ROAD DUST MEMORY

Three fires in this dream and fire begets fire

Riding in the soupy summer night.
Cool air blowing freedom into the open window.
Mind merges with machine and freedom sings up from wheels
on the road.
Teenaged and life beckons.
Radio provides the sound track. An anthem.
Some war, somewhere else, imposes itself on the drifting signal
at the top of the hour as real as the draft blasting through
the car window, an anxiety forgotten as quickly as it is felt.
Another song, another smoke, an empty tank and the night grows
old and tired.
Tomorrow, dreams will mean nothing in the face of summer jobs and
school boy desire.

Suddenly, in Santa Fe, it all makes sense.
Twenty years later, down by the Santa Fe River that only runs
when the flood locks upstream spill the overflow.
Thunder storms provide an excess of water and memory.
The road isn't freedom, it is the path from one conflict to
another.
Going is the break that makes you.
Getting there is the entire trip.
Being there is some silence a road never gives.
These four walls and a lover, somewhere else, some other time,
and we all need love.

Political songs about social change never make it on the radio
anymore.
Honey, that was just a phase we were all going through.
Spiritual change is not very commercial.
Best left to the ones in charge of St Peter, Paul and the Virgin Mary.
We can't change the world so we may as well join it, buy a BMW or an Astro Van.
Drink imports and wear a crystal.
Forget the road and fly the threatened and threatening.
Political change jingles to the tune of MegaBucks, MegaDeath, and
a MegaWatt undercurrent hum.
The ones in charge charge and if you can't pay then buy on time
which is running out faster than you think,
faster than you can dream.
The road calls.
Another town.
Another coke machine at a gas station that closes at sundown.
Fires Coil around the brain and burn all night.
fires flicker like heat lightning
fires that once burned along this river
fires that remember this ancient song
fires that remember ancient drums
fires that danced through bitter tears
The sun rises once more to send winds to scatter the ashes.
Anger wells up like fires erupting from Earth.
Old anger of wounds inflicted on young bodies that become
invisible scars that cut deeper into the souls of the adults.
Anger of unrequited love.
Anger of love turned sour and worse.
Legal maneuvers and false accusations that take the children away
and take the youth out of the children.
Anger that wakes us up in the morning and sings us to sleep each
night until we awaken one day to a body of anger.
Too cold and empty to feel anymore.

and still the fires burn
and the dancers honor the drum
and history is passed on to those who still dream

Each fire has its own song, its own breath.
The fire keeper looks into it to find its current meaning.
Fire leaves its mark as accurate as lightning.

and seven sisters sing in the night
The morning star completes the chorus.
The last fire consumes its last piece of fuel.
The turtle moves, as ancient as ice
as ancient as fire.
The chosen ones sing one last song and memory is satisfied.

We know the ones who keep the spark for the next fire.
We know the ones willing to die so the chosen ones may live.
We know the ones killing those who serve the people.
We know where we sit in this circle.
The fire gives life to all in this circle.
It sings a soft sweet song.
It is telling me its song.
Now I have written it down.
Now the fire has told you who you are.
Fires burn like distant thunder.
HO!

Oliver Loveday © 8/01/91/2pm EST Indianapolis, IN