Indians scattered on dawn’s highway bleeding
Ghosts crowd the young child’s fragile egg-shell 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 of 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 new-born 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”
In her baby grand
Was it the wilderness children?
Was it the Ghost-God himself
Stuttering, cheering
Chatting blindly?
I called you up to
Annoint 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 on you to pray
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