Sunday, June 29, 2014

I Have Stumbled

I have stumbled, I have strayed
You can trace the tracks I made
All across the memories my heart recalls
But I'm still a refugee, won't you say a prayer for me?
'Cause sometimes even the strongest soldier falls

I'm only halfway home, I've got to journey on
To where I'll find, I'll find the things I have lost
I've come a long long road but still I've got some miles to go
I've got a wide, a wide river to cross

- Buddy Miller/Levon Helm/Roger Waters, Wide River To Cross

* * *

I've been thinking about Levon. God damn.

* * *

When the fears come stealing, when we know and know and know and know that we have fucked it all to hell, when we grind ourselves to a halt because we allowed the fear in, because we secretly believe we deserve to suffer, when we are lost in that suffering you have to remember something, something we pretend to not know, something we can't see, but something bred in the bone regardless of our willingness trust it or have faith in it. Everything depends upon recalling it, summoning it. Remember this, tattoo it on your forehead, keep it close, ink it in a book you keep beside you, paint it on your walls, do anything but know this: in the midst of your fears, at the bottom of the well, you're only half way home. 

Getting lost is just the first part of the journey. Now you've got to bring it home. And when you do, you'll find all the things you've lost.

* * *

Our lives begin. Our lives end. In between is a story. No two stories are the same, though there are resonances, echoes that cross across lives known and across time with lives unknown to us save for the stories they left behind. In those echoes and rhymes we find stories that seem to fit us, fit our circumstance, speak to our trials, our fears, our needs, our joys. Our cultures reinforce those stories. Over time a few souls blur the edges of the stories, cross pollinating the root stock, and in so doing they recognize there is but one story: our lives begin, our lives end and meaning exists in the story we tell about what happens between those poles.

Dante called it the Divine Comedy; Joyce called it the monomyth; Campbell called it the Hero's Journey; I call it The River, but it is all the same. We hear our name called - not an auditory hallucination, but the pulse of the life in us demanding its expression. But we are beginners, unskilled, uncertain, afraid and we rely on the tropes, rituals and systems put in place to help us stand, to walk, to run, to take our place in the logos, the underlying sense and mystery of Life, and all is well. All that could be done has been done.

But our name is still being called, isn't it? Those systems and rituals are but training wheels for the adventure ahead. We reject. We refuse. We stumble. We stray. We get so fucking lost. And we hurt and from the hurt flows doubt and doubt sows shame for ever doubting, for ever stumbling, for ever losing our capacity to stay connected to the pulse of life in our veins.

The hero's journey is the call into unknown territory where everything you thought you knew is wiped away and you must be in the moment to survive it. Dante's dark wood where the road is wholly lost is the same. But here's the thing that is easy to forget: to complete the journey, to finish the cycle, the hero, you, must return. You have to come home with the gifts that only you can bring, the gifts that you found on the way out and on the way back.

It is a wide, wide river to cross, my best beloveds.

You're only halfway home.

* * *

To get home you have to let go of the shame of ever being lost, of not knowing  a priori how all this shit works. We are supposed to stumble. We are supposed to stray. It how we learn. It is where faith - the ability to live with uncertainty - is born. This is not a religious faith, but a primordial faith in the pulse and power of the life within us: the force that through the green fuse drives the flower/Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees/Is my destroyer.

We begin. We end. We are stories. We are lost. We are found. We stumble. We stray. There is a story for each of us. It is the same story clothed in different colors: to find what you have lost you have to journey on. That's the point.

You're only half way home and we all need to hear your story so we don't feel so alone.

Now go. You've got some miles to go. It will be good to see you when you get back.

* * *

I've been thinking about Levon.


Tuesday, June 24, 2014

What We Call

What we call fate does not come to us from outside: it goes forth from within us.

- RM Rilke, Letters To A Young Poet

* * *

More than any other, Rilke is the poet of silences.

