Mojo's Beads

Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding

Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind

Blood in the streets in the town of New Haven

Blood stains the roofs and the palm trees of Venice

Blood in my love in the terrible summer

Bloody red sun of Phantastic L.A.

Blood screams her brain as they chop off her fingers

Blood will be born in the birth if a nation

Blood is the rose of mysterious union

Blood on the rise it's following me

Indian, Indian what did you die for

Indian says, nothing at all

Gently they stir, gently rise

The dead are newborn awakening

With ravaged limbs and wet souls

Gently they sigh in rapt funeral amazement

Who called these dead to dance

Was it the young woman learning to play the ghost song on her baby grand

Was it the wilderness children

Was it the ghost god himself, stuttering, cheering, chatting blindly

I called you up to anoint the earth

I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin

I called you to wish you well

To glory in self like a new monster

And now I call you to pray