Dreams die hard, clutching in the silent air, mouths gaping, eyes that stare. Dreams die hard, limbs unravel in streaming smoke, A strangled cry, a gasping choke, The Good Physician suppresses hope.
Dreams die hard, like water drying in the empty street, the kiss of Wisdom is like summer heat, The passing cars don't really care, Like mahasiddhas who have cut their hair. The mist of folly's lost in empty air.
Dreams die hard. all the windows in the house break, letting in the soft moonlight. In the stone garden, the sound of water falling out of sheer delight-- A cry of vultures and they're off in flight, On craggy peaks now gazing down A span of miles to the burning ground.
The stars above us shine like a blessing ... Unchanging in their motion -- Which is not their motion, but ours -- no matter, If one moves, all move, and so The seasons change, and through the shifting days We strive to remember our names.
We walk a zigzagging line that meanders and crests Over breaking waves and even as we strive to make it straight It wavers and breaks apart and The image of a perfect moon splintered to a million shining pieces ...
There's no way to recreate perfection; It forms again of itself, like water settling in the palm of your hand There's no way to return the way you came. The way you came is gone, lost absolutely Where the waves kept rolling on.
When there's no memory to bind, The days come undone. They fall like autumn leaves, one upon the other; It does not matter, Snow will soon come to cover.
Well we need to save the water Before it gets much hotter Or the forests aren't gonna survive Well we could live underground Or on the dark side of the moon Or scan ourselves on microchips And all become cartoons
[Every generation thinks it is special. Apocalypse is always in vogue. When you can't make the world work, you hope it all goes to hell in a handbasket, because then you'll be no worse off than anyone else. Call it anarchist's revenge. When I was a young man, my friends and I lit out for the hills of Southern Oregon, in hopes of finding skinny-dipping, long summer days and big blue skies, easy living, milk and honey, no need for money. You can bet we didn't find it. No, instead we found shoddy living accommodations, bad roads, hostile neighbors and pickups, I mean people who would shoot bear for God's sake. On the other hand, you might see a mountain lion, certainly bobcat, and the coyotes could drive you plumb deaf when a big full moon came rising up behind Pilot Rock like a spotlight illuminating the entire valley. So it was mystical. So were we.]
Colestine? Pretty much like the rest of the earth. Dirt, trees, grass and sky. Clouds that come and go. Wind blowing. In the morning, birds sing. Sometimes, at night, coyotes howl. Later on, I will say things more specific, but you should remember this, that it is not different, not in any important way. What is really important is how much it is the same as other places.
The road is bad. Most people will say this. I do not say it is bad until winter turns it into three miles of churned shit, but late at night it can wear me out. But it is the boundary line, the essential demarcation between town energy and country energy. When your tires hit the paved road something clicks in your body -- you accelerate the car and shift into third. Down the road a mile, the mailbox may have something in it, then onward to the business in town.
That night, when your tires roll off the pavement onto the rough, uneven gravel of Colestine road, something in your body is released. As your headlights illuminate the winding road and the underbranches of the trees, as you downshift into second to keep the washboard from ripping the wheels off your car, you enter a different zone. The zone of the backwoods driver. Drive on.
Charles is a quick brown fox, jumping over the lazy sunset, making eyes at the fries, Treating the Christmas maidens To ice cream and dried dreams, While the entertainment magazines Promote brand-new spastic machines That run wild in their butler uniforms All day, then settle down at night On their patios with cold cans Of Spaghettios, And never, ever touch the remote.
Now I lay me Down To Sleep, I pray the Lord My soul To Keep. If dawn should catch me Once again, I pray I'll meet it With a friend. If sorrow makes it's bed with me I pray to meet it fearlessly; If solid earth should fall away I pray to find a grasp somewhere; And if this moment fades to stay, Leaving my name to dust among the voices of the living, I pray that I will yet Partake in the sacrament of giving.
Well it was just the other day Went out on the runway It was time to catch the plane and I sure am glad to say That the witch doctor was right there Spilling blood all along the wing, I could practically see the wind gods Lifting us to the sky, Cause I'm a superstitious guy and you want to know why Because I don't know where I came from or where to go when I die, And if I can't find someone to take my money Then it's all gonna be so goddamn funny So kill the beasts Make the gods happy If they don't cheer up My life will be crappy And we have to eat dinner anyway So why not do it right after we pray And kill TWO BIRDS WITH ONE STONE!