Strange not to find your drumbeat

in the middle of the day
in the middle of the room
in the middle of a great big riddle

pour away
flow rap rhythm pulse the night
she explodes in reds & blues & golds
like America's streak into a future sleek & fat
on a wave like the edge of a shop-lined street.

it's strange not to work here
write here
be here, quite next to you over there, sitting there in your quiet stare
a rainbow gift; a sudden glare

she of the crescent river soul moon flower bloom into
a river of soft decay & wasted twilights
stumbling across the bridges, tossing airs & frolicsome on its promise
(oh and in case you forgot to grow; did not know; did not care, nor hunt for stares.)

oh castle creed her flaming brow & midnight tolls
She beckons in, to see her flow & bright diamond shine
like no other, nuclear sunshine
just radiating there.

crimson palace, gold hair
strong & graceful, elegant, her gem-stoned studded affair
on the brink of a harsh rude wide awake and in the cold death grip of a fatal instant.

You become everything and nothing and fade away into the white night glare.
like city lights on seeping knowledge; the young they gather on the slops of of towns in cars
& parked on the side of hills, drinking beer, tossing rhymes into the starry sky,
talk about rock & the Wisdom she borne, the prophecy fortold; the bridegroom doomed

in the prophet song
the prophet town
of old becomes solid, cold.

(encased in stone)

Truthful glare
ancient eyes
& wonderful memories

thoughts going back and hour a day
no other way
sifting there, sands of time shift
a memory of names and fates, people at the pearly gates
waiting on whispers
wondering why

blessed air
in the mystic one life love blossom fold open wake up bloom into again a soft decay.

the wonderful day, ends
unconscious in the birthstone setting
midwife, on the behest of minds
nurtures soul, spirit, mind
and into her cradle, soft grave betray
nothing for noone's here; it's ok, she smile & die.

die into her soft, soultakesmeone
& opens me up to someONE
& then everyone. hears me around the corner cops chasing sirens
sirens sweet maidens luring with their dusk songs, drifting flowers, notes
of souls, & peace, and water/river/love forever flowing.

Flowing
Growing Electric Soul.

The King inside a Cage
The breaking of the windows.
The tolling of the pink floyd bells.

cages. flowers. glory.
seed.
Rebirth into a fossiled discovery
Always a a resurrection
Always a return to a shallow end.

In the Birth of Tragedy, and Zarathustra, This Rough Beast, in a T.S. wasteland.
the cold hard bite of his words. the precise way
to walk into this open room
& not know anyone, but everybody's deepest secret soul.

in the quiet waking whispers
a light at dawn is draped in sheets of red, orange,
& california gold.

Chief Broom 1947-2006

Woke up this morning to some sad news, that my friend Barry Welch aka as the online persona Chief Broom, had passed away back on March 1. I had a gnawing suspicion for weeks, as my emails to him had gone unanswered as had my phone calls and messages. And then one day the answering machine stopped picking up.

I drove by his house one day. His black BMW sat in the driveway next to a truck/camper combo. I knocked on the door and nobody answered. Now, he had been having problems with some DUIs so I kind of thought maybe he was back in jail. Or gone on vacation with someone who parked their camper in the driveway.

Finally, I asked an old friend who was a member of the Wheel, a online deadhead virtual community, and he confirmed what I had suspected, but had only found out a day earlier:

Oh my god.

We just got the news yesterday.

Barry died March 1st.

- Bill

Mon, 24 Apr 2006 13:25:18 -0500

We're back from the 2006 Old Settler's Music Festival, held Thu-Sun in
Driftwood TX just SW of Austin. I've only a moment for this note and
Wade hasn't had a chance to post anything yet, but I wanted to pass along
this news from Austin....

Barry Welch, aka chiefbroom, a special friend who we were looking forward
to sharing camptime with at Old Settler's, died March 1. August Welch,
Barry's son who he frequently touted in this forum, was not only in town
tending to Barry's lifetime of collected music and various memorabilia,
but used Barry's ticket to attend the show and hung out with us
throughout.

The festival's advertised highlight was a multi-media tribute to Vassar
Clements presented by Mike Marshall, who mixed classic video of Vassar
with various live stage lineups paying homage. It was impressive, but the
REAL highlight was the preceding set by the Peter Rowan/Tony Rice Quartet.
August had received a backstage pass when he picked Barry's ticket up,
and got to talk with Peter and Tony before they went on. Mid-set, Peter
dedicated a wonderful new tune to Barry's memory; from that point, the
whole set and show really turned to a Barry Welch tribute, and not just
from our point of view.

The Immigrant Song

Of Immigrants
On the hunt for a better life
In a land stolen from their ancestors

No fair the shrill their cries drown out
Pity this poor American,
Illegal they bellow, as they themselves drive DUI down the highway going eighty
In a 65

I see these invisible phantoms all around me
Speaking to them in broken fragments of Spanish
Working hard, at thankless tasks for the thankless
Working hard to feed their life the things they need
To send home the bread they knead

Just like me, they cry & bleed
Laugh & sneeze
Have kids to feed.

Criminals hardly they seem in the grander scheme
Just hungry souls from a barren land
With Shantytowns, and dirty streams
Where Mexican mobs cook up crack
In makeshift shacks
Where women are found raped and dead
In Juarez.

It’s a Democracy or so they say
They should be happy in their place
Know their place, their caste, their race

This is our land
This is our dream
A gift from our ancestors, yes
Our glittering prize
This beautiful America, don’t
Dare scale that fence into
Our precious home.

And soil our soul
Our pure Christian soul.

We don’t care
That you don’t have food
Live in poverty
Have no home.

Oh we might write a check to a Christian ministry
To send on our behalf food for your starving & huddled masses.
We give to Sally Struthers, OK, just so you know we care.

Unfortunate for you that you don’t hail from Cuba
Are a little boy floating in the waters off the coast, clinging to ship-wrecked hope
Fleeing not poverty, corruption but something more sinister & fierce
With which we might have an ideological bone.

A single boy we might welcome, herald, praise
His late mother, who died a hero at sea.

What if the masses were to raise a red flag
Brazen, and blazing, a hammer and sickle
And the Peoples Republic of Mexico
Our new neighbor South
And thousands upon millions become something more
Not just merely illegal but true refugees.

Yes, I pity the poor immigrant, but I pity this poor American more
The immigrant may be homeless, but this American has no soul.