(For Doc + 2 other U3 Stud Madars)

Broken hearted stranger rushing on the road, here there nowhere. shoulders hunched against the wind, feet blue hands blue the scars of his hand where he slapped your face blue cold blue

ooh walking walking walking without a stop towards a final end.

Broken hearted stranger you're remebering his hands passin through your hair streaming in the wind,tears rolling in estacy, his lips roving as he finger fucked you over the roar of his Mustang

ooh crying crying crying black tears in too many unknown beds.

Broken hearted stranger darkness is coming in ridin again across the border and you keep hearin the remebered echos of his feet, each of his false smiles false words.

ooh glowing glowing shining dark eyes sleepless watching endless passin train windows

Broken hearted stranger red sun soon will come raisin over the frozen snow banks of pain, hear your heart pounding no no no don't slice those viens no just wait don't jump down those tracks no not yet

not yet not yet......staccto

feel feel feel growling oooh lovin lovin feel my lovin in the starlight

mmmm B---@ro@--->Ken hearted s-----tra++++ger.. broken hearted stranger feel my lovin
feel my lovin.......broken ooh broken hearted...stranger....yeahhhhh..... in the in the staaarry staarry night.....

fade

2002:01:08 Atlanta

This one came out more raw than I thought it would be, but I wanted to write one that had strong contrasts, raw lyrics ending with soft whispering words...ssssssss.... like grass rustling in the praire wind. The seed came from one of the very first conversations that I had with Doc,found the words coming to me strangely as I was parking my bike and walking to class, not the words just her obvious pain on remebering memories in her head, so the last lines are especially for her.

The trees were soon hushed in the resonance of darkest emerald as we rushed by on 322, that route which took us from the dead center of Pennsylvania.

(a stone marks it) to a suburb ten miles from Philadelphia. "A hummingbird," I said, after a sharp turn, then pointed to the wheel, still revolving in your hand.

I gave Emily Dickinson to you then, line after line, complete from the heart. The signs on Schuylkill Expressway fell neat behind us. I went further: "Let's pretend your city

is Evanescence—There has to be one— in Pennsylvania—And that some day— the Bird will carry—my letters—to you— from Tunis—or Casablanca—the mail

an easy night's ride—from North Africa." I'm making this up, I know, but since you were there, none of it's a lie. How did I go on? "Wings will rush by when the exit

to Evanescence is barely a mile?" The sky was dark teal, the moon was rising. "It always rains on this route," I went on, "which takes you back, back to Evanescence,

your boyhood town." You said this was summer, this final end of school, this coming home to Philadelphia, WMMR as soon as you could catch it. What song first

came on? It must have been a disco hit, one whose singer no one recalls. It's six, perhaps seven years since then, since you last wrote. And yesterday when you phoned, I said,

"I knew you'd call," even before you could say who you were. "I am in Irvine now with my lover, just an hour from Tucson, and the flights are cheap." "Then we'll meet often."

For a moment you were silent, and then, "Shahid, I'm dying." I kept speaking to you after I hung up, my voice the quickest mail, a cracked disc with many endings,

each false: One: "I live in Evanescence (I had to build it, for America was without one). All is safe here with me. Come to my street, disguised in the climate

of Southern California. Surprise me when I open the door. Unload skies of rain from your distance-drenched arms." Or this: "Here is Evanescence (which I found—though

not in Pennsylvania—after I last wrote), the eavesdropping willows write brief notes on grass, then hide them in shadows of trunks. I'd love to see you. Come as you are." And

this, the least false: "You said each month you need new blood. Please forgive me, Phil, but I thought of your pain as a formal feeling, one useful for the letting go, your transfusions

mere wings to me, the push of numerous hummingbirds, souvenirs of Evanescence seen disappearing down a route of veins in an electric rush of cochineal."

for Philip Paul Orlando

Author Notes: "This is from the central section of A Nostalgist's Map of America, which deals with the death of a friend of mine from AIDS. He was an undergraduate at Penn State when I was a graduate student, and we were very good friends. The last time I had seen him was 1979, he had graduated and left. Out of the blue, in 1985, I got a call from him in Tucson. I don't know whether he discovered my number or I had written a note to him, I don't remember the details. He told me that he and his lover were moving from Boston to California and they would be driving through Tucson and would like to come and see me, which they did."

My Notes: Beautiful poem. Ali was one of the finalists for the National Book Award for Poetry this year. He is an immigrant like I am: from India. He hails from Kashmir, what Shahjahan, a Moghul Emperor called, "Heaven On Earth" which it truely is!

