The Blue-Rider (Suicide)
For Ekert, Denton Coates & Terrible Ted

Introduction
This field -- this arrangement of the emotional geography -- concerns a certain sort of casualty which sometimes occurs in the field -- it concerns a problem with the human imagination. The poles of our experience are bounded by birth & by death. In the active mode: we give Birth. In the passive mode: we are born. In the reflexive mode: we give birth to ourselves. Or, alternately, in the negative mode, & actively: we can kill -- & we kill everyday -- we kill animals, we kill our environment, we kill each other. In the passive mode: we can die or be killed, we succumb. In the reflexive mode: we kill ourselves. This is a poem about suicide. I dedicate it to the memories of Ekert, Denton Coates & Terrible Ted.

[Increase reverb on voice. Perhaps a little guitar on intro only]

There's a house on the hill
with the windows all lit up
And the place has the feel of a place
where the people have run out of luck

And night comes down like a Blue Rider.
And the Blue Rider rides like the wind.

And a woman she stands in the doorway
just like an animal half-tamed
And her eyes they flash in the shadows
And her hair makes a single flame

And the Blue Rider rides like the wind.
And the Blue Rider rides like the wind.

And the children they stand on the balcony
holding sparklers in their hands                     
They wave them round in figure eights
And there ain't nothing they don't understand.

And the Blue Rider rides like the wind.
And the Blue Rider rides like the wind.

And the man of the house sits alone
staring at the living room wall
There's a letter in his hand
And a shotgun in the hall.

And the Blue Rider rides like the wind.
And the Blue Rider rides like the wind.
There's a photograph on the mantle
of a mother with her baby.
She looks just like a wise little animal
pretending that life ain't crazy.

And the Blue Rider rides like the wind.
And the Blue Rider rides like the wind.

And the curtains flutter in the night breeze.
And the little people whisper in the radio.
Everything is very still.
And then the blue wind it starts to blow.

And the Blue Rider rides like the wind.
And the Blue Rider rides like the wind.

And the woman who stood in the doorway
She ain't standin' there no more
And the house it looks all hollow,
It looks all hollow to the core.

And the Blue Rider rides like the wind.
And the Blue Rider rides like the wind.

And the stars overhead, they burn little holes
in the deep blue paper sky
And each one of those little pin-prick burns
is the center of an angel's eye.

And the Blue Rider rides like the wind.
And the Blue Rider rides like the wind.

And the man of the house is sleeping
He lies sleeping in his easy chair
The letter lies fallen at his feet
And the blood runs through his hair.

And the Blue Rider rides like the wind
And the Blue Rider rides just like the wind.

And eternity is waiting
but it don't know what for
And seven little angels
wash the blood off heaven's floor.

And the Blue Rider rides like the wind.
And the Blue Rider rides like the wind.