School

An education, it seems, is needed
For me to learn that I am not a sunflower Greek Jew
An education, it seems, is needed
For me to know that I am not an infinite German of happiness
An education is needed
For me to know what the beauty of rent and geraniums are
For me to be able to tell you what music is
What art to like and what birds to watch flying across the morning sky
An education is needed for me to know
When to stop loving you
To keep my discipline in shape
To keep my suits sharp, and clean and neat
An education, it would seem, is needed
To tell the difference between
Cohen, and Burroughs, and John Wayne's ghost
To know when to plant orchards or cement
To know when the stores are closed
And when and why their windows will be smashed
An education will be needed
For me to know when to wait by the cemetery
In the sun, in a woollen cap, grey eyes looking at the grass
An education, it seems, is needed
For me to discuss the voodoo media with my father
For me to discuss trains and death with my mother
To know when to look for forgotten heirlooms
To know where to look for lost lovers with Midas' touch
An education is needed for me to find Africa, Turkey and then Japan
For me to teach a child that passion is merely a word
That one needs an education to know the meaning
That one must reach his thirties before he has hope of being 'found'
That a long time is never mentioned in prayer
An education, it seems, is needed
To understand what a spotlight is
Whether is be on the stage or scanning barbed wire
That heat fades and frost melts
Locks break, all creatures will bleed for love, and eagles are myth
It seems an education is needed
Before a man can wear out his shoes on the road to Guagamela
Before the cafes and bars close
Before the blessed drink starts echoing around the soul
Before the fires of Greece reach the place where the snow stretches to India
Without education we will not know how to fondle the gravel
Not see the twisted sisters standing in the clearing, talking of modern prophecy
Men of yesterday's love will not speak of there being nothing left on the canvas
We will not see the harbour of iron angels, the sea of untied shadow
Without education I will believe I am the trail of a Jumbo Jet
I will write letters to the locked arms of Cohen, Burroughs and John Wayne's ghost
I will stay embedded in the cafe's of Montreal and New York
There will be no distance, there will be no dust, no gratitude from the road
I will become the lost horse, happy, without excuses