* * *

A true story: a hundred years ago, stumbling through a divorce after a long courtship and a brief marriage, I stumbled all the way to the Abbey of Our Lady of Gethsemane in Kentucky. The Abbey is a Trappist monastery and silences are its foundation. Like a sensory deprivation tank, those silences brought every manner of love and loathing to the surface. For a while, I went twice a year for four or five days at a time. It is an ecumenical spot where I met Catholics and Baptists and Buddhists and believers and non-believers of every stripe. We all craved that silence. One morning, cool and grey, it was just at dawn, I was coming back to the monastery's guest house after a walk in the homely hills that surrounded us. My shoes were soaked with dew.  One fellow was just setting out to do the same. We nodded to each other as we passed. No one interrupted another's silence there and after a few steps I could hear his feet crunch to a stop on the gravel drive. I turned and he said in a deep southern drawl, "Mark, forgive me, but I just feel so loud here. Everything I do seems clumsy and loud. I brought work with me to do for my congregation, but I can't touch it. I want to pray, but nothing seems right. All I want to do is walk in the woods. You've been here before. Is this how it always is?" I assured him it was and wished him well on his walk.

Silences have a way of unhinging what we have worked so very hard to hold together. This is why people fear it, why we'll stay in relationships that do not feed us, in jobs that diminish us. The day we are alone with ourselves, the moment silence offers itself to help us know ourselves we run screaming in the other direction and distract ourselves with what is at hand. In the silence you meet yourself and there is no escaping it. We fear what we'll find there: regret, shame, embarrassment, longing, tears, tears, tears, tears...

But love, you've got that ass-backwards: in the silence all of that is made whole.

* * *

We say release, and radiance, and roses,
and echo upon everything that's known;
and yet, behind the world our names enclose is
the nameless: our true archetype and home.

* * *

If you would be free, I would ask you to be silent.
If you would be healed of your sorrow, I would ask you to be silent.
If you would be complete, I would ask you to be silent.

What we call fate does not come to us from outside: it goes forth from within us, and its source is a silent sea. This sea, this vast silence is everpresent, timeless, primordial. From nothing, then something and then back again. It waits and has no sense of time. It is universal and solely yours. Each of us has within us the ability to tap this source, this bloodroot, but mostly we do not. To get there you have to first imagine it and then you must imagine it is of some use to you, but it is impossible to see that with all the distractions of our day to day life, the economics of living which sing to us: it don't count less it sells. We see no utility in silence and so stay busy and loud and clumsy. You can go your whole life and never touch it, but if you are lucky you are driven to your knees, the spell of the cacophony you have lived in broken by loss, or joy - something far beyond the day to day and there you have the chance to meet your silence.

If you are brave enough, or tired enough, you go.

* * *

What fucks us is fear. Mostly it is fear of ourselves, our decisions, our choices, in effect, our past. It isn't the future we fear, but that we don't trust ourselves to know what to do there because our lives are littered with mistakes and regrets. Rather than look at those fears, we push on like arctic explorers trying to find the true north: a mapless, featureless place. Listen, your true north, your true self, your true archetype and home is within, within the silences you carry, the sea you are swimming in right now.

You don't have to go to a Trappist monastery to learn this. It is available to you right where you are as you read this. A hundred years ago I learned the rhythm of the monks: vigils, lauds, terce, sext, none, vespers, compline - awake in the darkness, to rest in the darkness. I still carry remnants of that with me. I wake before dawn to write, to have a silent house, to swim in that sea, to push back against the loudness of my days and see what I can find. You must find your rhythm, your way of creating this silence. Perhaps you can find it on the subway; maybe you'll recognize it at dinner. The way to it is different for each of us, but if you would have your life be unfucked, you must find your way to it.

Silence is where you meet yourself.
If you can't stand your own company, then silence is where you will heal that.
If you can't bear the circumstances you're in, then silence is where you'll discover the strength to change.

What you feed - silence or chaos - becomes your fate.

Now choose.

* * *



Thursday, June 19, 2014

Flash Yer Flood

Flash yer flood
Set yer fire
You were born to overflow

- Lia Ices, "Thousand Eyes"

* * *

Listen: you have this. You do. Whatever it is that has you by the short hairs, whatever loss, hurt, disappointment, betrayal has stopped you, has clipped you from behind, I am here to tell you this is not what you were born for. You were born to overflow.

If there's no flow to your juju, it is you damming that shit up, love. You know the answers. You're just too fucked and afraid to live by it. There's no mystery here. There's just the choice to live by the light in your head and not the darkness in your wounded heart.

It is time to be done with that awful half-life.

Flash yer flood. Set yer fire.

