A road looking for a map

"Marcos is gay in San Francisco, black in South Africa, an Asian in Europe, a Chicano in San Ysidro, an anarchist in Spain, a Palestinian in Israel, a Mayan Indian in the streets of San Cristobal, a gang member in Neza, a rocker in the National University, a Jew in Germany, an ombudsman in the Defense Ministry, a communist in the post-Cold War era, an artist without gallery or portfolio.... A pacifist in Bosnia, a housewife alone on Saturday night in any neighborhood in any city in Mexico, a striker in the CTM, a reporter writing filler stories for the back pages, a single woman on the subway at 10 pm, a peasant without land, an unemployed worker... an unhappy student, a dissident amid free market economics, a writer without books or readers, and, of course, a Zapatista in the mountains of southeast Mexico. So Marcos is a human being, any human being, in this world. Marcos is all the exploited, marginalized and oppressed minorities, resisting and saying, 'Enough'!"

- 'Subcomandante Marcos', EZLN spokesperson

Into starlight.

Virtually all that you are

I guess you too
have much to tell

I guess you have stories
kept from everyone
and secret cigarettes shared at dusk
with people with whom
you drank and laughed and cried
a few nights away

I guess you’ve loved someone
you pretended to hate
or the opposite
I guess you’ve kissed a stranger
- we’ve all had our fair share –
and have at least
two fears and one desire
that will die alone with you

I guess there’s more
but still I’m asking you:
have you ever been in a room
so filled with hate
you could actually fall back
and not hit the floor?

Into starlight.

Pinned to the hook

"My father had a friend when he was a kid in Texas, in a place called Sulphur Springs. He was kind of the local James Dean, and he used to race the train to the crossing on an Indian motorcycle. He was always talking about getting out of town. That was his big thing: getting out of town. But he always went to the edge of town and turned around and came back. And whenever the train would go through, it would have to slow down to pick up the mail. They had a hook that would come out and catch the mail sack and then keep going. And one day he was racing the train and he met it right at the crossing, and crashed into it. And he was pinned to the hook. But it did take him all the way to the next town."

- Tom Waits

Into starlight.

To a hundred graves and back

I look at this smile
this weathered
broken down
smile
and I think of how much of it
has been left behind through the years
and how you're still nursing it
in silent and tender toil
and I wish
there was more of it for you

but sorrow
sorrow
like an old whore
keeps luring it back
her bony hands
stroking its hair
and glowing
soaked in its dusty remains
while she sings deatlhy lullabies
of a love that bears no promises

I hum these songs myself
and somehow
I look at this smile
and I wish
there was more of it for you

Into starlight.

Muddy Water

Mary, grab the baby, the river's rising
Muddy water taking back the land
The old-frame house, she can't take-a one more beating
Ain't no use to stay and make a stand

Well the morning light shows water in the valley
Daddy's grave just went below the line
Things to say, you just can't take em with ya
This flood will swallow all you've left behind

Won't be back to start all over
Cause what I felt before is gone

Mary, take the child, the river's rising
Muddy water taking back my home
The road is gone, there's just one way to leave here
Turn my back on what I've left below
Shifting land, broken farms around me
Muddy water's changing all I know

It's hard to say just what I'm losing
Ain't never felt so all alone

Mary, take the child, the river's rising
Muddy water taking back my home

Won't be back to start all over
Cause what I felt before is gone

Mary, take the child, the river's rising
Muddy water's changing all I know
Muddy water's changing all I know
Lord, this muddy water is taking back my home

- John Bundrick

Into starlight.

A dog in the manger of mercies

Sunday evening is dissolving
into night
I have a beer in my hand
and Jacques Brel on my stereo
as I hear you call
it's nice of you to call
- no, I swear, it really is -
you ask me how I’m doing
and I can’t tell you
for sure

I guess I could tell you
about the man at the door
and his shadow
that looms over sleepless nights
even though I can’t
see him
and about this
endless
ugly
nameless fever
and the sickly yellow days
it has been spawning
and I could go on about
wanderlust
and trains and planes and cars
about sunsets
and moss-covered stone walls
about the different shapes of love
and its shortcomings

and how I’m subscribing
to my own mythology

I guess I could tell you this and much more
but I say I’m doing fine
and goodbye
trying to forget your silence
wondering if you’re not hurt by mine

You see
I do have Brel on my stereo
and a beer in my hand
so I guess I’m doing fine

Into starlight.