target
|
|
AJ Juarez Dick Hummel- Trumpet Ben Hummel- Drums Ian Juarez- Trumpet Robert Juarez- Native Flutes | |
Bolonica Ode to the Moon | <
Bolonica- The Dancer
Your feet,
Somehow hold up the cosmos
Because en pointe
Balance becomes a living-breathing demigod,
A glorious moment dedicated to integrity
And space.
Your legs hold up the moment as an offering
To unknown gods who
Demand perfection and years of practice
And blood sacrifice.
Your torso and waist are sweet rain
Nourishing a rain forest as they move
Gracefully like a comet or a swimming polar bear
Giving us reasons to gasp in amazement
And briefly rejoice with you
In the glow of a grand performance sprinkled with a shimmering charisma.
Your arms and hands point towards heaven on earth,
And to the possibility of strength and sensitivity
They are a conduit to all gods who are proud and
Even astonished by their creations, you are a song of reverence
And delight
Your face is the breath of life
And it's incandescence.
ODE TO THE MOON
Tired of the smell of flesh and its routines, I would like to strip
naked
beyond the bones and rotted marrow,
down to before my conception,
to the spirit world,
where answers have simply faded,
and maggots are not ghost.
Tire of the smell of flesh,
which loves self-importance and sex.
Tired of having to listen to the sound of buying shoes,
or Elaine's talk about not wanting a baby,
when she actually does.
tired of bombs exploding on planes.
Tired of all out talk about meaning, tired of our demands
which are even more confusing
them Elaine's love for children.
I would like to trade places with the rattlesnake,
and be left alone in the desert to reproduce.
I would like to trade places with the humblest of frogs,
and just song.
If the wolves would listen to my city voice,
I would like to join them and howl at the moon.
The point is, I am looking fro hope.
Hope that does not involve original sin or martyrs,
gods or clergy.
I am looking for the spirit of frogs, snakes, and wolves who have
never burdened themselves like we have.
Be it as it may, even after all the sediments are sifted, call me what
you must,
but I'll be damned, if I am going to sit around
waiting for white men with flossed teeth and lots of medals,
to fire their toys of death...
sip wine in patriotic fervor,
and send our planet as clouds of bright red dust
into the loneliness of outer space and the silence of a universe that
does not mind the disturbance.
I'll be damned if I am going to sit around and despair,
while the moon is out there,
teaching prayer and waiting, for our songs.