Central Park. New York City.
 An icon of urban planning. A narrow band of trees and green surrounded by shining towers. Strawberry fields. The Ramble. The Obelisk. The Park is a haven, a peaceful grove, for people to escape the press of the crowds, the dulling traffic noise and the sharply tuned intellectual and creative life that crackles in the air like Saint Elmo’s fire.
 The Sun Dogs had been setting up all day for the free concert in the Sheep Meadow. Two days ago they left the Applegate Farm in a caravan of cars, buses, trailers and even a few motorcycles. When George finally saw them all packed and ready to drive off, he nearly relented in his determination to see them gone. Now that Peter had mysteriously vanished, he began to rekindle his affection for these young folks. But he saw that they had gone to great lengths to organize and get themselves to this point and, sad though it was,  if he backpedaled it would only postpone the inevitable.
 Now The Sun Dogs had entered the City flashing with enthusiasm like a burning brand. Their promotion crew pasted up the symbols of the tribe all over town. The whole community was out in force determined to make this concert a springboard to their traveling circus. The weather was fine with blue skies and a slight lilting breeze coming off the ocean clearing away the pollution. The new CD was receiving some air time for the last few weeks, especially the songs Rebellion of the Angels  and Clacking Sticks, and sales were becoming brisk throughout the Northeast. The poster being pasted everywhere showed Osha, sexy and serious, holding a Bible licked by flames. It advertised the group as a “seminal circus for the polemically correct”, which sent everybody running to their dictionaries. The word was on the street: this concert was to be a Happening for the new millennium.
 As well, the word went out amongst the network of pagan communities that a Sun Dogs circle was going down in the middle of the City. The most far-flung covens arrived first, the hearty snow-belt clans from Buffalo and the banks of Lake Ontario, the Cleveland contingent, and the Boston collectives. Pitching tents and banners, they drummed, danced in circles, and in the heat of the day started dropping articles of clothes. Soon the local covens wandered in, finding words of welcome and free food and drink being passed about along with numerous pamphlets describing a host of subjects such as Neo-Paganism, environmental causes, legalization of drugs and sex, the BCCI and S&L conspiracies, just to name just a few. Jamie collected these from every group that would put up a poster or buy a CD and passed them out vigorously. “We got to network to get work!” he insisted to anyone to would stand in one place long enough to listen. And during the last few weeks they hustled their butts off.
 The afternoon wore on and more and more people arrived. Then more and more. Then more. Osha looked out from the stage at the masses of people lazily picnicking hours before the beginning of the show. This is their big break, he thought. The rest of the Dogs were excited, unable to contain their energy. They gabbed, practiced and laughed at the slightest thing. Inka sat rubbing Jill’s shoulders for the longest time. Osha overheard Inka say: “I wish Peter was here.” Osha felt embarrassed and walked away.
 There was a circular area about fifty meters in diameter fenced off in front of the stage. This would be the ritual space. The crowds pressed in all around here. Police warily eyed the field that was slowly but surely filling with bodies. “Ain’t seen the like since da sixties,” one cop whispered to another, “But dees guys are attractin’ a real odd bunch. Old hippies, punkers, suits and look over there: she’s got to be sumbody’s gramma.”
 Many of The Sun Dogs, except for those directly involved with the stage show, wandered through the people. Doing magic tricks and mime, selling posters and CDs, passing out free literature, signing up folks to their mailing list. A small contingent of nattily-dressed people were protesting the City allowing devil-worship on public property. The Dogs’ promoters circumvented this group to avoid any confrontation, that would be a hassle and, besides, this was their day under the sun, wasn’t it?
 Finally, as night closed in, they were ready to begin the show. The stage had a huge white backdrop upon which the light show projected their fanciful images. The jugglers came out first and their shadows, huge and distorted, played upon the screen. The band slowly took their places in the shadows, waiting. Jeremy the Juggler was finishing up with his fire sticks and when he dowsed them the stage was completely in darkness.
 Then, as if from a great distance, a howling was heard. It gathered and surrounded the entire park. The audience began howling. The Sun Dogs have arrived.
 The screen lit up with ancient cave paintings and well-known Venus or Goddess figurines. The music for Clacking Sticks began and applause rang out. With a impressive gust of smoke, Osha stepped into the light and sang. He wore a loose flowing robe, bright red and his golden locks radiated like a halo. When the chorus came and Inka joined him, their luminous beauty burned like flames in the night.

