And blow apart my brain

With a sword made of angles

It's all there, in my motion picture eyes

My motion picture memory

Where Plato's movie dies away

And there is no more cave

I left you a message and you got in

And I keep leaving the boat

Over and over

Heart Thief, I'm never giving up

On our cabin in the sun
Your smile is my Bible

We share a room of blades

But I won't leave you there

Turn our sheets to jasmine water

And watch you steal my heart again

I have finally completed my first spoken-word (sometimes singy-songy) CD: Burlesque.

I started it about a year ago and it went on hiatus until around the new year. 2010 really became my year to finish my novel R.E.D., so that was priority. Though as the winter months came I started listening a lot to my friend the Honorable Reverend Dr. Daniel Levi Copp's music from Clear White Light Sites and watching him pump out album after album and....I got inspired. Burlesque is a stream-of-consciousness foray into the weird and the absurd; an attempt to pull back the curtains on the carnival of my subconscious. Some of the lyrics come from poems from way back in college, some are more current musings I pulled from my journals. There are a couple of actual songs on here, as well.

Most of the music is from Garageband because I lack the talent and skill to produce my own music, though there are a few tracks you can hear my guitar, drums, and other mixtures of sound. I hope to collaborate with the Honorable Reverend Dr. Daniel Levi Copp on the next one, where Garageband would not be needed. Once I get the CDs manufactured I may/may not have a release party, but will most definitely be posting them on a Daed Thread webstore.

We'll see . . .

Under the full, glowing embrace of Grandmother

Moon; Mama Killa come to see,

Her blanket of purple luminescence finding

   its way curiously onto my fragile skin.

   She sings, "Come . . . dance . . ."

And the sword stuck in the ground in wild,

      Samurai defense -- holding back the boiling

   fears of despair and ineptitude.

   The tempo is set by San Pedro's grace -- the

Old Ones are settling into lightening bolt corners,

      huddled in their Earth blankets and flitting

      the incense-filled air with feathers from Wiracocha's home.

   The black skull of Death is ahead of me,

eye sockets bleeding moonlight and teeth made

of chonta staffs . . .

      Being stared down as Great Wachuma's

cacti hands grip my insides in a thorough

diagnosis of unchecked karma-slippage;

      Needle-point pricking tender organ grinder

   the subtlety of ancient prescription,

      I am tricking myself . . .

      I am fooling my own comfort;

      to think, under the curandero's

   emphatic grace of San Cipriano's cleansing,

   that there is any hiding: exposed by the

limpia wake!
      Shadow is there, spider-crawl nimbly
up my crooked mountain-range spine . . . that
darkened reflection of a resonance gone wrong-
little-boy-hurt-and-broken-turned-shape-shifting-
out-of-control-fog personified into a me of a
disturbed I, thwarting balance and harmony's
      song. Pachamama's hum . . .
That darkened personage elbowing my side to
   a coercion frolic; and curandero's lineage
      vista opening into a vessel hold
      of cathartic despair:
   sit . . . sink . . . observe myself because
medicine is a mirror.
      And he says delicately into my ear,
"Embrace or kick it."
   It is the acceptance which renders habit
   obsolete . . .
      Look into my prickly, unshaven face . . . accept.
      My unnecessary attempts at control . . . accept.
      Yelling at a loved one on a Saturday morn . . . accept.
      Surfing down a rock quarry at age sixteen . . . accept.
      Dad isn't interested in me . . . accept.
      Angry at the world for my own misgivings . . . accept.
      Reading comic books with my buddies 'till sunrise . . . accept.
      Jealous of all those who've had it so good . . . accept.
      Fixing the malfunctioned chute 3,000 feet in the air and falling . . . accept.
      My wife's resplendent face on our wedding day . . . accept.
      Hating them all for their happiness . . . accept.
      Watching Grandma being put into the ground . . . accept.
      Coffee and pancakes at 2 in the morning with my best friend . . . accept.
      I have been so mean . . . accept.
      Dancing to '80s beats with my kids . . . accept.
      I have been so scared of living . . . accept.
      Giving my son his first bath in this world . . . accept.
   Ass-kick from the Universe chart
ordinance cross in the right condition
   slipping in and out of the unknown while
the Death Skull is working me down,
showing off the real meaning of humility.
       Hot damn!
   Holding the motion picture that is okay to be me . . .
      . . . even though I am me.
   My relations, dissecting my body
with their ancient eyes of sage rock.
My altar is calling in the wand of
floral water raise.
      Intricate caverns of wood chunk collecting the
   totems of blue arrow: elephant, cat, bear . . .
      even the broken-legged ass lit by
the flame of rainbow tribe chasm
in a School-House Rock-type crystal flash delirium tree.
   Laxmi will come in due time to
deliver the Hanuman slip . . .
      but, for now, doing is essential to the
moonbeam key . . . living instead of pondering it
because every moment will be lost if it is not won.
   Acting the part is the riddle of the Snoopy Dance,
with Schroeder on the shaman piano. Then,
      the Vista will arrive.
Every morning, every evening, I bow in
   gratitude for ALL quanta-specs of
roller coaster experience. Creator's gift: the breath.
   Humbly, I am thankful.
                             Mitakuye Oyasin!