* * *

There is nothing quite so useless as asking why things have turned out as they have. One of two things has occurred: 1) you made your life exactly as it is by the choices you made (or did not make), or 2) some outside factor, something well beyond your ability to control or foresee has crashed through the trees and you have yet to find your response to this changed world. Everything else is splitting hairs and apportioning blame. Either you did it, or your response to your circumstance hasn't been its equal.

You can be done asking why. There's no other answers possible and neither of those answers satisfy, do they?

This is why cosmologies are created to buy off karma, to purchase indulgences, earn merits, to explain by ritual the how of the why and give us some measure of comfort and certitude that we have made all the right offerings, done our penance and the gods will be merciful. All in the name of hiding out from own authority and autonomy for the doings of our lives, our responses to the ever changing circumstances that move through our days. If ritual and burnt offerings steady you, then have at it; but don't fool yourself - you are the one who has the work to do, the changes to make to get what is essential in you moving again.

It is not our losses that define us, but our responses to the new world those losses represent.

When you shut down because you feel unequal to the moment remember this: you were born to overflow. It is your very nature to change, to transform and become.

* * *

Move through transformation, out and in.
What is the deepest loss that you have suffered?
If drinking is bitter, change yourself to wine.

* * *

Let me tell you a secret. I write every day, and whether it is a blank page and I have a pen in my hand, or if it is an empty screen and I am typing out my story there is one absolute truth that cannot be avoided: when I (or any artist) approach a blank page, or a blank canvas THERE IS NOTHING THERE. The page is silent. And then I put a word down and that suggests a second word and the sentence to follow implies the one after that. I don't know anything until it is written. No one writes with it fully formed in their heads and merely transcribes it. It comes from nothing. It takes work. It takes listening. It takes a measure of humility to follow where it leads. This is how anything is created: from nothing, then something and the juice of that transformation is letting go of the shore and diving in and trusting what you'll need will be there. And, love, it always is.

If this is true of writing (and it is), how can it not be true everywhere else? Writing is just a sliver of life, but it carries with it the DNA of all life: from nothing something and then something else again. If you are fucked and stuck, if you are hurt, bewildered about the facts of your life, angry, pissed-off, raging about those facts, wounded, broken by those facts you have but to remember that life comes from nothing, grows from shit, the fecund leftovers of previous lives and always, always insists upon itself. The pain you may be feeling is you resisting the changes that have already happened. Let go, my brother. Let go, my sister. You have work to do and denying your power to change, to move, to overflow the banks, to flood your life with what you can still create, what you can still bring to life, to those around you, to your time, is to pretend a lit candle will save you.

You are the fire.
You are the flood.

You were born to overflow.

* * *



Sunday, June 15, 2014

And The Love

And the love we all need
Was running hard to be free
It got caught up in the forest
By the branches on the trees

- Low, To Our Knees

* * *

We need love, you and I. We need love to secure us, anchor us in the world. Love, more than gravity keeps us here. We hunger for it. We lie and cheat as well as sacrifice and respect it. We believe it lies ahead. We believe it lies in the past. We believe it is given to us by another. We believe God bestows it, is the font of the love we all need. We distort it to suit other needs. We let it slip through our hands because we cannot recognize it. Yet, we all need it and give names to such things as we believe contain it: marriage, father, mother, child, religion, God, lover.

Rumi danced dervishes crying out to his Beloved:

The day your love touches me
I'll become so mad that lunatics will run away

And we adore the names of our beloveds. And we abuse our beloveds with the weight of our hunger. And everywhere love takes on the shapes we design to contain it, to define it, to hold it still long enough to enter it and it fucks us every time - not love, but our foolish need to control it.

* * *

By the creatures of the daylight
And the beasts of the night
Then the mountains and the rivers
Took their toll on its lead

* * *

We are born knowing nothing, or so it seems. Yet that is not true, is it? We know to turn our face towards the sound of a voice, to cry when we are hungry, to delight in the faces we see, to learn to crawl and stand and move, to seek our kind and be secure there. We are sunflowers following the sun, or so it seems. Yet, that is not true, is it?  We do learn. Experience is added to our natures in mica thin layers of repetition, experiment, discovery and so we learn desire, a desire for outcomes and rewards. And we give names to such things we believe contain our desire, our reward: work, commerce, marriage, mortgage, matriculation, status.