Clacking Sticks

Clacking sticks down in the deep
Away from neoplastic matter
Printing hands on limestone skin
Feeling the pulse of the earth much better.

Serpentine question a fate so seeming
Rage in a cave of where we began
Pushing senses while riding a demon
Bidding goodbye to the Son of Man.

 When we rise up
 Break through the surface.
 Rise up
 to the Unknown.
 Friends will be there
 to greet and meet us.
 Luminous friends and a vast Unknown.

Tattooing memories where we won’t see them
Shame is a game we learn to believe
Rewarding ourselves in earthly experience
With high-noon hearts we have to conceive.

Open the gate to the temple garden
Shaping our way in candle light
Down in the deep we slowly remember
Crafting new words, sharp and bright.

 When we rise up
 Break through the surface.
 Rise up
 to the Unknown.
 Friends will be there
 to greet and meet us.
 Luminous friends and a vast Unknown.

 Luminous friends and a vast Unknown.
 Luminous friends and a vast Unknown. . . .

 The concert rolled and rocked for about an hour and a half rippling through originals and favorite covers from Steely Dan, The Beatles, Michelle Shocked and Bruce Cockburn. They then took a fifteen minute break to catch their breath and prepare for the next set.
 Jill and the Jimmies were passing a huge joint and bottle of wine jabbering excitedly about various moments in their jams and the audience reactions. “Man, when you hear all those people spontaneously cheer,” Jim said, “it just sends me to another planet.”
 Jill said, “That’s because we’re from another planet.”
 Inka stood at the police line signing autographs and flirting with all the beautiful woman. She was quite taken by the adoration.
 Osha watched all this and felt a wave of mixed emotions. He didn’t like them getting too high in concert time and was worried by any premature celebration. Also, this next part of the concert was crucial for the Dogs to stand out and shine, to make the message from their new album come alive. He moved promptly to the dressing rooms where a handful of leaders from various Pagan groups gathered. “Well met, my friends,”  Osha said as everyone cheered and patted his back. “Thanks, thanks, yeah, it’s fun, quiet, quiet please, we have but a few minutes and some last points to work out.” Osha reached into a bag and pulled out a leather bound book. “Here it is, the Christian Bible,” Osha announced with gravity. The gathering of women and men hummed low. They discussed some of the finer points of what is to come in this very public ritual.
 One of the elders spoke up, “I still have reservations about this ritual you’re planning Osha. Oh, I’m no great lover of the Bible, to be sure, but it still gets me a little nervous. What are we trying to say with this ritual?”
 “Thanks Barney, we need to be clear, very clear, on what we’re to do tonight. I believe that we are going to precipitate some serious magic tonight. The time has come for us witches to fly out of the broom closet and spread our light, our healing, our strength to the four winds. In all magic, one needs a token of the adversary in order for it to work. A piece of hair or cloth is used in personal magic, for instance. This is called the Magical Link, it links the magic-user to that which they are trying to effect. In order to effect the actions of a entire group, one needs a talisman that is widely recognized and given much power in of itself. The Bible is that link, that talisman, that we’re going to use to arouse an entire nation, perhaps even the world, to reexamine its history, its goals, its purpose. As we enter the 21th century, what with all the craziness of population explosion, famine, floods, climate change and on and on, too many people are looking to this book for salvation and guidance. I believe in my heart of hearts that if too many people take up this fantasy of Millenarianism, which seems to be intensifying rather than diminishing since “The Millennium” came and went without much happening. They’re still waiting for some promised Second Coming to save them from this beautiful but injured planet, then what hope are we to have to save it for our future and that of our children? We need to push the issue, to break the chains that bind the minds of far too many people in this country and around the world. To give this planet, our home, another chance at survival.
 “After a two thousand year depression, the pagan philosophy is having a rebirth after many long ages of repression. Wiser perhaps now. Now is the time to make our move. We can’t wait any longer. Yes, it is powerful stuff we’re dealing with but we do believe in magic, we can make this work. In the years to come, I want my children to know, without a doubt, that I opposed the Powers-that-be that would neatly dispose of the Earth for their own self-grandizement, greed and lust for power. The Fates have brought us to this place and I, for one, will follow my destiny to the bitter end. No one need go into this if they aren’t completely sure. Are you with me on this? Are you part of the Band?” Osha looked around at the nodding heads then at Barney. His lined and weathered face was grim but, at last, he nodded. “Fine,” Osha said, “I’m glad we’re clear on this. The rumor has gone around and all the media are here, even some live coverage by CNN and MTV, I understand. It should be great fun, after all. Are we ready? Great, let’s go.” They filed out of the trailer to take their places.
 Osha carried the Bible with him. It was about four years ago when he burned his first Bible, that one was given to him by one of his many foster parents with the veiled hope he would settle down.. He took it with him to a Pagan gathering years later and, at the community fire circle one evening, he and the Dogs burned the entire bible, page by page. That night Peter and he started developing the song, Burn Your Bible which lead to Osha and Inka writing a preamble to performing that song that was a mixture of traditional pagan invocation and on-the-edge performance poetry. This poem they named Rebellion of the Angels. For some reason, perhaps a braiding of luck, marketing and zeitgeist, they now had this narrow window of opportunity to get into the cultural face. Tonight Osha felt like he was standing on the shore of a new world. He wanted to overthrow this symbol of two thousand years of manipulation and deceit. He wished to discard this out-dated ream of propaganda and lies that has be the source of more suffering than anything he knew of.
 His heart was filled with a maelstrom of certitude and dread as he approached the stage. With sweaty hands clutching the soft leather-bound book, he joined his friends.

