chuckbeat: Ruego a dios que no pase nada, words and music by Patrick Bisaillon, northampton MA

Ruego a dios que no pase nada I prayed to God and nothing happened

poems and writings by patrick bisaillon

March 10, 2003

A persona non grata
a godless persona
swears prayers 
no god hears
for a brighter manana
I roll through 
dark nights of the soul, you
hear metaphors 
heaven sent 
and hell bent, true
till the death
I'm closer with every breath
wonderin if theres any meth
to this madness
hard hatted
hearts battered
blood matted 
words mattered
hood fated 
lives shattered
high rated
thought scatters
well stated
absurd verbs batter
stacato consciousness
of hollow haunted shit
word ladders 
to holiness
saints, prophets and presidents
tao flows
and is never spent
through heaven and hells 
we live in the verbs 
said or sent
to ex loves or old friends
that aint present
out lives resent
skys tinged 
bruised hues
of blue news
days end
and ways bend
from half truths
and outlived sentiment
the night is coming on
it flies towards the dawn
the heart sends out
sacrificed pawns
and wonders 
what has gone wrong
flip scriptures 
and search psalms
word pictures 
in broken backed songs
sick angels slink home
each mind finds
itself all alone
each mind finds 
itself all alone
each mind finds 
itself all alone.


The Holiest Minute 

It is 1:08 am 
according to the red figures 
that figure the world 
as a march of minutes, 
a stilted shuffle into unoccupied time. 
We have trained this 
to train us, 
to wait. 
Weighed down 
by the minutes 
we took too matter to little, 
we wait for meaning. 

Platform # 3 
at the train station 
in Gaya India. 
Sweating bodies 
in belabored sleep 
crowd the living ground. 
A father, 
with legs 
as thin as his moustache 
pushes his boy away 
to give himself room to turn over. 
A mother, 
with ribs in rows 
like a shelf of holy books 
puts her brown breast 
with nipples the color of earth 
back against the hungry lips 
of a child not yet a month old, 
and then wanders back towards sleep. 

Waiting for the train 
I watch a large beetle 
crawl over the naked chest 
of a small girl 
under the dim flickering 
of a fluorescent bulb. 
The tracks are empty. 
The train is late 
as always. 
The holy number is sacrificed 
as the red numbers 
change to 1:09 am.
Pupils In Circles Like Samsara 

If one dies 
in Varanasi 
it is said 
that they escape the 
laws of Karma 
and can at last cease the souls 
endless migration. 
the migratory soul, 
finally finding rest in 
the land beyond wind. 

These are the days that 
I remember those days that did not 
die in Varanasi and so 
keep wandering back like little souls. 
They come back as ache, hope, 
and hands screaming for holiness 
only to fall, falling broken backed 
to the ground. 

They come back as 
a collection of half lights, 
never whole enough to 
Half lights 
with a half life of 
180,000 years. 
My body a battery, 
dimly lit by the orbit 
of days that wander like 
who have left home 
to circle in search of it. 

There is a song, 
without words, 
that keeps coming back to me, 
a song sung in the key of shame, 
that keeps coming back 
to remind me to stop faking it, 
to stop pretending to sing along 
as if there were words to 
A song that reminds me 
that harmony is movement. 

And so this day, 
born dying, 
joins the rest of the 
little souls in orbit, 
and pushes me towards Varanasi 
to swim in Indian rivers, 
to the Ganges to do the backstroke 
next to charred bodies and in the mixture 
of fire and water 
to find purgation 
and cleansing. An ablution 
in the polluted 
hairs of God that run down from heaven. 
Lets go to india and let go. 
Lets go to India and let go. 
Lets go to india and let go.