Grateful Dead

To Believe11/10/17 I have died a thousand deaths Still you take away my breath And Lord I need you by my side Or I won't make it through the night You've shown me things I never knew There's mystery in all you do And even if the sun don't shine I'll love you 'till the end of time You lift me up and lead me on You gave me hope when it was gone I saw your smile through my tears And knew there's nothing left to fear Some things we aren't meant to see And some things they won't ever be As long as it's still you and me There's still a reason to believe chorus And yes, there's still a magic we can share It's running through our fingers and it's floating in the air And yes, oh baby yes I still believe If we try we can find everything we need The seasons come the seasons go There's always something new to know Cause nothing ever stays the same The weather always wants to change So feel the sun and watch the storm And let each day a new love form A vision of what's meant to be To hold us for eternity And yes, there's still a magic we can share It's running through our fingers and it's floating in the air And yes, oh baby yes I still believe If we try we can find everything we need

my house's stairway is seizedwith vertigo. Matter having forsaken its laws, we land in hell, ascending to heaven. Shadows move along ladders under the silence of ordinary things there is another silence: it belongs neither to the leaves nor to the dead with a crown of birds circling him a child is running in an abandoned house the stairway takes the measure of its own emptiness I myself am the stairway that Time has used in its funeral course wheels lift water in the gardens of Hama and come down not waiting for the river to put out the fire Here we are left with the river Seine and Paris's poisons. I prefer gardens where linden trees get ready for a lunar voyage The stairway that separates my room from my memory whispers in my ear... I am not at the mercy of men since trees live in my fantasies men and trees long for fire and call for the rain I love rains which carry desires to oceans. Between one airplane and another space is disoriented stars sneak into holes and brides go naked to wells their innocence wanes under our eyes You and I are made from a worm-eaten wood The Word has sunk we are left with no cry gesture or gaze silence to us is forbidden. We are threatened neither by life nor by death nor forced to admire the Spring I found earth-castles on the edge of the desert's torrents I took their marble stairs but could not find my way either up or down then I understood that I was in a state of non-reason and non-madness and that the gardens of Andalusia were standing ready to die. Two cities Two tears Let insanity keep between its skirts legs within its black eyes the fright of my adolescence and the nocturnal walk on the hills: which hill? I mean the kingdom that a man carries in his gut when his love's fulfilled. Two cities which are neither Beirut nor Damascus two tears: neither of alcohol nor of rain Yes there has been a truck and a blue-eyed woman from Russia —grey olive tree— I was a butterfly caught by a fire: neither the day's not the night's but the incandescence that radiates from the body like a receding sickness, Let tombs stay open! The stairway which leads to my room borrows its metals from Babylon The Prophet's Ascension had two movements we fell into whirlpools of mud and the wind followed his horse A tempest went after the sun's steps The Prophet swam through waves of clouds a river of gold carried his vessel and away from the sun he reached Paradise a Paradise made of light. The stairway which leads to my room leads to an observatory I own two telescopes to observe stars and black holes and take mechanized stairs which advance with no advance my hair spins with sunflowers Illegitimate is this linden tree which shakes by my door let us get ready for Hell! Cursed be messengers tossing about water's tranquility and building forest fences Oh that the wind go quicker than us! that we may be smothered by light! This linden tree standing by my door weights heavy on my days I will finally marry it and we shall bring children condemned to terror this tree looks at me with insistence: It will be kept waiting until Time's end. - Etel Adnan from "The Manifestations of the Voyage" from The Spring Flowers Own & The Manifestations of the Voyage.