We grow into old age chasing down desires we have given no thought to other than they are to be pursued. We drink deep draughts of this wine believing all that can be done has been done and never do we notice the ways we have tortured the idea of love to suit ourselves, to suit our outcomes and rewards. We don't listen to the voice that sings, "The only way to hold onto this love is with an open hand."

We need love, you and I. And we live in fear of it - the sense it is larger, more mysterious, more unknowable than we have let on. This why we try to bend it to our will, why betrayal comes easily, why we are crushed by the absence of it, or at least the absence of the form we want to contain it in.

But love, can you catch water in a net?

* * *

It went stumbling down a hillside
Where it landed on its knees
On its knees, on its knees
On its knees

* * *

Our hunger to live a life not of our own choosing, chasing after rewards and status and finite accomplishment fucks us, fucks us good and hard. Faced with the twins of freedom and responsibility we abdicate the former and refuse the later. There are forms in place and we grind ourselves down to fit in, to be in accord with the currents of our brief time. This is why we destroy rainforests as easily as we destroy our marriages, why we accept ignorance and ostracize anything that challenges that ignorance, why we are happy with weekends instead of demanding our entire lives. When you cage an animal it is no longer as it was. Breed them in captivity and they are mere costumes of flesh.

Are you not an animal? What is the name of the cage that holds you?

* * *

And the love we all need
Once relented from its speed
We adored it and abused it
'Til it brought us to our knees

To our knees, to our knees
To our knees 

* * *

That which you need, the love we all need, cannot be pursued, cannot be contained, cannot be made to heel. Your adoration of it perverts it. Your need to dress it up in your tribe's colors abuses it. By naming it you limit your understanding of it and that is where all hell breaks loose: war, sectarian violence, ethnic cleansing, the stump of bigotry, the blind eye of acquiescence, deforestation, warming oceans, income disparity, civic corruption, domestic abuse, battered wives, battered children.

Do I overstate it? No, I don't. The love we have named has brought us to our knees. It is time to stand up. It is time to wake up. It is time. It always has been.  And the love you need is in your hands right now. Quit arguing about its shape. Quit trying to tame it. Move with it. It is neither God, nor lover. It cannot be named, and has a hundred thousand hundred thousand names.

It is you, love.

Why else do you turn your face to the sun, to a song, a voice? It is you recognizing in each the wild creativity of love; it is you recognizing yourself in the other and that recognition is the unbound, elemental, creative force that cannot be tamed, only participated in: god and pilgrim as one, the prodigal coming home, you, you, you...

* * *



Wednesday, June 11, 2014

Break The Code

Break the code of death for profit
Break the guns
Break the silence of money
Break the greed of unison

- Sam Phillips, Go Down

* * *

I believe in the grace, dignity and possibility of each life. I do. Even the pig fucked ones. Even the ones that are blind and in their blindness wreak such unmitigated havoc on our lives, our time, our planet. I believe each life contains within it the possibility of knowing itself - not as a consumer, not merely as a combustion of appetites to be satiated, but as a unique part of a whole that knows no shore: oceanic, limitless, changing. I believe this. I do.

I also believe that the accumulated weight of the decisions made by those who are pig fucked, who are blind, who reject out of hand a view of the world such as mine imposes a governor, a keeper, a check against too much autonomy. We participate inside systems of thought that were established and ossified into place before our arrival: religion, commerce, government. Depending on where we were born we view these institutions with gratitude or contempt, weary intellectualism or naive faith. We look out onto a world not of our making and follow the paths laid down by others. In some regards this is a tremendous benefit to us, to our ability to cope with the vicissitudes of life. We need shelter, clean water, safe food, a prospect of peace in our communities. But those same benefits, unquestioned, unchallenged, unconsidered hold us in place, static, fearful of changing anything, accepting of the rules, orders and programs of the very institutions that need our questioning independence to evolve.

If you would have the trains run on time, the food free of pathogens, our streets safe and our politicians and business leaders accountable then you must unfuck your life so you can live a life that simply by being is a rebuke to thoughtless acceptance and instead is a challenge to the pig fucked and blind.

* * *

"The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion."

