The door is wide open - from inside I hear The screaming of color. The incense unclear Wafting in clouds, sounding gray in the heat Of the absence of sun in the hole by my feet. Father the door is open I'm going through the door Father the door is open Lines, carried, counting the way back abound. Fugitives file at the corners of sound Lost to the ears as the tools cut and shear. Noise from perception and perception from fear. Lost and rehearsing the futile old game: Where timers are ticking and god has a name, Where books line the shelves in attempts to explain, Where paint daubs resent all the lies they contain. Release me, release me, I'm tired and I'm sane. But I've died knowing less, knowing less is too vain. Pretensions and scratching in the dirt with my feet: All I can give in the face of defeat.

The landscape gives a heartless shrug - It claims a barren soul of dust. The driest wind that e'er has blown Will wipe the plain clean of disgust. While blinded stares hide 'neath the clay, Where no one sees or heals the sick. And burrowed tunnels echo soft With sounds of dark and tempting times. The Dark Age never really left, It's only tubes that light the lies. The simple way is hard and cruel, But what is good in gold and sighs? And still the landscape holds no cares: Horizons filled with smoke and flame. The huts are filled with swollen eyes, Watching clocks in tempting times. A fruitless tree forever bearing Poison on a plastic limb. Another tree's been stripped of plenty Of food to fill the bowl to brim. Ploughs that turn the dust to green, Lack the blade to cut the rock, To carve into this landscape grey: A petrol spill in tempting times. The faintest light from distant stars Leads the way back to a place, Where walls abound and rivers ramble Paths of narrow bleeding space. The landscape hovers near to here. Horizons seen to moan and cry. Color loses all its meaning In these toneless tempting times. Hopeful breath is left to wither Crackling in the desert sun, While the senses scream for treason - Corners turned but nothing's done. A compass points a thousand places On this aimless plain of stone. The sick are heard to say a last prayer In these dark and tempting times.

We built a little house in the piney wood With big windows looking toward the sea. As we stood together ‘neath the winter moon I smelled smoke upon the evening breeze. And the branches on the dead trees scrape A pattern on the winter moon And I worked so hard to ignore that smell, But I couldn’t get it off my mind. As we stood together, I was miles away, But no fire there that I could find. With a sense of dread, I went down below Underneath our little house to see. I saw blackened trees and some coals remained Wafting smoke upon the evening breeze. And the piney wood sounds so quiet, calm. I can smell the ocean on the breeze. But the moon is new, and we stand apart Between the skeletons of those trees.

I write in red but think in black, Except when that old man is back. He’s come to pay a visit now. His aim is true. His goal’s a row With every living breathing thought That a weary chattered mind has caught And held to light and seen as good. I’m wandering where I know I should. I speak in tongues but talk in black, Especially when that man is back. He comes descending as a cloud. His thunderclaps are rather loud. A blanket made of moldy wool, A pillow not for rest, a tool To smother hope, to garrote sense. I’m wandering where I’m rather tense. I whisper lies but shout in black. I’d really like my senses back. I see the old man isn’t breathing. I see the soul is nearly seething, Trapped without a chain in sight, Trapped although I’m traveling light. Free, but not a bloody saint, I’m wandering and I’m feeling faint.

I walked on down through the oaks and scrub And I looked out at the ocean. I was hot and dry, like the sky above, And I sat down with the notion That I had come to the end of all This country - what it stood for - A culture pushed and here it stopped: The coastline of California. I turned around and I looked upon The mountains I had passed through; Logged and left like an open wound, And the creeks run red with refuse. A river runs to the end of all This country - what it stood for - A culture pushed and here it stopped: The coastline of California. No signs of those who had been before But some piles of shells revealing A thousand years of settled life; The patterns kept repeating. But they were there at the end of all This country - what it stood for - A culture pushed and here it stopped: The coastline of California. I knelt upon the ragged edge Of a sandstone cliff that's crumbling; I tried to grasp what was left for me But watched it go a-tumbling. For I am here at the end of all This country - what it stood for - A culture pushed and here it stopped: The coastline of California.

Were you there when waters parted, And the waves came crashing down On the unsuspecting people That were standing all around? When the floodwaters receded And no one was left alive, Were you there standing beside me As I looked and softly cried? Were you there when fires finished All the darker works of men? Where they ripped and hacked at nightfall, When the stars would light again The same old fields and forests That our grandmothers once knew. Where they birthed our mothers crying And they wondered “Was that you?” Were you there behind the wire? Were you there inside the fence? When the dead ends of the mind were found To leave the bounds of sense, And flow into the rivers Draining deep into the sea. Were you there when waters parted? Were you there inside of me?

