"Sometimes I get lonesome for a storm. A full-blown storm where everything changes. The sky goes through four days in an hour, the trees wail, the animals skitter in the mud and everything gets dark and goes completely wild. But it's really God-- playing music in his favorite cathedral in heaven-- shattering stained glass--playing a gigantic organ--thundering on the keys-- perfect harmony--perfect joy."--Joan Baez, quoted in Slouching Towards Bethlehem.
Americana
Maybe they were different as soon as they left. The second
the leaving crossed their mind. Or was it
walking the plank
up into a new world?
They were Americans when they left everything known behind.
Picture them as I do-- in an curving metal sea, in a strange sanctuary
the warm slats of wood keeping anarchy out
Picture a storm, and everyone together in the very
deepest heart of their shelter--
And now, let your ears picture singing, sustained, sliding between harmony and melody.
And the tidal turn of pages was the seafoam leaking in, and
still they sang, faces turned towards the light--
they were not the first Americans, but they were as
lost as the rest.
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