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