the girl in a tower

[[ Listening to women. ]]

this incandescent light

these glowing coils

they make you seem 

a different creature

now I will listen 

to stories you tell

you always have another

a story to tell

tell me the story of 

the girl in a tower

of numbers and glass

the girl who never goes home

tell me the story of 

the girl in a box

with no air or sun

the girl who never goes home

tell me the story of 

the girl who grows old 

in the house an ogre

the girl who never leaves home

it's here already

when you know it's coming

you make a wish 

and blow them all out

you make a wish

and blow them away

then there is time 

for one more murder

one more little

stopping of the heart

rapture

god is that sexy 

little gossamer number

see right through

to the other side and back

strike fear and wonder 

in a man's giblets 

make a man root in his pants

for excuses to take home

gets the blood flowing 

if you know what I mean

Shaming Otis

[[ Something to do with presentism (and presentism) and perhaps a touch of evolution. ]]

Why don't you live in the future,

little name, little two-dimensional

photograph?

We in the future have perfected 

the morality of what you filthy

beasts call man.

We in the future -- swimming in

your prehistoric sea -- do

not get wet.

We know, as clearly you do not, 

we are much better than you are

in your place.

Meanwhile we have some chimps to kick in the teeth.

Come at me, Enos.

Come at me, Washoe.

Do you want a piece of me, Nim Chimpsky?

Attenborough's Day Off

[[ A description of a real morning but with the observer transformed from a groggy parent eating toast into a bit of a voyeuristic, lecherous naturalist. ]]

Even the cat conspires,

the cat and Captain Underpants,

to douse my dream,

so I sit up, Nosferatu

on a hinge. Sunday morning

early, when a decent man 

would sleep, is full of sound.

Outside the open window

long bare legs are

flexing as she sways,  

her auburn hair flows down 

her back in early sun, 

her head is tilted to his, 

her eyes are in his eyes,

their tongues are tasting 

one last clinking beer.

They have so much to say 

but cannot keep their mouths 

apart for Jesus going on an hour, 

and her peculiar rocking on 

her long bare legs as if 

she sways to unheard music 

or as if -- they look around, 

he finds an opening in the 

wire fence around the lot 

behind them and she crouches

through alone.

He stands and smokes and looks 

the other way while she 

wades through tall grass and yarrow,

indigenous to these parts, 

to squat and disappear and

bare her bountiful cheeks

to all the creatures of the field, 

then reemerges.

They toss their bottles in the grass 

and walk to the first bus

before a panther falls from a tree. 

the out of town news

[[ Someone looking at the old local paper online. ]]

The out of town news 

is a website these days.

They don't print the paper now

cause nobody pays.

The out of town news

is half ads and half blogs,

a rewritten press release,

and pictures of dogs.

The out of town news 

used to get here by mail

as clippings in letters 

from mom without fail.

The out of town news

used to get here by phone.

That phone's disconnected

and I'm out here alone.

The out of town news 

is arrests and convictions,

but you always knew those 

nice houses were fictions.

The out of town news 

is a list of obituaries.

Hope someone's still home there

to feed their canaries.

The out of town news 

used to get here by mail

as clippings in letters 

from mom without fail.

The out of town news

used to get here by phone.

That phone's disconnected

and I'm out here alone.

hard-souled woman

[[ Soul or sole? The obvious ambiguity is intentional. It's a walking song about someone with hard shoes or hard feet (from walking) or a hard heart or any combination, but who can trust the persona? Maybe the "hard-souled woman" is bad, maybe the persona is bad, maybe both. Maybe she doesn't even know the persona exists or maybe they're married. Maybe the persona is a man or a woman: I like to imagine it being sung by a woman about a woman. ]]  

Hard-souled woman,

walking around my mind at night.

Hard-souled woman,

walking around my mind at night.

I know your sister

and your sister's all right,

But I've seen you walking 

and I've never seen a girl so tight.

Hard-souled woman,

out stepping in your best disguise.

Hard-souled woman,

out stepping in your best disguise.

I know your mama

and you've got your mama's eyes.

But I've seen you walking 

and you've got your own damn thighs.

You know you don't have to pay me one lick of attention.

You know you don't have to talk.

You know you don't have to stay for me one more damn second.

You know you know you know you know you can just walk.

Walking's what you're all about.
Walking's been good to you.

Hard-souled woman,

walking away.

Hard-souled woman,
walking away.