Below you will find Parts III-V of Seven Road, which mark the conclusion of this narrative poem (see Part I and Part II). I do hope you’ve found this magical little journey enjoyable. I have grown quite close to this poem during the time I’ve been working on it. And I strongly believe it should be read at once, in its entirety; so, I’ve attached a full text copy here for anyone who would like to do so (the formatting of the final portion is also much better in the pdf). Additionally, a link to the full text will appear in the sidebar, at least for now. The image above (and also the cover art for the pdf version) was created by a very talented friend of mine, the same artist who created the illustration for Lo Air. Thank you, T. Blake, for lending your talents to this project–and this poem, in particular–a true labor of love for me.
III. it was the Sunday before my thirtieth birthday (as i remember it) and the air spilled like gold over that great white wind highway the prophet man called Seven Road you see those faces, he says, plodding through the dust-filled spiral below they only want to be themselves, and to be yourself is a road you gotta go alone because, child, there ain’t no such place as home or a one-way ticket to ride anywhere worth going ‘cause dreams were made for walking and walking with the soul is home now listen and listen good (both hands waving like some kind of squirrely magician), you see the most in this world when you’re not lookin’ for it all the direction you need is written in the stillness— that’s the key to everything and nobody’s going to give it to you— no teacher no mentor no president, pastor or certified life coach ‘cause everybody’s tongues are tangled nowadays from trying too hard to sound hip and postmodern and unintelligibly trendy this world is full of empty music and the only tune you’ve got to beat to is fixed right there in the soles of those boots! *points down like he’s staring into the eyes of the devil* we’re all made of fairy dust and tinfoil baby girl, you’re a glisten in the sun, bones of rock and magic and soulful living is no different from loving our hearts beat for both the same i stopped to think that if my soul has a beat, it probably sounds a lot like “Tusk,” so i reached for my Fleetwood Mac double LP and flipped right to side four real savage-like… but i sensed our visit was coming to an end i could read it in the cotton candy of the clouds, in the film of the nightfall stretching across the prophet man’s brow though we were hitching a ride on a breeze and the night was young and full of fire, i could see that man had an ache for something he just couldn’t shake IV. and he left me there silent before a mucked up street sign, past a tunnel, through a field of pale dead flowers, the night smelled pink and burning as that old carpet full of pixie dust sailed off behind me making contrails of the sun just then, a feeling rose up in me i can’t explain, like a voice that hurdled up through sediment and stone, and the sky crystallized with signs in a great tangle of fireflies, a language that flashed through my bones and peered out from under the blue and i stopped right there on the side of Seven Road and i’ll be damned but the stillness spoke just like that wild-headed saint told me it would from red to green to orange to white (like that great technicolor bowtie of his) i lost myself in my own forgetfulness great symphony of signs and all was sky and all was music flayed language like the finest guitar solo you’ve ever heard… first a bearing a simple stirring string skipping shred transcribe broadcast syllable the earth is moving a world on the tip of a tongue whirlwind breath-wind cast off the night in a tomb great white exorcist sunflower skeleton face encircled by fire a mother’s face you are the ribbon written in her hair eight in one million rejected thoughts peacekeeper eye-catcher maker of legends and fire womb children of dust the earth will be your bible melody grappling climbing sighing never reaching steeping steering controlling never forgiving holding the matchstick of time tick-tock mindstop spinning out of control a hand not taming striking enticing pillaging precipitating giving form to all that is holy you a kiss on the ring fatherless barren seedless forgetting you are the great seed that shatters all fables seven times chasing seven dog-good nights seven deadly whys seven unheard lullabies catching roots on the bottom of the skin sky is dove shaft mind is red eyeless innocent in a sweep of heat two proud thieves rob us of all our sins V. suddenly, the record stopped and the taste of fresh coffee returned to my tongue the white witch remade the bed, handed me a smile and a pen
*Original artwork by T. Blake