 The Sun Dogs took to the stage with a general uproar. Jill pumped up her synthesizer and whipped into a solo both exciting and transcending. Then she turned on a thick pipe organ sound which calmed and focused the crowd. The spotlight hit Inka and Osha, both dressed in black robes with mirrors sew in that bedazzled the eyes. Osha and Inka turned to each other, their images were projected on the screen behind them. Inka raised a knife while Osha knelt in front of here with an up-raised cup, the athame and the chalice. They spoke with power and conviction:

Let it be known
That no man is greater than a woman
Nor is a woman greater than a man
For what one lacks
the other can give
And as the Chalice is to the female
So is the Athame to the male
And when they are joined together
They become One.
For there is no greater Magic in all the world
Than that of Love.

 Osha and Inka shared the cup. Attendants moved to them and took away the sacred tools. The drums began, soft and slow. About sixty people, dressed wonderfully, colorfully, outrageously, proceeded into the ritual circle, carrying white tapers lit, chanting.

Earth, Air, Fire, Water
Come tonight, Come tonight.
Earth, Air, Fire, Water
Bring us Light, Bring us Light!

 Osha and Inka faced the audience and in unison spoke powerfully:

Immortal Mother, we call to thee.
Dark Goddess from the Deep, we call to thee.
Giver of Life and Death, we call to thee.
 
Living God who came forth from the Mother, we call to thee.
Great Stag of the Forest, we call to thee.
Lover of the Earth, we call to thee.
 
Join
us
now.

 As the band filled in with an eerie background, Osha began the poem.

Tonight is the Night of the Bone.
We’re all together and each alone.

The Storyteller
strikes a rock and water pours out
provoking our attention.
Words are weighed out on the thin desert air
like grains of gold on a hand-held scale.
The scintillating light vibrates with each gesture:
an arc of the arm, a cloud of ashes let loose.

 A spray of sparkling powder shot out over the audience.

Tribal sharing
when ears become eyes
a story is savored by the full body.
Fire light reflects in our sweaty faces
and when we look up
stars gather and take shape.

(Be not afraid of the Universe.)

 Now the beat began to build up.

With this in mind allow me to degenerate
and dwell with the tribes of today.
These tribes overshadowed
by delicate high-tension lines
of electromagnetic fury, like ley-lines of old,
straddling the dragon of perilous beauty
across a landscape abused.
These tribes fleeing to the outback,
rattling bones on bareback mountains,
filling the Void rightly and divinely.
 

