There is something about me I'd like you to know: I'm a student of the art of letting go, And of the way the oxygen leaves the tree, And of the beauty of the tyranny of entropy. I was born into a caste In the snowy empire of the past. It was dark in school: I couldn't see to read, Couldn't feel the earth to plant a seed. I'm here today cause I survived by wholeheartedly playing bloody games, Kept alive by the lovesick demon known by many names. But now, the war is over and stillness is my choice, So that if the Master wants to sing, then he can use my voice. Life is everlasting fire, Fueled by power and desire. There's a subtle truth I must discern: One day I, too, will burn.

I've got a healthy way of thinking, 'Cept for that I fall to drinking Every time your name is mentioned By a mutual friend or foe. I've got women in my doorway, I've got women in my hallway, I've got women in the closet And I've got women on the floor, But guess whose lying, cheating face I keep looking for. Loving you is like being stranded In a desert of double standards: Every dune and every cactus Screams out, "Are you man, or no?" I've survived by being a liar, I've been strangled by desire, Been locked and coddled in the cellar, Nursed and swaddled in the attic, Tossed around the North Atlantic, Ripped and skewered like a whore. I'm always either drowning in the ocean, Of suffocating on the shore.

I'm oblivious and hyper-vigilant like all at once. I've been flying in an airplane for the last eleven months. I'm as cunning as a ghost dance, and a darling of the scribes. I've received the keys to cities from my many adoptive tribes. There's a ghost of old Gestapo in the home where I begin. I've been violent with my homeland like a real mujahedin. An apocalyptic time clock's now in almost every home, Next to every public statue and hidden under every dome. No electric confirmation comes when you want it too hard; No angelic choir singing, just the chickens in the yard. Love is like a railroad switch point: one-track betting makes it real. My intended destination makes no difference to the Wheel. Give the passenger a hammer to smash the window and escape! Can't you see the bus is burning and operated by an ape? Nothing paves the way for danger like equipment in disuse. Here's a tiny metal anchor for in case you're coming loose.

I'm not Henry VIII: I'm no good with an ax. When my wife is Kassandra - that's when I can relax. I'll construct endless labyrinths, I'm a master at those. Go ahead, try to find me. We'll see how that goes. I was born in a river, I was raised in a cloud. I could not be a giver, I was wrapped in a shroud. My poor father was Chaos, with the sacred he toyed; My poor mother was Warfare and her name was The Void. If I was a monarch, I'd be crazy with need. I'd ride roughshod my subjects and I'd never pay heed. All for love I'd wreak havoc: I'd need more love than there is. But I don't have that power, and thank God that's the way that it is.

The women who are interested in me (Oo na na) Are low in self-esteem and high in anxiety, And my dungeon's full of bones and reeks of murder. That's my reality. I took advantage; it's a two-way street. They looked for me unconsciously, and I, too, looked for them. They were not innocent, they played the game quite fiercely; (I hope you never meet the worst ones) Even professionally. The hairy bush and armpit hair - I've spent so many hours there, Just lost in timeless reverie. The river's constant memory That empties to the ocean of the past. (Moments aren't made to last) The shoulder, neck and stomach flesh, The thigh so soft, the mouth so fresh... I asked and I received An eternity surrounded by the snapshots of the life That I conceived for lack of depth. (And desperate for protection) The legacy of a lifetime of desperate mirth, Trying to deny (and to defy) and to decry my birth. I'm neither young, nor old, I'm just around. (Life rages on outside your tomb) A brief life full of fury and of sound, (And they say there's no such thing as no tomorrow) Followed by an eternity of silence underneath the ground. (Like an Egyptian pharaoh! Aren't you great! ---- Oo na na) My many-headed wife's name's Emptiness. (Anima, Anima, Anima, Anima) Sometimes her kiss feels just like death's caress, (Anima, Anima, Anima, oo) And that's still the only thing that gravitates me, (Still the only thing that infiltrates me) Makes me real inside a world that would negate me. I must be getting somewhere I must be getting somewho I must be getting somewhat I must be getting somehow I hope I'm getting somewhere Tell me I'm getting somewhere I must be getting somewhere I must become Osiris