* * *

I say this because we brothers and sisters in the family of fucked fuckers tend to reduce the world to our troubles, our pain, our sense of disconnect and we can fail to see the effect this has on the world around us. Make no mistake: you cannot save the world. The world is fine. It is fucked up and it always has been. Your efforts to find your way out of the dark wood you are wandering in will not curb carbon emissions, or refreeze the ice caps; you will not bring peace to Palestine nor curb the barbarism of Sharia law. But you will change your world, your slice of it and by doing so you will change those around you and they will then have an example of how to be free in the midst of institutions and systems that by necessity wash over what is unique, individual, expressive. 

That's what you get to do. 

And if you think that is a small thing, then you are more fucked then you know. It is everything and pretending that the systems of thought that limn the world, that define the worth (or lack thereof) of life, of any life, of your life, have it figured out or can't be altered to serve us better is to abdicate the authority for your life and hand it to the priests who will filter it through their gods of religion, governance and commerce.

Have you not heard about the 800 babies buried in a septic tank in Ireland? Their great sin to be born poor and to unwed mothers and so unworthy of anything but ignominy?

Trust no priest, no politician, no business interest. 
Trust your soul.

Bend the arc of your time towards justice, towards peace, towards reclamation, towards whatever is in you that seeks a greater expression than enriching the rich, deriding the poor, the other and insist that your life will be lived by right action and right thought regardless of any law, creed, or code - for they are changeable.

And what is right action?

Right action is any thought, word or deed that supports the expression and realization of one's essential dignity and worth without malice or denigration of any other. 

Now you're good to go.

* * *

Find the mystical connection
Find the dreams
Under cynical wreckage
Find the winding conscious stream

* * *



Wednesday, June 4, 2014

I Don't Change

I don't change my ways
I might not make it
That's the fate of a fool
And a guitar man

- JJ Cale, Fate of Fool

* * *

We know what we need to do, don't we? We know the answers and really, we know the way. But we don't do it, do we? We know we have to change our ways in order to make it, but still we sit and and wonder why it hurts so much, why things don't move, why time hates us so. The thing that stops you - whatever it may be (and the list is long, but in truth you know which one is yours) - is the also the threshold to a new way of living, a new experience of life. You don't get to go there, you don't get the good that accrues in all directions by standing still, by repeating yourself, by picking at the wound you have come to love so well. Naw, man, the shit life is yours when stasis is your king. That's the fate of a fool.

But you know that already.

So, what's stopping you?

* * *

Seamus Heaney wrote: Human beings suffer/They torture one another/They get hurt and get hard. And he's right. We are hurt by the very proximity we share with those around us - our families, our friends, our cohort, our time. The inabilities of those staggering around us, of those trying to make their way with whatever wit or soul remains in them by needs be influences, stains, scars and molds us from their trying, their failing, their trying again. We acquire wounds. We lose limbs and it hardens us, drains a bit of color from us everyday. We take up smoke and drink to ease some pain. We justify it in a million ways and the smoke and drink are just another layer thickening our skin, covering our hurt. Some bury themselves in work, in the acquisition of objects, of lovers, in the velvet folds of church and nothing, I mean nothing ever feels right. The cures don't last. They are sugar highs and the cycle repeats - only this time we feel just that much worse because the thing we wanted didn't last and we doubt and doubt and doubt it will ever be right.

But you know what to do. You just haven't done it yet.

You have to quit drinking, or whoring, or buying shit you don't need. You have to quit making excuses. You have to quit with the justifications because nothing justifies wasting your precious time on standing still.

The fucked life is one that will accept change, but only on certain conditions and those conditions can never be met and it all has to do with the past. There are wrongs you are waiting for to be righted, losses to be made whole again, betrayals to be unwound, but it will never be. The wrongs, the losses, the betrayals, the miserable hurt won't go away by waiting for it to come right. It never comes right, my friend. Never. Not the way you want it to. Never. Staying stuck, standing in place, refusing the life pulsing around you will not cure you, will not heal you, will not unfuck you. If you don't change your ways, you will keep what you have and all you've got is hurt.

So, how, how, how, how, how, how do you find the willingness to let it go, to let it all go and find your feet again? How is that done?

I don't know that answer, and if I did I'd never give it to you. I know my answer. I know what I must do, but I'm not you and what works for me won't fit you. And that's the fun of it, love, the adventure and daring of it, the will and strength of it, the courage, the compassion, the miracle of being alive for you can be Jesus to your own Lazarus and bring yourself back to life. Regardless of what's fucked you, I promise you someone has had it worse. Regardless of what's fucked you, the world doesn't need another willful slave. Regardless of what's fucked you, there is a way out of that dark wood and you have all you need with you right now to make your way.  Honest.