Tribes of fire circles,
a moonylunie communion with the trees.
Tribes humming and drumming,
keeping time, folding space.
Tribes raging and engaging.
Tribes stretching out,
hand to hand, heart to heart.
Temporary Tribes
extemporizing and rationalizing.
Tribes cast asunder and wandering lost (lost!).
Crazed in tracking a useful path
through these badlands and high dry desert.
Tribes lighting twigfires in the thorny night.
Tribes spread thin. Too thin.
Can we find our anchor,
that place and time to gather.
Will we survive?

Join in, enter the fray:
The thunder rips the air,
the rain weaves it together.
Standing forth naked, revealed:
A blaze of Darkness
drawing down an androgynous moon.

(Be not afraid of the Universe.)

 All the stage goes black except for a spotlight on Osha.

Let me tell you a story:

I remember
One Far-off Day
when I stole my soul from God.
He raped my wife
and left me a bastard child.
So we had a score to settle,
  you see?
So I stole my soul from God
gave it to my Mother to keep safe and warm.
It was then I took to the road.
That was when the Chase began.

Pursued out to the edge of a minor galaxy.

I am only now
just beginning to
Remember.

I am only now opening doors,
entering unafraid, waxing full.

We’ll go in the garden
and God won’t find us there.

 The band begins to chant.

pooka
 pooka
  pooka
     pooka
   pooka
       pooka
 pooka
     pooka     pooka

Have you ever been invisible?

Composed Quarklike — Strange yet charmed.
Illuminated hand print.
Wearing the mask of the Faceless One.
Cold howling Craft — shifting introspective damp forest mind.
As if by chance — unveiled and resplendent:
the Pooka Dances.

pooka
 pooka
   pooka
       pooka

I can smell the islands:
The islands of my birth into this world.
Orchids swell and burst
frail and translucent in the crescent moon tide
leading me along towards paradise.
I live on this earth without regret,
doing little harm.
This earth succulent and sustaining.
This earth clad with wild innocence.
This earth singing every fine and faithless hour
with the tongues of cockatoo and butterfly,
of macaque and man.

Follow me into our World:
A hollowed out canoe rising then sliding down
over warm ocean swells.
  I am a floating world.
Enclosed in a silvery membrane
a creature that knows nothing
paddling indulgent forgotten oceans.
Living thus in Paradise
I greet the foam and spray,
being filled and emptied all at once.
My heart leaps as I follow the spindrift scent
to my Lover’s island.
We will feed each other fresh nectar
from fruits breaking easily from the vine.
We are Earth’s Children:
savoring sweet life
discovering rapture
in each dewdrop
on each green leaf.
We know the Songs of Old
and we’ll sing them to our children
and our children’s children.
Then we’ll sleep and dream of the Pooka
dancing all garbed in green and laughing.

Pooka!
 The chant stopped and silence strained to listen.

Yet here I lie, under a stark and wired sky,
a fading hero to desperate love.

I will now dwell in the valley of my friends,
partaking of the cup in common.
All of us are injured,
scarred by eons of abuse and neglect.
All of us taking time
to lick each others’ wounds.
All are trembling
as the hitmen from God corner us
and deliver salvation with words and weapons.
All opposition is futile, they say.
All you need to do is render your soul to us.
Become slaves of God.
Like anonymous file transfer protocols
we become casual data in the mind of this God.
Like pigs being herded into the slaughter house,
He eats us for brunch, thin and crispy.

Read up, read up!
It is all in this BOOK!

 Osha lifted the Bible above his head.

 The circle chanted: Now, Now, Now. . .

 Attendants brought in a tripod with a brazier on top and placed it between Inka and Osha.
 The audience chanted: Now, Now, Now . . .

 Osha raised the Bible up high, its image grew behind him on the huge screen, he wore a leather green man mask. Jill and the Jimmies began playing with the drumbeat.
 Osha began:

The transcribed indelible forefinger of God
so they say.
The rightly divided Word
that none can transgress
so they say.
The Law — so they say.

But now it is like a fantastic trashy novel
that spawned a religion
and who knows?
Perhaps that may happen again.
Yet now this BOOK is drenched with blood:
not of God but of us.
Where do we go from here?
What comes next?