Dear Northern Atlantic, I'm writing to you from my cave, Hoping to stumble back on the name of this vision I keep trying to save. When I was a sailor, young as a kid on the rocks, I used to write you regular letters, improvised right here on your docks. Hearing your name on the water, feeling your breath in my hair, I was plugged in - it never occurred to me you may not even know anybody was there. Dear Northern Atlantic, come and share this samurai's rice. I've always found it so hard to distinguish your fire in the sky from your ice. That time when you showed me the girls at the center of Earth, I didn't know then that what they would owe me would be much more than what their pearls were worth. But I went to the brink for them, I even gave away all my antiques. That was just practice - I recognize that now - but still, some of those items were heirlooms and they were unique. Remember when we were married and you used to cook me my meals And I used to flirt with your mother and sister and constantly ask how you feel? It kind of reminds me of my runaway life on the road, When I was a circus contortionist and a stand-in for the giant toad. I still have your old apron, but I don't even remember it's there Ever since I've devoted my life to traversing the earth and the sea and the air. Now I live in a commune with multiple husbands and wives, Creating and sharing the heartache and laughter that becomes the content of our lives. I find I look upward more often than I did before: You used to tell me it's good for my neck bones, I think about those kinds of things more. Whenever our caravan passes not far from your fields, I resist the urge to invite everybody to drop in with me on your afternoon meal. They all know about you. Your name's never far from my lips. I've got you programmed into the swaying of my lover's hips. Yes, I see you in the morning sun, and when I watch the violets grow. I wish that I could just walk into your house, we'd be young again and I'd say hello As if nothing had happened, because, after all, nothing did. You of all people should know that the time behind us is a mere speck of dust on all of Manhattan's grid. Dear Northern Atlantic, I now know the way things are bent. I've heard that secrets of mine circulated and were published without my consent, But I see the inherent wisdom of wearing away The cliffs on the coastline by licking and lapping for eternity, day after day. We both started out once as children, with petroglyphs over our door, But I try to find now the wisdom to go, even knowing that you're going to stay an eternity more.

There's a wilderness inside you - a Sahara under frozen sky, Where the sands are like the ocean and the Arabs bleed you dry. If these memories don't strangle me, I might become a cop. You can never come back home, but you can go to Quai de Jemmapes. Walk the ground that once was fertile, with those echoes in your ear Of the bloody inspiration that exploded from the fear - From the fear that's since transformed into sophisticated self-ass hate, Suicidal ideation. Eat the cakes you always ate, Sit and try to feel something where you once mined golden ore On the banks of that old stream, where nothing happens anymore. Your old wife is dead and married, your old self is gone gone gone. Were you ever really there? Was it real, my bare-forked one?

Got the stride in the morning, I've got them nerves at night. Got the stride in the morning, I've got them nerves at night. I've got the fear-of-death blues, baby, I've sent several distress signals, and now I'm so anxiously waiting to hear back from the me inside who can just sit with that without reacting. I've cut out the sugar mama, and I've cut out the cheese and bread. I've cut out the sugar mama, and I've cut out the cheese and bread. I've been daily meditating And I relearn every day that beingness is busy and painful inside no matter what you do, and the only thing you can do is try to love the chaos and emptiness as the home to which we are all on our way back. I've got the beingness blues, I've got the emptiness blues, I've got the yoga dome blues, I've got the big city blues, I've got the Lithuania blues, I've got the broken chair blues, I've got the these-people-are-amazing blues, I've got the get-me-out-of-here blues. I've been sleeping by the airport, the plane takes off right near my head. I've been sleeping by the airport, the plane takes off right near my head. I've got the chatter-brain blues, And the fact that the emptiness that has replaced my old habits is new and freaks me out is redeemed by the fact that I now have an internal observer, who is the best friend and partner a dark prince could have, and I think he is here to stay. I've got the broken back blues, Got the scenarios blues, I've got the re-evaluating blues, Got the apology blues, Got the psychology blues, Got the nada shakti blues, Got the blue sky blues. Got the blue sky blues. Got the blue sky blues. Got the blue sky blues.