Virtual Concert Lyrics Jacoby Levi Vann
Lyrics by Jacoby Levi Vann
He was just a seed to be buried, laid down to weed and watered. Now planted, he is reborn.
N. POETICUS
Awake in the spring hour
Display your beauty now
For you were destined to bloom
Poetry wrested from the womb
Hold
Hold on to the ground
Rooted in the mouth
From which the rhythm of life spews
Written in to infinite hues
He loves me not, then
He loves me again
Plucking petals crudely
I plant the seed for him
Poeticus
For he who loves none else
May he love himself
A profusion of delight
Gay, bewilderingly bright
Blossom
Blossom the alpine
Fragrant and divine
Dancing over the hillside
Laughing through the springtime
They’ve seen your beauty, your cruelty
The way you meander so aloofly, so cooly
You never notice
I’ve seen your beauty, your cruelty
You never even glance my direction
He loves me not, then
He loves me again
Plucking petals crudely
I plant the seed for him
Poeticus
July 31, 1993
“We’re hot. We’re hung.
Call us now.”
*Telephone Tone*
“Black, muscular, masculine, dominant top.
5'11, 9 inches, cut and thick. 31 years old in Brooklyn.
Looking for…looking for…”
Looking for God,
Hands in the soil
That bore my flesh,
I shall return
To that fertile
brew of black love.
I long for that complex blackness…
Noir Narcissus
Tangible consciousness textured throughout you, will you
Toil the romance of your mind
Writing the fiction of life that you produce?
And then, will you bury me?
Bury me, bury me
Down in the soil.
Birth the divine
Soothe the human
Lay down my bones
And bare witness
So then, will you bury me?
Bury me, bury me
Down in the soil.
I’m a poet and my name is Saint.
*Telephone tone*
He hangs up the phone and lays in the silence of his beds. Alone, again.
But then, Saint was a lone wolf.
He possessed a romantic mind. Fragmented and neurotic, insatiably inquisitive, idyllic, and infinite.
An imaginative realm trouncing the unmelodious realities of poverty, pain and profound anguish.
Seeds
Saint sits in his chair as if it was an act of love; falling fully into his weight pressed to meet the limitations of laying upon wood. His fingers dance over words, conjuring his wanting.
He types:
“I’m just a seed, won’t you bury me.
Lay me down to weed, give me watering.”
Each word meticulously placed, as if laid down with tweezers. He admires the architecture of a sentence, structuring landscapes in the valleys and peaks of letter lines. He has begun his book.
“I’m just a seed, won’t you bury me.
Lay me down to weed, give me watering.”
He thinks:
Seeds sowing inside my mind.
Seeds ready to grow.
I’m writing alone tonight.
I’m sitting alone.
Won’t you help me?
Won’t you help me remember who I am?
I am homeless until the time when
I am buried in you,
Finding solace in the endless swallow
Of vortexual queue.
Dig.
Plant.
Water.
Grow.
Groom and Harvest.
Won’t you help me?
Won’t you help me remember who I am?
“I’m tired of going to funerals, tired of screaming in the streets. Tired of the senseless, endless death. How many more brilliant beautiful lights will be extinguished before the year ends? Seems like darkness is the only thing left. “
GOD
You are a creator too.
Wade in the healing pool.
Heaven awaits you.
Celestial youth,
you are in bloom.
An orphans first song
Is his cry
“The Lord returns here!”
Sing harmonies rejoicing
The beauty of nativity
Life longs for you
Check your reflection
All flows in you
You are an expression
My son.
Father, won’t you help me?
Mother, help me
in my time of need.
BITTERSWEET
Sweet molasses
Bitter honey
the taste of indigo dreams
the memories sting so bittersweet
and linger on
Sweet, sweet, sweet…
Bittersweet
When our memories contorted
All nostalgic and distorted
It wasn’t a waste
Remember the taste
Chapters closed, although we wrote
such beautiful blue anecdotes
Ink starts to fade
Just turn the page and
Life continues
on…
Sweet molasses
Bitter honey
the taste of indigo dreams
the memories sting so bittersweet
and linger on
Sweet, sweet, sweet…
Bittersweet
Such sorrow and woe
In letting you go
Even though you’re gone
Our love carries on
So…
We never have to say goodbye
There’s comfort in love that never dies
When we’re in love we’re never alone
No…
Sweet molasses
Bitter honey
the taste of indigo dreams
the memories sting so bittersweet
and linger on
Sweet, sweet, sweet…
Bittersweet
And lingers on….
Interlude
At the trial of God, we asked: Why this way?
He replied, Why did you do it this way?
TYPEWRITER
Or maybe his hands, at the typewriter, as they often were seeking yet another word that was niggling just out of reach.
His hands….wide and fat and strong. The source of so much pleasure and pain.
Saint hadn’t thought of this book, and these memories, and these words in years.
His words fell like linen sheets poured over the bedside, covering you.
His hands wrapped around your neck in love making mystified the abuse.
The poetry is too honest, too hard to read.
The words too beautiful to harness, to honor pain.
He types private fantasies, vignettes to exile to the lagoon.
Typing simple truths,
little clues; he was human too.
Manuscripts sprawled across his desk,
Stained with coffee rings and spilt tea.
With a typewriter, vintage and antique,
He sits in his chair and he thinks
In the nude smoking cigarettes
Typing with an open wound, an open wound…
Don’t you wanna read...
Don’t you wanna see...
Don’t you wanna know his story?
Typing simple truths,
little clues; he was human too.