Oh yeah…

Now hear me out:

Burn your Bible today.
Do not be mislead for a single second more.
Burn your Bible today.
Cast off the rags of that old tribal warfare.
Burn your Bible today.
It is a Book of Tales like a Bed of Nails.
Burn your Bible today.
It tells you that you are born into Sin
and in your body you can never win.
Burn your Bible today.
Shake off the sham.
Say goodbye to the Son of Man.
Burn your Bible today.
There is no entrance fee to reality.

 The hall was hushed. Jamie began a pulsing beat. One by one, this crowd was drawn into a trance dance, moving like waves on a warm blue green ocean. Inka spoke in a feverish tone: “Now, Now, Now . . .” The crowd began to pick up on it.

 Osha ripped page after page from the bible and a bright flame arose. Another and then another, flash and flash. The music intensified. The blaze intensified. Climbing ten feet above their heads, it was like a huge match. Now, Now, Now …  the crowd chanted. Then he dropped the remaining book on the brazier and raised his hands and it went up in a huge incandescent fire. Osha screamed. The whole park screamed. And ten million people watching CNN screamed. The circle began dancing and the dance spread outward.

Burn your Bible.
Burn your Bible.
Burn your Bible.
Burn your Bible.

Come let us dance:

We are the gates unlocked.
We are the hot breath and sanguine touch.
We are the silence piercing the air.
We are a sack of dreams.
We call for redemption
and hear only echoechoecho.
We are lovers and livers, losers and givers.
We rage in caves, undulating to truth hollowed out in a beat. (to a beat!)
We make motion to sound to scent to slither
through to a sharpened moment.
We believe we can walk right
into the oak grove and unfold.
We form and fire and feel
and then finally break.
We weave and whisper
and pay heed to the wisdom of the Snake.
We are a collective stigmata.
We are angels for all that it is worth.
We can laugh at our gods
and they can laugh at themselves.
We nurture ourselves on the ancient teat.
We bless with our small blessings.
We will be here to welcome you.

We will be here to welcome you.

We will be here to welcome you.

We will be here to welcome you.

 The music quieted until all you could hear was the breath of thousands of people and the traffic. The circle raised their hands and sang in a low hum. Osha looked out over the mesmerized crowd and wondered: what have we done? Well, guess I’ll finish the song.
 
The Storyteller pauses
the shadows lean closer
the fire leaps up.
Is the story unfinished?
What comes next?
The eyes of the Storyteller sparkle
as if with some unspeakable jest
and the only words I hear
ring in the hollow of my Heart:
 

Tonight is the Night of the Bone.
We’re all together and each alone.
 

 Then they rolled right into their song, Burn your Bible. Out in the fields, hundreds of Bibles were meeting the same fate. And so they lit the fuse to what they knew not. But it was great fun.

Burn Your Bible

I looked over Jordan, what did I see?
Comin’ for to drag me down
A book and a sword and some armies
Comin’ for to drag me down.

I say: Ho!  (Ho!)
Ho!  (Ho!)
Hodee dodee Hodee dodee
Comin’ for to drag me down.
I say: Ho!  (Ho!)
Ho!  (Ho!)
Hodee dodee Hodee dodee
Comin’ for to drag me down.

The River is wide and the River is deep
Comin’ for to drag me down
They cut me up and my wife they’ll keep
Comin’ for to drag me down.

I say: Ho!  (Ho!)
Ho!  (Ho!)
Hodee dodee Hodee dodee
Comin’ for to drag me down.
I say: Ho!  (Ho!)
Ho!  (Ho!)
Hodee dodee Hodee dodee
Comin’ for to drag me down.

Listen to this:

Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Yeah. . . .

The River is deep and the River is wide
Comin’ for to drag me down
Ain’t no Peace on either side
Comin’ for to drag me down

I looked over Jordan, what did I see?
Comin’ for to drag me down
A Book and a Sword and some armies
Comin’ for to drag me down.

I say: Ho!  (Ho!)
Ho!  (Ho!)
Hodee dodee Hodee dodee
Comin’ for to drag me down.
I say: Ho!  (Ho!)
Ho!  (Ho!)
Hodee dodee Hodee dodee
Comin’ for to drag me down.

Ride this Boat:
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Yeah!