The key, as far as I can tell, is to not pre-judge what change you are willing to accept. Our minds can narrow to slits and we exclude the answers that don't come clothed in the trappings we imagined. Better to let go of that hubris. The universe is under no obligation to make sense to you. 

* * *

If change is constant then why try and stay where it hurts? Let yourself be changed by letting go of the pride you take in being broken. What has stopped you will be the thing that sets you in motion again, but only if you let it, only if you are willing to be changed and you are the only one who knows how to do that.

* * *

Spending my life 
in a cold hard bar room
Drinking that long 

black whisky down
I play the guitar
For me it's a living
Well I know I'm
Just a hangin' around
Dancing girls
Oh they drive me crazy
All they want is a Fancy Dan

I don't change my ways
I might not make it
That's the fate of a fool 

and a guitar man

* * *



Sunday, June 1, 2014

Like Thunder Needs

Like thunder needs rain
Like a preacher needs pain
Like tongues of flame
Like a sheet stained
Need your love
I need your love

- U2, Hawkmoon 269

* * *

You don't exist in a vacuum.  You, whether you care to or not, whether you believe it or not, whether you give a flying fuck or not, are part of a continuum, part of a flow that uses what you have to give to extend that line, push the river and so keep it flowing, moving, cutting new lines in the rock of existence. No one exists without others. Everything is in relation to others, to the unique circumstance of where you are in the river's flow, to your willingness to participate in the flow or be something others move around. Denying this, refusing this, arguing against this is the way of frustration and fear, of unrequited love and stalled hopes, of brick walls and immovable objects, of being a stranger to yourself. When you refuse to accept that you are in life's flow, or at the very least the flow of your life, you fuck yourself and blind yourself to the gifts you bring because you are always wishing you were someone else, with someone else's gifts and seeming ease. You compare the mucked up life in your hands with the life that flows all around you and you hate what you have. You want something else. You want it to have worked out differently. You want your losses restored. Your love returned. But it doesn't happen because it cannot happen. In your pain you have withdrawn and isolated yourself. You deny the river's flow and so its gifts are denied to you.

And what are those gifts?

Thunder to your rain.
A preacher for your pain.
Your tongue aflame.
A sheet stained.


* * *

What I talk about when I talk about love is this: what we do, here and now, to ease another's pain, to recognize in them the holy spark of life and to tend that spark until it is a flame, until it burns bright, undying. I do not believe in a heavenly father, a holy mother, a universe of saccharine love. I believe the universe is built on change, transformation and since we are built of the things of dead stars, so too, must we change, transform and grow into the beings we can yet be. The catalyst for that change is but one thing: love and love is a wholly human invention. What we do, here and now, in relation to one another determines the course of our lives and also alters the lives of those around us, of our time, and of those yet to be.

And if that is so (and it is so), what are you doing today to tend that fire, to ease that pain, to see yourself on that continuum, to swim in that river, to recognize there are others who need you to be who you are for it changes them, alters their course whether you do it or not.

* * *

Like powder needs a spark
Like lies need the dark
I need your love

* * *

You can listen to a love song and believe it is about two lovers. You can read it as a lover to their God. Let's add another view. It is from the artist to you, from creation to the created, a clarion call to leave the wasteland, to enter the stream, to give and give and give and give and give and give again, bodhisattvas all. This is our true nature, love. This is who we really are: beings capable of inventing love, of reinventing ourselves based on that love, of transforming the course of the river's flow because of that love.

Your losses, your obstacles are but the guideposts of the way you must go to add your gifts to the momentum of the river. What stops you will free you. Where you stumble there lies your treasure. Where you fall is where you rise from. It cannot be otherwise. When you refuse this, when you wish it was otherwise you fuck yourself hard, you fuck yourself into the ground, you become the obstacle others will free themselves from. Remember, everything is in relation to everything else. What you say and do (or don't do) has effects you cannot imagine.

Find the courage to love it all. You'll see you are part of the pulse and rhythm and flow, in fact are the pulse, are the rhythm, are the flow itself.

* * *

Like a rhythm unbroken
Like drums in the night
Like sweet soul music
Like sunlight
I need your love

* * *