Siddhartha on His Raft

From 14 on
I listened to the river.
And voices still are strong
In the currents.

I hear chorus, I hear clash
So I can’t listen in class.
Yet in my peace I find
I’m Siddhartha on his raft.

Like Herman Hesse
I suffer long for peace.
And maybe I find less
The more I seek.

I can’t relate
So I wait and think and fast.
And in my peace I find
I’m Siddhartha on his raft.

Hey Siddhartha! Push that raft!

I know
You think
I don’t see you at all.
I’m a distant wolf of the steppes,
And oh so critical.
I hear, currents, chorus, chaos, clash
The unity comes through.
See, I see more than most
And I see you
I see you.

Today
Words and thoughts
Are my craft.
And in my peace I find
I’m Siddhartha
On his raft.

I think and wait and fast.

Darker days

When I moved west to the East Bay
The sun came constant for 40 days.
Over time, I tired of smiles
Fashioned to fit the rays.
Man, I was made for darker days.

Uncertainty is never far away
You can read it
In the desperate minds of men.
Who hide their concern
In the pews and lecterns
‘Til dark days come for them.

Man, I was made for darker days
Oh-ha, I was made for darker days.

Everything is serious to me
I see the consequence in small things.
You’ll ignore me, denounce me
And you’ll frown when I speak.
But wait for the trembling of a leaf.
I’m feeling out infinity.

I only want to be of use.
To protect a people or an idea.
I know there’s a time to amuse
But one day these fortunes’ll disappear.

When the festivities fade
With the declining terms of trade
I’ll make sense
For I was made for darker days.

Maybe I can explain
My unhappiness away
If I believe
I was made
For darker days.

Man, I was made for darker days
Oh-ha, I was made for darker days.


The room

(over the course of several years and a couple continents)

How many years did you spend in that room?
Spinning records, writing letters.
You know I fear the day I lose my voice, but
You don’t have that choice.

I’m looking at the cut and paste
Patchwork body art
That are your scarred arms.
Your skin is clay, and soft to carve.
And soft to carve.

You’re living years in the tornado room
The doctor’s coming soon
With charts and codes and books and bones
He’ll write you right out of ruin.

Guard your insanity at fifteen
In your room; the door off its hinges.
In yellows and greens I scribble and smear
And dream of illnesses.

‘cause I can tell by the lines in your cheek
You’re tattered, you’re just like me.
I know it still, you’ve been locked up for weeks
You’re marked, in sane, you’re free.

Guard your insanity
All the world would steal your humanity
Given one shot
Make meals of your nails and know that normalcy’s a lie
The art of being what you’re not.

Trite conversations

July 2005 – Berkeley

All these months I’ve been buried in books
And I barely managed to steal a look at you
But I know you feel the same.

Evening trappings of the trite
Another social gathering
Seemingly light
But it’s not quite

If I could I would believe
In simple dreams and simple speak
I know…
Every year my love grows deep and so does my hate
I’m losing my restraint.

Ties and cocktails, legal briefs
And brief conversations
To not detract from exams
And I do not understand.

I’ll escape the affair for a seat by the fountain
I am an aging ancient man
And it’s so long since I laughed.

But I’ve heard tell you’ve lived harder things
Like death and depth and meaning
We need to connect
While we’ve still a few years left.

In these times we must believe
In simple dreams and simple speak
I know…
I see your anger, undeserved
And you need to talk, but cannot speak a word.

So when I ask you how you are
Please do not
Don’t tell me that you’re fine.
I want to hear more.

All these months I’ve been buried in books
And I barely managed to steal a look at you
But I know you feel the same.

American June

Gaz-guzzlin’
On the shining path to the AMC
These Reston friends are the bestest, yet at best they’re temporary.
You know this sing-along song, it’s a classic, that same old stupid tune
The front porch rock inheritance of an American June.

Leave it on the tip of an American June.

The USA is a tarmac, arrivals and departures in a sea of concrete
Even when I watch my life go by from the window of an old SUV
Even when you’re not ready to take the time for the love that I give you for free
‘Cause even if I just use you
I’ll still have
Me.
And that’s the American dream….

Happy meals we call them
We Stop n’ Shop in just every place
With the Meals-on-Wheels so hidden; wrap our lives in cellophane
Some of us will get ahead, and some will clean up after those who do.
But as long as the Red Sox are playin’
There’ll be no revolution anytime soon.

Leave it on the tip of an American June.
All these things they take up both the far and the soon.

