Praises of Andalusia

head is home to spirit

half a summer's day

trying to cool it

remembrance of the other half

washed away with beer

you call that Andalusian housekeeping 

Andalusia, land of sun & bitterness!

your sons scrub dust & sand off mothers’ feet by day

& when night comes

squat curbside by the butchershop

cursing every stranger

that stands between them & their meat

mother Andalusia, marijuana chokes your alleyways 

the night your sons gather to shoot the shit

for them there's no relief till comes

the day of the goring of the bull

oh naked, joyous Andalusia! 

young city woman plays at being goddess of the seashore 

she's made a pact with the wind to dance in her hair

& when the waves lap at her thighs 

drops the last bit of cloth

to dip her cunt into the sea

& just like that

cocks stiffen & souls revive

even those who thought

they had no life left in them 

oh hidden, secret Andalusia!

your Germans take after the bats in Nerja's caves 

they got no taste for daylight

is that the shadow he's casting 

or demons fast on his heels? 

that first week's tan won't last for long

German's got a shaky hold on spirit

like a cigarette slipping through

the fingers of the man that's nodding off 

oh Andalusia, shuttered in your whitewashed homes 

die men who never knew you

Andalusia, your wells may lack for water but they do not lack for blood!

the old singer of flamenco he puts down his guitar

holds out a back-hand 

cracked & dry as riverbed

his pride rests in his veins

“see these knuckles streaked with blue? 

that's what this land once looked like”

oh Andalusia, your birds deaf to cries for rain!

this one goes coasting on a cloud

then cuts the cloud mid-air

& drifts out over sea 

but he's no ordinary bird 

his wings flap to an older tune

he knows the score

he took part in creation 

& still remembers what it is to praise

hail Ogun! 

hail Anat! 

hail Shango!

here's to the wild ones!

the gods who have water at home

but do their washing up with blood

Andalusia with your sands as hot as coals!

wandering merchant's feet are used to it

he knows these beaches better than his homeland

& with eyes untroubled by the glare

sees all the riches hid

beneath these old, old stones 

…if only hands could lift them 

for now this will do:

sitting under palm tree shade 

& sucking sardine flesh right off the spine

Skull Music

the black hut stands silent

stands silent on the edge of town 

there among the trees

where the road ends

the black god enters

with creak of hinge 

throws open wide the door

throws off his coat of bloodied buckskin

throws off his hunting instruments

throws off his evening's kill & sits there

sits there silent

as his players watch him

three hooded players

sitting like three blackbirds on a branch

& watch him who with the sharp end of his iron

picks his teeth

chews something & picks

the black god spits

he spits in the dark

& when he spits the players rise

a row of three taking three puffs of smoke

& hold it in 

then start the spinning

floorboards creaking under nimble feet

& the boys spinning 

spinning till their heads are good & drunk

that's how the music gets in

there go the drums then

two drums beating like the blackbird's heart

& between them the chief player

drives a stick of knotted wood into the floor he hits the floor

hits it so hard the boards ring out

ring out in rhythm to the beating of the drums ring out 

with the sound of baying dogs

with the sound of rocks tumbling down the mountain 

with the sound of a razor run across a leather strap

with the sound of bat wings clapping

& the forest clapping back

with the sound of clavicles snapping like twigs

with the sound of fat crackling over fire

with the sound of a fool's last gasp caught in his throat

with the sound of housewives screaming

& the sound of husbands wheezing in the dark 

with the sound of blackbirds breeding

with the sound of corn husks shucked all day

with the sound of bonesaw, chisel & stone at work upon the sick man's jaw

with the sound of a gunshot 

& the flap of birds fleeing the tree

with the sound of the blacksmith's hammer

with the sound of sweat drops sizzling on hot stone

with the sound of a machete splitting coconuts

with the sound of a machete splitting heads

with the sound of gurgling streams

with the sound of a shaman's gurgling throat when lost in trance

with the sound of virgins moaning

with the sound of a guitarist plucking at a single string

with the sound of salmon splashing

with the sound of salmon ripped apart by claws

the black hut rings out

rings out on the edge of town

there among the trees

where the road ends