2 minute read

Untitled (Ritual)

Here is an older song that I felt inspired to quickly record a few hours ago (lyrics and link below) . . . It is more or less about dangers of provincialism (American, in this case). For what it’s worth . . .

Untitled (Ritual)

With the hail that sounds stiffly
On this fragile, old mountain
A Mexican ritual like coins in a fountain
And I’m apologizing, apologizing for being here

North of Teotihuacan, Temple Moon and Sun
Would sit immigrant flower protecting what’s left
Of his dangerous hipness,
his unshakable disbelief

But a candle, it is lit
With the fire from the spit
While the Americans all go running naked around a tree
There’s nothing stranger than what’s here
And I’m in danger, I fear,
Of the world becoming a little too weird for me

I could call upon New York, could call upon London
Digesting peyote with a stomach all shrunk
Like an ambassador humming to a native drum drumming
Boom-beep

Or like a crazy, dead elephant who didn’t trust the water
I’m thinking of ways now to forget the slaughter
For truth holds the hand of a foreign land
But an American don’t need no more company

Fast approaching opinion
On the runway a plane lands
And lets off a herd, which desires destination
But goes jumping from stone to stone to stone to tree

And when home across the border, this fast food reporter
writes words like a vampire
And he slurs for a short while
And he sums it all up, it’s the meat from the pup that’s intriguing

And a candle, it is lit
With the fire from the spit
While the Americans all go running naked around a tree
There’s nothing stranger than what’s here
And I’m in danger, I fear,
Of the world becoming a little too weird for me