Icaros

Some ongoing documentary work by my friend Ryan Wylie. Quite simply, my favorite songs....

Spirit Songs: A Musical Taxonomy of the Amazon

"Shamans receive their healing powers during ceremonies -- when the spirits of the plants communicate with them through sacred songs known as icaros. Every life form in the Amazon has a song and their melodies are believed to possess healing powers. Icaros have been described as the quintessence of shamanic power and the number of icaros a shaman knows is the measure of his power. For more on this work-in-progress: innermissionproductions.com"

Amazonian shaman, Cesar Panduro, shares a song

Benmont Jefferson's Lost Things, the Goosepile, Gooseknit & Goosekept

I'll remember you right there
not saying anything...

half in, half out of the water

middle-inning weirdness
consumed the center fielder
and by extension
the young starting pitcher

it could be said he chased himself from the game


one voice
gave way
to forty-thousand
questions



((sleep, darling, and return
to poise known and learned

a gaze steady forward and in))

a moist, canine breath—
lay down and take a nap ‘cause
you done licked the bowl clean

half-lit rooms and corridors
shelves, collections
histories
you think there may be someone else here
but you are not

Our Heart

You could say he was pressing, chasing,
Falling behind, not seeing pitches.
That he’d lost it.
You could say a lot of things,
And people did, because people are always saying things.
But a saying said a thousand times means nothing.
Ol’ Jimmy “Three Hands” Swinger,
He of the most unfortunate name.
“Rally killer” they called him.
“The piss in the peanuts.”
“The ball park dog.”
Deep-seated cringe..
The one game he hit into three triple plays.
Three triple plays. One game.
And the season on the line.
(The season then was always on the line.)
I mean, that’s history,
But who wants to be on that side of history?
There then a great caterwaul
madness
dis-integration
coming-to
pieces
(fish)
“You wait your whole life for this.”
(flashes and more)
“I think I’m....”
“Where were we?”
(red-rimmed and honest)
(too so)
“The fans,” he trailed off,
“They got a point.”
(one thousand years under water)
Know you the lusty boos?
The contempt of a city?
“I can hear it when I sleep.”
“It’s....”
(the eyes are wet)
“I should probably have been a fisherman.”
“Not too late,” the pundit quipped.


Be not afraid


a’bed
(the sound of cars passing in the rain)
(flish)

He was always walking off the field,
We see him from behind—
Arms at his side,
Head down,
In stride.
How, no one is to know—
He is and was
Always
Walking off the field—


Song Of Three Hands
Song Of Swinger

“In my mind I’m flying out of the ballpark
And the angels are on their feet.
Silence gives way to something special...

( )

Our old heart redeeming...


When you’re a child
You’re a child
You never have to forget anything
Three hands, red and blue and green
Coming round the corner home
A sea of you, waterlife, clean
Coming round the corner home
Three hands sure and sure and seen

we are wet with love

home home home

flying from field
and home

to the sunlight with fish

I had a dream you were dreaming...

”

Nothing Now Between The Earth And You

you never planned a comb-over...
it just kinda happened—
you comb over

***

the memory of you then,
the sounds that came out of your mouth
under the too-bright lights of the football field
on graduation night,

Captain,
Our Sorry Captain,
set sail Exile

***

“see”
“no”

see

***

embed:
wrongness
panic

sense of escalating mistake

soundless

flailing
seen across space—

at first you don’t know you can’t move,
can’t breathe

((you))

you start to move

***

this bathroom, this morning
it ain’t far away...
it’s right here:

a wide, flat land-scape:
the few trees pushed over,
strands,
and you long on top of it:
the earth your head

oh

clay you can push and move around with your fingers,
thinking and kneading

you so like to touch the empty spots

Ah, mom, I’m still here. Are you still reading? I imagine you are. The creekbed’s quiet again. Little minnow song, little crawdad dance. I’ve been writing in other places, other books, writing on the air. Know I’m writing. Searching for one true sentence. Well. Paint. Fashioning petroglyphs and pictographs. Finally getting to that screenplay about people running. We’re cracking ourselves up, know that. My smile an Ozark faultline. The Mississippi run backward. The Missouri. We long to see, know. Hidden cave. Topography. Throwing a vintage curveball, buckling batters’ knees. Know that. A city of light and glass. Mindful. Outstretched. Faces in cliffs, faces in the timber. We are slowly, steadily discerning. We are slowly, steadily. Deep earth springs. Various reels, spins, ballads. Carefully notated collections. Brown. Green. Blue. Maroon and tan. Building mounds. The panther, buffalo, bear, beaver. The otter, hawk, eagle. Even the spider. We had lightning in our hand out in the desert. I received the dreamcatchers. Thank you. The Little Ones. The morning light remembers everything. The song sings itself. The one thousand things. The one thousand glints. I will meet you out there. I am going long. I love

A peak into some of my dreams:

Midwestern Myth & the Acolytes

A fine and lovely book of photography and poetry by my good friend Arianna Willow Parsons.

Go, look!