Ricardo E. Weber, Robert Funge and Steve Youn
RIDE A WILD HORSE by Robert Fungee
I hurt.
I eat pills and smoke dreams
and drive needles into my arms.
I ride a merry-go-round and forget
where I got on, and don't know how to get off.
I do what men want me to do
to pay for whatever it takes to make me forget
what I do.
I climb on the horse and ride up and down
and I don't want to get off.
I am your sister. I am the girl down the street.
I am not someone you read about, but I will be.
I have a small daughter who walks in my shoes
and wears my shawls and bonnets, and that hurts
so I swallow more pills.
I think of putting so many needles into my arms
that I'll never hurt again.
I am on a merry-go-round and when it stops
I cling to the wild horse till it starts again.
I hurt.
Robert Funge was born and raised in the Mission, St. Paul's Parish, and now live on the peninsula, in San Carlos.
Visiting Hours by Steve Youn 2003
“I was shot six times in the chest, I killed two men.”
“Hi, my name is Lulu, can you spare an extra cigarette?”
“I'm late for work, if you got something to say, say it to my face...
I have to get to work.”
The doctor is not in today
The doctor won't be in tomorrow
The doctor can't help me
People, patients wandering
Entering rooms
Exiting rooms
Nurses behind three-inch thick windows
Reading magazines
Talking on the telephone
The doctor is not in today
The doctor won't be in tomorrow
The doctor can't help me
The nurses are looking at their pictures
From the vacation in Hawaii
One man is strangling one man
A woman in a pink robe
and blue slippers
is smoking her last cigarette
Friends families leave
Friends families stay
Walking back to their beds
Without any laces in their shoes
The doctor is not in today
The doctor won't be in tomorrow
The doctor can't help me
COME WALK WITH ME Ricardo E. Weber
I walked along a busy downtown street
When a thin man thrust his bony hand at me
He lost his job, and needed all my change
Some passersby just whispered, move away
I watched a child steal a loaf of bread
I asked him why, he said my daddy's dead
My mother's ill, and strung out too
So what's a poor American boy supposed to do
What do we need to,
Carry on
When men of war
Never heard that song
What do we need
To fill the streets
With millions of voices
Calling out for peace
What do we need
Come walk with me
I saw a woman shedding countless tears
All dressed in black, and white with fear
She said her husband died in Vietnam
And her son's just left to fight Saddam
I asked a priest about this world of sin
Even the church is out to do us in
Then he pointed to towers full of greed and shame
And said, don't the skyscrapers and steeples look the same
Ricardo E. Weber / Copyright, Dec. 2002 / Modern Age Music
Ricardo E. Weber is Venezuelan born, was a fine gold- smith for 27 years, a Broadcast Communications major, at City College of San Francisco, and a DJ at KUSF radio for nearly 3 years.He practices a form of Christian Mysticism, long forgotten by our modern society, as well as techniques in the shaman's timeless path.
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