software solutions for christian media
Album: Mute
This candid canary yellow cage bird sonnet is not for those copious with capital
This stringless guitar rings cold chords crowning the scorned with a dancing sabbatical
This match head tongue spitting lyric strikes sparks off the rigged box strip of hope
This reckless wrecking-ball reeks restoration, ripping the wreckage of weeping walls.
Listen, salvation has been stolen out of needy hands, made to brands, and sold in stands to white middle class Americans
The son of man sang grand operas in symphonic voice, a poor street performer
Now this homeless lover is caged in steel bars, stained glass lies, humanity's mourner
This clerical hostage is held for a suit-and-tie-offering ransom
His captors compose payment letters from Paper Mache verses,
claiming doctrinal curses from their suburban-clad churches, leaving the poor with teeth-filled dirges
From heavenous heights I heard a holy song on Zion's breath
A Renaissance love-chord sprinkled deep bright sounds on the mountains white crest
Now the chorus anthem skips repeating in my headphone megaphone mind speaker's tweeter microphone's repeater
My ears notate the treble clef measures the deaf man's treasures
Notes chuckle and laugh
My hands are the staffs
My fingers eighth notes
My tongue almost floats in the amount of repressed salvia it takes to hold back this song
So I have to sing it
I Sing it for tortured porch beggars stooped on stoops of torch lit kerosene jungles of discarded cash and embezzled furniture love boxes
I Sing it for wanting women, wanting men, wanting sex, wanting in. wanting bones wanting bone, wanting out still wanting in I sing it for them for those red light black night Enzyte entertainers
I Sing it for sidewalk spectacle cardboard chalk rectangles marked with dark maps of lives past
I Sing it for foreign troops caught in the coup of righteous rightwing war I Sing to say no more
I Sing it for system illegitimate children pilgrims in unwanted uncharted unkempt homeless homes
I Sing it for gang war princes spray painting fiction nametags on territory fences
I Sing it for canopy cleric's convinced convictions collected in collegiate conventions unconscious to communities of compassion's inventions
I Sing it for silent sweat shop slaves shouting from concrete corporate graves
I Sing it for suburbanized youth with a Hollywood sweet-tooth, chewing candy produced by those shouting slaves I sing when peace misbehaves
I Sing it for those prudent students of revolutionaries sketching peace signs on the back of trolley cars, wanting to sit with Parks, stand with Marx, march with King, and play on Marley strings dancing war is wrong I Sing to give you a song
I Sing it for children drowning in the deep sea shallow shots of gold tray red water
I Sing it for three button straight jackets in overtime asylums
I Sing it for truth-numb ear-drums that they catch a glimpse of my flapping lips
I Sing it for dead prophet looting, led nonsense shooting, dread's constant polluting, thread convict's muting, red blood-pit saluting, bed profit recruiting
I Sing it because I can't find this song on FM station sing-a-longs
I Sing it because I see these needs speak weak from the meek
I Sing it because the poor in heart, in pocket, in morals, in value, in love, in kin, in opportunity, in dreams, in freedom, in action, and in life need a song for their need, for their children, for hope, for reason, for purpose, for something more than fate and death
This song can be heard ripping through rusting throat chords dangling in the lone beat street preacher
This song can be heard in the silent muzzle of a smokeless chamber cradled like a slaughtered son in the hands of Private Bush-Craft Autographed Draft Cards
This song can be heard in Jack in Jill room-temperature peanut butter bread stacks, snacks for poverty attacks
This song can be heard in murderless protest tunicates
This song can be heard in maintenance halls of refuge walls
This song can be heard in spy's eyes filmless cameras providing standby tickets for railroad tie immigrants
This song can be heard in a money-mailed water well, in a death bail from AIDS hell, in a get-well school bell, in a farewell yell to military personnel
So I grab the latest optimistic hearing aid I can buy, ran down the mountainside, and busted out to the streets to hear the songs pure cry
But all I hear are apathy lies
Alibi eyes
A sun-bulb disguise
And to my song's surprise, and yes, to its demise I have no allies
So I'll be baptized in the streets wet echo of my bullhorn song
That is unless you start to sing along
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