Check out my new 75-page novella, 'The Grateful Dead' that includes characters, places, scenes, and phrases from over 150 Grateful Dead songs. See if you can find them all! Synopsis: Jed tries to decide whether to return to Tennessee or stay in the land of Fennario where he lives the good life in a house with his friends: Cassidy, Mason, Stephen, August West, and Jack Straw. Here is the link to the story: https://wordpress.com/posts/drawingsstories.wordpress.com Jacob Sackin www.jacobsackin.com

So it is the duty of the artist to discourage all traces of shameTo extend all boundaries To fog them in right over the plate To kill only what is ridiculous To establish problems To ignore solutions To listen to no one To omit nothing To contradict everything To generate the free brain To bear no cross To take part in no crucifixion To tinkle a warning when mankind strays To explode upon all parties To wound deeper than the soldier To heal this poor obstinate monkey once and for all To have kids with pretty angels To display his dancing seed To sail only in polar seas To laugh at every situation To besiege all their cities To exhaust the primitive To follow every false track To verify the irrational To exaggerate all things To inhabit everyone To lubricate each proportion To experience only experience To deviate at every point To offer no examples To dismiss all support To make one monster at least To go underground immediately To smell the shark's ass To multiply all opinions To work only in the distance To extend all shapes To acquire a sublime reputation To consort forever with the runaway To sport the glacial eye To direct all smouldering ambitions To frequent only the exterminating planets To kidnap the phantom's first-born To forego no succulent filth To masquerade as the author of every platitude To overwhelm the mariner with improper charts To expose himself to every ridicule To ambush their blow-nose Providence To set a flame in the high air To exclaim at the commonplace alone To cause the unseen eyes to open To advance with the majesty of the praying serpent To contrive always to be caught with his pants down To sprinkle mule-milk on the lifted brows of virgins To attach no importance whatever to his activity To admire only the absurd To be concerned with every profession save his own To raise a fortuitous stink on the boulevards of truth and beauty To desire an electrifiable intercourse with a female alligator To lift the flesh above the suffering To forgive the beautiful its disconsolate deceit To send the world away to crawl under his discarded pedestals To have the cunning of the imperilled wave To hide his lamentations in the shredded lungs of the tempest To recommend stone eyelashes for all candid lookers To attribute every magnificence to himself To maintain that the earth is neither round nor flat but a scomaphoid To flash his vengeful badge at every abyss To be revolted by only the sacred cow which piddles at the toes of the swamp To kneel with the blind and drunk brigands and learn their songs To happen To embrace the intemperate hermaphrodite of memory It is the artist's duty to be alive To drag people into glittering occupations To return always to the renewing stranger To observe only the funereal spectator To assume the ecstasy in all conceivable attitudes To follow the plundering whirlpool to its source To cry out nervously with every knock To stock his shelves with plaintive confessions and pernicious diaries To outflow the volcano in semen and phlegm To be treacherous when nothing is to be gained To enrich himself at the expense of everyone To reel in an exquisite sobriety To blush perpetually in gaping innocence To drift happily through the ruined race-intelligence To burrow beneath the subconscious To defend the unreal at the cost of his reason To obey each outrageous impulse To commit his company to all enchantments To rage against the sacrificing shepherds To return to a place remote from his native land To pursue the languid executioner to his hall bedroom To torment the spirit-lice To cover the mud with distinguished vegetation To regain the emperor's chair To pass from one world to another in carefree devotion To withdraw only when all have been profaned To contract every battering disease To peel off all substances from the face of horror To glue himself to every lascivious breast To hurl his vigorous cone into every trough To unroll the hide from that repugnant rhinoceros Time To refrain from no ownership To crowd the squat-rumped centuries into his own special residence To plunge beyond their smoking armpits - Kenneth Patchen

we're gonna need to get organizedlive beyond boundaries soften our hearts talk to each other we're gonna need to leave behind our baggage relinquish our comfort release our control co-exist we're gonna need to give up our addictions confront our pain ask for help give more than we take we're gonna need to dream bigger work harder get dirty take time we're gonna need to remember we're gonna need to forgive we're gonna need to let go we're gonna need to let go we're gonna need to feel fully revive our intuition make up our minds enact change we're gonna need to look at ourselves reconcile our ignorance sacrifice shame make amends we're gonna need to need less peel away the nonessential go hungry break a sweat we're gonna need to heal our fears tell our secrets share with our enemies love ourselves we're gonna need to study existence refine our dreams mediate our shadows cure our disbelief we're gonna need to practice magic we're gonna need to cherish water we're gonna need to grieve we're gonna need to move on we're gonna need to stay focused we're gonna need to be strong tend our commitment to beauty fuel our devotion to truth we're gonna need to pray we're gonna need to follow through endure burning we're gonna need to surrender we're gonna need to trust we're gonna need to give light we're gonna give light we are light we are - Naima Penniman