It was a marvelous night, the sort of night one only experiences when one is young. The sky was so bright, and there were so many stars that, gazing upward, one couldn't help wondering how so many whimsical, wicked people could live under such a sky. This too is a question that would only occur to the young, to the very young; but may God make you wonder like that as often as possible!

White Nights - Dostoevsky

Today they celebrated the Earth Day here at Tech, although the real Earth Day is on Monday, the 22nd. But wait isn't every day we live on this planet an "Earth Day". I wanted to write about my concerns of the environment and the state of the planet as I was walking back here, ofcourse after getting the customary free t shirt. But since eloquence escapes me I give you the words of Chief Seattle to the President of United States. Read them and reflect on how civilization has taken us far from who we are: a thread in the web of life.

CHIEF SEATTLE'S LETTER

"The President in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land. But how can you buy or sell the sky? the land? The idea is strange to us. If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you buy them?

Every part of the earth is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every meadow, every humming insect. All are holy in the memory and experience of my people.

We know the sap which courses through the trees as we know the blood that courses through our veins. We are part of the earth and it is part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters. The bear, the deer, the great eagle, these are our brothers. The rocky crests, the dew in the meadow, the body heat of the pony, and man all belong to the same family.

The shining water that moves in the streams and rivers is not just water, but the blood of our ancestors. If we sell you our land, you must remember that it is sacred. Each glossy reflection in the clear waters of the lakes tells of events and memories in the life of my people. The water's murmur is the voice of my father's father.

The rivers are our brothers. They quench our thirst. They carry our canoes and feed our children. So you must give the rivers the kindness that you would give any brother.

If we sell you our land, remember that the air is precious to us, that the air shares its spirit with all the life that it supports. The wind that gave our grandfather his first breath also received his last sigh. The wind also gives our children the spirit of life. So if we sell our land, you must keep it apart and sacred, as a place where man can go to taste the wind that is sweetened by the meadow flowers.

Will you teach your children what we have taught our children? That the earth is our mother? What befalls the earth befalls all the sons of the earth.

This we know: the earth does not belong to man, man belongs to the earth. All things are connected like the blood that unites us all. Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.

One thing we know: our God is also your God. The earth is precious to him and to harm the earth is to heap contempt on its creator.

Your destiny is a mystery to us. What will happen when the buffalo are all slaughtered? The wild horses tamed? What will happen when the secret corners of the forest are heavy with the scent of many men and the view of the ripe hills is blotted with talking wires? Where will the thicket be? Gone! Where will the eagle be? Gone! And what is to say goodbye to the swift pony and then hunt? The end of living and the beginning of survival.

When the last red man has vanished with this wilderness, and his memory is only the shadow of a cloud moving across the prairie, will these shores and forests still be here? Will there be any of the spirit of my people left?

We love this earth as a newborn loves its mother's heartbeat. So, if we sell you our land, love it as we have loved it. Care for it, as we have cared for it. Hold in your mind the memory of the land as it is when you receive it. Preserve the land for all children, and love it, as God loves us.

As we are part of the land, you too are part of the land. This earth is precious to us. It is also precious to you.

One thing we know - there is only one God. No man, be he Red man or White man, can be apart. We ARE all brothers after all."

Love and Peace to All. Sashi

Notes: "In 1851 Seattle, chief of the Suquamish and other Indian tribes around Washington's Puget Sound, delivered what is considered to be one of the most beautiful and profound environmental statements ever made. The city of Seattle is named for the chief, whose speech was in response to a proposed treaty under which the Indians were persuaded to sell two million acres of land for $150,000." -- Buckminster Fuller in Critical Path.

Some more beautiful words: I do not know. Our ways are different than your ways. The sight of your cities pains the eyes of the red man. There is no quiet place in the white man's cities. No place to hear the unfurling of leaves in spring or the rustle of the insect's wings. The clatter only seems to insult the ears. And what is there to life if a man cannot hear the lonely cry of the whippoorwill or the arguments of the frogs around the pond at night? I am a red man and do not understand. The Indian prefers the soft sound of the wind darting over the face of a pond and the smell of the wind itself, cleaned by a midday rain, or scented with pinon pine.

The air is precious to the red man for all things share the same breath, the beast, the tree, the man, they all share the same breath. The white man does not seem to notice the air he breathes. Like a man dying for many days he is numb to the stench. But if we sell you our land, you must remember that the air is precious to us, that the air shares its spirit with all the life it supports. This we know; the earth does not belong to man; man belongs to the earth.

To read the whole speech go here: www.webcom.com