Now the birds speak in secret rhythms
and the trees bark in secret sounds
and the people rush in secret thoughts
and they push the thoughts into the shape of words

and sometimes someone among us
sticks her head into the
shiny phosphorus blue vat of language
and listens, like a skeleton
to the pulsing of life within,
and she tells us of secret rattling angles
to watch for and to reach into
with strange oceans and deafening skies
that can be mapped and measured
only by sounds and never by meanings
and once we can tell where we are
using the nearest star
as it relates to the ragged water
then we can plant our own feet into the good ground
and go to the rodeo
and answer the plum-colored hawk
and sing to the river in good faith

god presses his mouth around our head
he breathes out...he breathes in
and we are resusitated in the goofy atmosphere of god
where there are highways and bowling
and tatooed by the sun
a circus
made by the prayer of breathing and living hope
and barbed eyes where coyotes hang
and cowboys hammer posts and branches to keep us inside
as much as keep someone out

and the prayer that is
and it is answered with a breath
gods lips against our own
we breathe in...we breathe out
he breathes out
and sigh, alive again
the unexpected discovery of
a B side of life
a map of voices
a warning to others who would come this way
an amimal who has seen things
a horn twisted into shapes
understood by strangers
recognized by demons
an invitation in the secret language of trees
sung in wild shapes by a child

-- Rikki Lee Jones


5

Someday - when
you have the

time - you will
really die.

-- Cid Corman