Birdshit Buddhas

Birdshit Buddhas

Birdshit Buddhas is Rob Birdwell, trumpet; Chris Rorrer, cello; John R. Campbell, guitar synth, words; Doug Meyers, guitar; Kevin Van Walk, percussion
  • 06:37 Story Lyrics
    Damascus

    Damascus

     

    Under these exact circumstances—mist, 

    and light penetrating lowering clouds—

    the wet asphalt of a battered highway 

    turns to silver before me. And then white,

    as if opposites were only degrees of light, 

    atmospheric merely. At any moment,

    the world I've constructed might vanish, 

    and a blinding road, to Damascus, or

    to precisely nowhere, might suggest 

    my journey. I proceed thus blindly. I go

    with no expectation. The slow, groping, 

    empty-eyed pilgrim grasps nothing

    but the moment at hand.

NOTES
Recorded live at Hovering Horse, Corvallis, Oregon, January 2014
Birdshit Buddhas
Words & Music: John R. Campbell

Story

Birdshit Buddhas:

Rob Birdwell, trumpet

Chris Rorrer, cello

John R. Campbell, words, guitar synth

Doug Meyers, guitar

Kevin Van Walk, percussion

 

Recorded live at Hovering Horse, Corvallis, Oregon, January 2014

Lyrics

Birdshit Buddhas

 

No exotic buddhas,

plundered or purchased from Asia.

No historic buddhas, slick

from nudging the ages.

Only cheap souvenir buddhas

peeking out from cluttered shelves.

Only concrete garden buddhas--

dusty buddhas, mossy buddhas,

birdshit buddhas, gaudy buddhas.

O glorious plastic buddhas,

o glorious plastic buddhas,

oozed from petroleum swamps.

No exotic buddhas--

only birdshit buddhas.

 

 

Birdshit Buddhas
John R. Campbell words; Birdshit Buddhas, music

Story

Birdshit Buddhas:

Rob Birdwell, trumpet

Chris Rorrer, cello

John R. Campbell, words, guitar synth

Doug Meyers, guitar

Kevin Van Walk, percussion

 

Recorded live at Hovering Horse, Corvallis, Oregon, January 2014

Lyrics

And Then He Dived In

 

And then he dived in, naked out of necessity.

Spirals hovered in his wake, and anthems

were sung spontaneously. We sang until

our pores were open by the same chill pond

that enveloped him. He knew and we knew

the water was song. The songs were the water

and the path to the water. Proximity is everything.

Suddenly another among us arose, walked

straight to the water, and dived. We never

saw him again/alive. Now a new mimicry

skirts our lives, and trims our ancient need.

Now we study in the field, incessantly.

We disperse in patterns themselves quite beautiful,

striations on the body of time.