of the earth. They pitch
not over a liquid surface, but, over pine filled canyons alive with birds, butterflies, insects, and all the inhabitants that
earth’s architecture welcomes. This is the frozen sea. If you could stop the ocean and walk on it in the middle of
lashing storm, all would be peace, the violence of pitching water becoming the natural architecture of energy.
And there, in the distance, the cathedral vortex jets up like an annomalistic
eruption in a sea of frozen swells. The green vegetation and red earth visible in the interstices; plant and earth riding
the wave crests into a smoky white haze all the way to the edge of the sky.
And
in the presense of these billions of tons of solid matter poised to extinguish all below should their cohesion suddenly collapse,
a rare and unusual butterfly lands on a rock, so briefly, just long enough for one to see its unusual shaped wings that hold
color patterns no human artist could concieve of, so fine, delicate, intricate, and perfectly balanced as they are.
butterfly drinks of the flowers, flits about, races in the sunny climes of a warm
afternoon earth, lites on lichened rocks, floats into trees and rests somewhere at night when there is no sun to power its
wings.
Your bones
are transparent through the taught skin that pulls over your narrow frame. your voice is like the squeeking of a mouse with
slightly more range than the first octave of an elks mating call. Your rumble is a tintinabulation of energic sparks that
call the birds from strange places. you talk of masters and look to the rocks where they meet in your mind in our minds,
and, there, where the indians faces chisell themselves out in watchful dreams, there, where the fire of hollows and wind sketch
their impermanence on the molecules of our eyes, you pontificate and hold your board meetings and rake through the refrigerator
making meals out of the scantiest morsels of passers on. And, we had met such that in the furnace of the cactus hills you
fled while i waited at the base of the mountain in the tumult of a tardy spring that held planets on a necklace of the universe
that i strung for you, that induced you to put on a blue dress and singe my eyes as we passed to the lower forest, to the
sacred garden, to the shamans of nothingness, who, obeyed the stars, circling under the anciently inspired green boughs of
majestic pillars. there we spoke with one another in many voices making bob the grey beard. The old secrets came out. the
necklace was laid open. the planets cooperated with us. The announcement was made. The maya woke up. The earth dreamed
us together and bursting under high skies that held nymphs from australia in purple bubbles over snow, and old grey women,
distorted mothers of the new dawn. There we spoke. There the may buds burst open. The dark man with the book spoke the sentence
as I passed through a sheve of coincidences. There was the mountain. There was the nothingness of past and future. There.
You, and I, had ridden undulations and ripplings of the earth. you, from,
the hot climes, from the cactus hills, from the havelina jungles, shadowed by the old stone faced natives. I from the twinkling
tinsel of civilization where the kundalini mistress got too hot, where the thunderbolts of cosmic fire forced me out of my
pasture, pulled me by the nose ring from the ashes of unattainable romantic euphoria, saved me from sysiphus’ dance
and pitched into the unknown, as if to the first battle of the 13 underworlds, into the arms of the grey one, the bovine
lumberer who oversaw the place of her namesake: mary land, or mariland, the blue house, into the first gathering of dismembered
souls to be initiated into the world after the grand alignment. I watched you chant, or, I watched the wall and heard you
in the hall of the pine forest monks. we sat on pillows. this was our adventure in the valley of the buddha, during the
grand alignment with the clang of the gongs, the drumming and his birthday sermons. It was the month of may. It was wesak.
I was there to be a buddhist, to strike the gong. to send the vibration ripling through the unseen world and then follow
after, lost in dancing. We went to the garden together on the day the planets all came together. It was a spring day, as
by the afternoon light, on could tell. The hot orgasm of nature all wet with sentience and streaming in the light. We entered
the graden where the wizards, the nuns, the medicine men stood at attention, holding the rod of peace and communion. We wispered
to the angels of the wind, that we where waiting by the mountain for it all to begin and so it did though we went home seemingly
unchanged.
THE WHITE VEIL CAME UPON THE LAND (in the stoney saddles
the pines sit in meditation) AND LA TIERRA DRINKING ITS REFRESHMENT (waters of diamonds course in copper
urns AS THE SNOW MELTED IN THE WARMTH OF THE SUN (as the air kissed our faces) IT MADE ME THINK
OF FLESHY PARADISE (i dreamed of goddesses)
SO MY SOUL
RODE UPON THE CLOUDS (and i tasted of life as it grows) AND MY BODY SUFFERED ITS JOURNEY (through
los arboles(trees) y los canyones (the canyons TO THE OPEN GATES OF TOWERING RED (while my skin was cast
in sand) WHERE I MET YOU IN A CANYON (and we made love with out behind the veil)
IN
THE RECESSES OF MY MIND (on the tips of my fingers) WHERE THE YOUNG STILL LIVE (and grass grows
green) THOUGH ITS TIME BEHIND IN THE THINKING (according to the ordinary mind) THE STREAMS NEVER
STOP FLOWING (and the mirrors ripple at my feet) AS THE GOLDEN CASCADES OF HAIR (that enfold
me like a flower) BURRY ME IN GOLD
NOW THE STARS GIVE US
STEP (in their whirling configuration) TO MAKE OUR WAY ON THE ISLAND (with the grace our mother) LIVING
IN THE SACRED PLACE (in the fire of transformation) WHERE EARTH SPEAKS WELL
WHERE
RED MEN CHANT AND DRUM (and his drum sending prayers) INTO OUR DREAMS WE ARE FOLLOWED (to rest
like visions waking)
THE PAST IN RUINS MARRIED TO CLIFFS THAT
THROW UP TOWERS OF SAND SKY PAINTED OVER WITH SUN SHADES WHITE WHILE DANCING ANIMAL SHAMANS CRY ALOUD
WE MAKE REFUGE FROM A MACHINE CITIES RINGING IN OUR EARS SEEKING
LIFE DIFFERENTLY
click here for SONG LYRICS
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