We were dancing - it must havebeen a foxtrot or a waltz, something romantic but requiring restraint, rise and fall, precise execution as we moved into the next song without stopping, two chests heaving above a seven-league stride - such perfect agony, one learns to smile through, ecstatic mimicry being the sine qua non of American Smooth. And because I was distracted by the effort of keeping my frame (the leftward lean, head turned just enough to gaze out past your ear and always smiling, smiling), I didn't notice how still you'd become until we had done it (for two measures? four?) - achieved flight, that swift and serene magnificence, before the earth remembered who we were and brought us down. - Rita Dove

One night a man was crying, "Allah! Allah!" His lips grew sweet with the praising, until a cynic said, "So! I have heard you calling out, but have you ever gotten any response?" The man had no answer to that. He quit praying and fell into a confused sleep. He dreamed he saw Khadir, the guide of souls, in a thick, green foliage. "Why did you stop praising?" "Because I've never heard anything back." "This longing you express is the return message." The grief you cry out from draws you toward union. Your pure sadness that wants help is the secret cup. Listen to the moan of a dog for its master. That whining is the connection. There are love dogs no one knows the names of. Give your life to be one of them. - Rumi

All the plans That were made Let them die Let them fade... After all's said and done Only here a moment Then the moment's gone I'll spend the day in my own way from In My Own Way - Ray LaMontagne 'Ouroboros'

Music functions in a pattern. Patterns. Patterns function in a whiz; the worse for patternistry which is not there. The gems of few lines. Then - music functions whole, patterns into system patterns. Thus do patterns become history and music - forms. Yes, do pages of phrases write motion, still things - that move, that have lines in mystery, because the best music then forms benign of misery. Blues yes! The blues do. But there is the music -in the blues that do and mercuriate to fire straight lines, non-curve, in monohorizontal unperplexed – in placate history with story-flight that flies faster than the bumblebees, yet with a blue aura: time in history does form this semblance, gravity in norm as unquested and easy, easily drawn. Straight go: time as music alive between the heats -plus-non-plus quicker in deed than Hurricane Jackson the heavyweight, more Alice in Wonderland before the feet think twice is Monk's music is. Feeling driving non-driving diz. - Henry Grimes

I wonder if the sun debates dawnsome mornings not wanting to rise out of bed from under the down-feather horizon if the sky grows tired of being everywhere at once adapting to the mood swings of the weather if clouds drift off trying to hold themselves together make deals with gravity to loiter a little longer I wonder if rain is scared of falling if it has trouble letting go if snow flakes get sick of being perfect all the time each one trying to be one-of-a-kind I wonder if stars wish upon themselves before they die if they need to teach their young how to shine I wonder if shadows long to just-for-once feel the sun if they get lost in the shuffle not knowing where they’re from I wonder if sunrise and sunset respect each other even though they’ve never met if volcanoes get stressed if storms have regrets if compost believes in life after death I wonder if breath ever thinks of suicide if the wind just wants to sit still sometimes and watch the world pass by if smoke was born knowing how to rise if rainbows get shy back stage not sure if their colors match right I wonder if lightning sets an alarm clock to know when to crack if rivers ever stop and think of turning back if streams meet the wrong sea and their whole lives run off-track I wonder if the snow wants to be black if the soil thinks she’s too dark if butterflies want to cover up their marks if rocks are self-conscious of their weight if mountains are insecure of their strength I wonder if waves get discouraged crawling up the sand only to be pulled back again to where they began if land feels stepped upon if sand feels insignificant if trees need to question their lovers to know where they stand if branches waver at the crossroads unsure of which way to grow if the leaves understand they’re replaceable and still dance when the wind blows I wonder where the moon goes when she is in hiding I want to find her there and watch the ocean spin from a distance listen to her stir in her sleep effort give way to existence - Naima Penniman