This is not my country – No, I don't know this place – Where once poets went howling Into the nameless face. Where Kerouac went walking And sat in desolate grace. The angels fell from heaven - They wouldn't know this place. This is not the country That Woody Guthrie knew – The talking blues and the work songs ‘Round the dusty fields blew. Could he ever have guessed this – That the fascists would win? The bombs and missiles flying – The enemy within. This is not the country That my grandfather saw Through the eyes of a painter As he walked along Highway 1 up the coastline, Before the Second World War. The lonely call of the desert – Hard to hear anymore. This is not my country – This is not my war. The bombs and missiles flying And I don't know what for. Everyone is a target. No one has a face. Taking sides - making demons – No, I don't know this place.

With the lifting of the filters, And the dropping of pretense, Words are taking on a meaning Far beyond accepted sense. Well-Marketed Men Will free us again From worries and thinking Let’s get back to our drinking Tortured remnants of a language Left to rot upon a tree, Along with saviors, martyrs, teachers - Who gave their all, who gave it free. Agitated angry Ashen-faced and crazy Glasses full of bubbles The methods not so subtle Tongues are twisted, spirits lifted By the freedom found inside Of bunkers, warm with aging bodies. Nowhere safe, no need to hide.

Scarcity scaling the fences of plenty, Bruising the totals and knees of the workers. Where do the fickle ones lighten their load? Who built the fences and who found the totals? The cold war is over So why are we freezing While men in high places Are laughing and warm The cold war is over The feeling is creeping That someone or something Will bring us to harm From where does the noise come when all are asleep? From all of the rest who must work to ensure That fence builders, total-totters, sleep, oh so soundly – Work to ensure that they blissfully rest. Unaware of the sweat but disturbed by the noise - Grumpily rising from beds filled with feathers - Calling for coffee and the papers that parrot Lies from the lips of an ego gone mad. Aware of the sweat and quite deafened by noise, Slaves underground rising up to the day Blinking, the lights all around them are flashing. Troubled and shallow the sleep yet to come.

Delicate the peace, Shattered once, now shy Of tracing the steps, Rehearsed well. But try Never to speak Of the methods and moods. The conquered but free - The hot-blooded feuds. The rills in the sky Forming currents that mirror The streams that cut gently, Too hot to come clear. And boots tread the surface, And guns shock the sense, But minds never clouded Will never grow tense. And what of the wars Where the olive trees still grow? The fruit of the land Outlives all that go The way of the sword, The fist, and the gun. A delicate peace When the rest comes undone.

I awoke to the sound of gunfire on Easter Morning, But I could not speak to save my life. How I wanted to run from this place, And I was pinned not by bullets, But the sins of a past I never lived. This bed is cold as stone, And although the door is open, I cannot leave. Thirsty, I took the cup to drink on Easter Morning, But the rim was cracked and cut my lip. The drops of blood mixed with dry dust, For the cup had been empty for ages, And I could never fill it though I bleed for one thousand years. This bed is cold as stone, And although the door is open, I cannot leave. Awake, I wept at the thought of the night before Easter Morning: At the violence of the actions that filled my head. And I looked out the door At the tree I once had climbed, Riddled with bullets, and I could not save myself. This bed is cold as stone, And although the door is open, I cannot leave.

Asking the why but the answer’s opinion - Walking ‘round lifeless, no better than blind. Stumbling trails that are littered with remnants: Rocks and bare roots of a treacherous kind. Mind the gap Between what you’re hearing Mind the gap And what you know to be true Strip to the bone but the flesh is too willing, Naked, pinched breath on a cold barren day. Sacrifices made at an altar, familiar. No one can look at perfection this way. Reason’s the father and the mother is sterile Knowledge will cut out the heart of the son But kindness will fill in the gaps A black lamb is bleeding, and she’s lifeless for nothing, The sticky black blood sucks the soul from the feet. Walking these trails, tripping, rootless and barren. No less and no more, just opinions to me.

Well the world’s full of trouble, I’m finding it’s double Of what they once taught me in school. There’s people that’s dying, And old people crying, And our president’s a sorry old fool. When I look in the mirror There’s one thing that’s clear – I’m older and sorrier too. Well some folks are right, and some folks are wrong And sometimes a song’s just a song Well, the sixties are over. Were you rolling in clover When time stole away what you know? ‘Cause now the old geezers, Between having seizures, Are charging big bucks for a show. The music’s the same, Just a whole lot more tame, For the new songs they ebb more than flow. Well some folks are weak, and some folks are strong And sometimes a song’s just a song Well I’m starting to sound Like I’m determined and bound To dislike this world that we’ve got. But in fact, I’m in love With the heaven’s above And the rest of us here where it’s hot. So, the wheel keeps turning And my stomach is churning As I give it my very best shot. Some folks want to lead, some folks tag along And sometimes a song’s just a song