When it enters
me, the rough, burning, light-filled stuff, that's when I know what I
am: a beast.
The dullness of
mind that silences the screams of the heart. Hello old ghost, make
yourself at home.
Well not a home,
but four walls at least. Four walls that creak and groan with the
wind, the little wind chimes of the disenfranchised. Yet I am not a
beast only, there is something else, something bright. And that brightness
is seen when my voice becomes many, when my eyes stop beholding, when
my eyes see, only when they see
One might stop
and stare, and ask why? But when you look long enough all you can see
is yourself, black skin, light skin, English, unknown sounds, female,
male, all blurs into one when you really take a hard look. Not that
we're all the same, but yet...we are one. The blind man on the corner
playing his cigar-box-guitar, is the white man in expensive clothes
clanging away to the crowd of millions. All sound becomes one sound,
little difference between the jangling homemade and the shiny
produced, all is soul, and no one is soulless.
Those who gawk lack the understanding of what the little man does, the little man, that seemingly useless thing, he does more for the soul of the earth than any douche in a Mercedes could hope to do. It's all about flow, or rhythm, or beat, hell they're the same, it's about soul, it's about life. The breath the comes from foot tapping and off-key choruses, nothing can touch that, not rust, not time, not cynicism, nothing.
Those who gawk lack the understanding of what the little man does, the little man, that seemingly useless thing, he does more for the soul of the earth than any douche in a Mercedes could hope to do. It's all about flow, or rhythm, or beat, hell they're the same, it's about soul, it's about life. The breath the comes from foot tapping and off-key choruses, nothing can touch that, not rust, not time, not cynicism, nothing.
As I gulp, and
waste my time, I can hear it, the mastery of the slaves, the wisdom
of the uneducated, those things they do are so pure, so boundless and
beautiful, I wish I could join them. There is something to be said
of the joy of the poor, like beasts in purity they revel in the
simple, the whole, the life-giving noise of all things. Who cares if
you can shred on an 8 string Stratocaster, can you feel the emotions
that make galaxies turn? Can you bounce to the beating of a thousand
stars? That's where the soul comes in, and gives life to metal.
There's a demon in mind, that deifies others, and berates itself, something that wishes for the noble savage, yet knows there is no savage, noble or otherwise. If a savage did exist, it would be a banner spread across the whole earth, one tongue for all people, a savage beast that rips apart art and all lovely things. There is no noble, and no savage, all are one, and yet many. The beautiful that creates all colors and noise, that thing that cannot be taught or explained.
There's a demon in mind, that deifies others, and berates itself, something that wishes for the noble savage, yet knows there is no savage, noble or otherwise. If a savage did exist, it would be a banner spread across the whole earth, one tongue for all people, a savage beast that rips apart art and all lovely things. There is no noble, and no savage, all are one, and yet many. The beautiful that creates all colors and noise, that thing that cannot be taught or explained.
There is only
the one thing, that noise, that cry, that proclamation, the yearning,
that desire, the need...There is only life for us little ones that
live, only the light in defiance of the dark, only the noise in
answer to the silence, only one in unity with the many.
