All Go Under

1.Bertha (Garcia/Hunter)

2.1983(...A Merman I Will Be)     ( J.Hendrix)

3.Astronomy Domine  (S.Barrett)

4.Porcelina of the Vast Oceans   (Smashing Pumpkins)

5.The Eleven  (Lesh/Hunter)

6.Octopus's Garden   (Starkey)

7.Echoes  (Waters/Gilmour)
 
 
 

SIXTH DAY - Flight of the Marie Helena (Robert Hunter)
 

I thought of a colored pencil.
I thought it with soft blue lead.
I thought your picture, used the
flat side of the lead to shade.

I penciled in the sky and made
clouds with a kneaded eraser.
You will be my masterpiece, I
will sketch you from every angle.

Six dolphins circle round
the Marie Helena; one for
every day we've been at sea.
What profit reputation?

White cloud stallions dash
in non-emphatic rhythm
bright as any tinsel in the
chocolate dust of a red wind.

Four emphatic trumpets blare,
why be dismayed?
Without music we are prey to
the strange arms of reason.

Absolution, reconstruction,
resolution and forgiveness
pour from the brass bells
with a scent of lemon bloom.

Glad to be forgotten, I go
climbing in among the
reconstituted constellations
searching for a certain star.

Come shining from the afterdeck,
sweet echo of the singer.
Cello, lay your ecstasy
like leagues of spongey moss.

Emotions of the heart
must be surprised -
they languish for attention,
are shy.

I closed my eyes last night
but did not dream.
At dawn...gently, gently,
a patter of rain.
Silence has left a film of
satisfaction, paper thin,
upon the transparent ocean,
oh, but not upon my heart!

Instead I turn the capstan
to the squalid, squalid lee.
North by North or South by South
upon, beneath, between the sable sky.

In this way shall all
hearts be protected:
a tight membrane dispensing
merriment and absolution.

Again, a light rain. The
sea devours these clouds.
Storms are its meat; our hearts
will do for wine.

Consider how rigidly
the sky is painted.
How we wear it on our head
like a slowly spinning hat.

The Marie Helena speeds along
in a sleek current. A new
moon on the horizon casts
no hint of glare.

The shower is passed.
The sky is clear: Preserpe,
whose invisibility signals rain,
is discerned but not quite seen.

An absence of a dream of rain.
Six days at sea, much has been scuttled.
What, here at the end, seems
worthwhile to have brought aboard?

A few things seem certain.
Some scales, some equations.
Smaller matter the particular music
or the mathematics forced from them.

Or invert and it is
all the matter; all
the matter which
scarcely ever was.

Now one way,
now another.
Both, and others,
however pure.

Clay and cloud.
Cloud and clay.
Cloud and cloud.
Clay and clay.

Leonardos have lept from
flaming towers for you, with
no suggestion or remotest
promise of fidelity.

Gilded to the lily,
you proudly plunge your hand
into the hive and scoop
the honey to your mouth.

This clear, transparent honey
has no flavor.
Should the Marie Helena
sail another week? Ah,
no - it is forbidden
by edict.

Tonight we swing into our hammocks
determined not to dream.
The warmth we seek from bodies
eludes us. Our bones are leather.

Tone by tone the midnight bell
beats twelve bright claps of
sweet forgiveness in these ears
of ears this night of nights.