Even when you’re not ready to take the time for the love that I give you for free,
Even when I ask you to marry and a career is your primary need,
Even when I’m old and careful scaring kids off my private property
‘Cause even if I just use you
I’ll still have
Me.
And that’s the American dream.

Give me something to fight for; something to fight for besides me.

Quarter Rests

June 2005 – Berkeley

When you heard the news
Did you think that you deserved it?
Some awful punishment?

To waste away in perfect privacy
Hidden
From God and those you love.

Now you’re skipping pills
Some weird economy
To save on bills; but not to save your life.

Did we forget you
In our inertia
Did you fall into
A gap in conscious time?

I see you on the street
I see you losing weight
In the Mission
You could use one now.

You slip between the moments
Slip between the oceans
In the quarter rests.

Show me the way
To march in this pride parade
We’ll leave these lives, and jump on highway one
Driving north
North
Don’t look back
Drive straight into the sun.

You slip between the moments
Slip between the oceans

In the quarter rests.

You slip between the moments
Slip between the oceans
In the quarter rests.

Passengers

June 2006 – Oakland

Come inside; I’ve a story to tell.
About choices I’ve made
And some I’ve come to regret.

Like I’ve never stayed anywhere
Long enough to love anyone right.
How I’m never safe
So I can’t make you safe tonight; lying awake.

Give in; you can pick up the phone
We’re not the only ones
Who feel alone.
Yet we hide in the masquerade
We hide in the river of stones.
And we ride just like passengers
Damned to never go home.

If I reach for you
Would you fall back and shudder?
We can all, we can all
Take better care of each other.

Come inside; I’ve a story to tell
About choices I
Might not have time to make.

For I’m riding this train, that only pulls
Into stations for a moment or two.
And the passengers change
And I’ve no one
To hold on to
Along the way.

The Grid

October 2003 – Washington, DC

You say it’s fine; just a tempest in the night.
I’m the reason you cannot confide, am I not?
A telepath, a kind word across a telegraph.
I’d collect them, coming fast, too fast.

I might see you every day
I might see you not at all
But it’s not quite quiet yet.
It’s not quite quiet
Yet.

A roiling sky, the better if we’re to hide.
It’s the season for holding tight and closing up.
I lay by your side, but the tempest is in your eyes
And you’re harder to hold than the storm right outside.

Sleep on, sleep on.

The storm knocks the limbs down to the ground
And the grid fails and every light goes out
And we light these candles, the best to see you with
And hold them here in shelter indefinite.

The power lines come down, and all we’ll know is dark.
But would we notice through the darkness of our hearts?

And it’s not quite quiet yet
We’ve still a few days left
It’s not quite quiet yet
Here.

Sao Paulo

April 2006, Berkeley
For Ana-Carolina Zeri

We could maybe split the difference
Orlando & Sao Paulo.
These United States you know get oh so serious.

Before I lose myself to ambition
I’d ask your permission
To visit you down south.

Baby, I was born in Mexico City,
I have missed it so.
I have lived and died in the pavement north.
Can I come in from the cold yet? I have felt so old now
I have felt so old.

I have tried to make a difference
In this northern land.
Our power here is great.
But baby, here they just don’t understand
The world beyond their states.
And I am the unusual alien
For I look quite the same.

We are southern bells
Ringing in the sun
Weathered by belief
And colors of pastels
All along
Our dirty streets.

Yet for now I am still waiting
In the well-to-do, well-polished North
As silent as can be.

One day, babe, I’m coming back to your clear waters
And I’m giving this all up.

And we’ll sing in Portuguese
And smile
With the South.

Stationary Stone

February 2006, Lake Tahoe / April 16, 2006, Berkeley

And it’s too late tonight
For me to come on out.
Sometimes I need some time to myself.
We could play cards
We could play at hearts
You know, that ain’t out worked out well for me
This far.

Oh, I am all right on my own
And I’d rather be alone
I’m a solitary stone.

And it’s too late tonight
For another rocket west
I am not so easy to know
Though you do your best.
We could play cards, we could play at hearts
But the outcome is uncertain
Though I’m certain
Of my part.

I cannot, I cannot count on everyone
‘Til we learn to be a little better, baby
I’ll be countin’ on this one.

And it’s too late tonight
For me to come on out.
Sometimes I need some time to myself.
We could play cards
We could play at hearts
You know, that ain’t out worked out well for me
This far.

I am all right on my own.
And I’d rather stay at home.
I’m a stationary, I’m a solitary
I am not a rolling stone!
I’m a stationary, I’m a solitary,
This stone rocks alone!