Now the birds speak in secret rhythms
|
and the trees bark in secret sounds
|
and the people speak in secret thought
|
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 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 resuscitated in the goofy
|
atmosphere of god
|
where there are highways and bowling
|
and tattooed 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 animal 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
|
|
-----------------
|
Liner notes
|
| Rickie Lee Jones |
