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.

northern territories (run him down)

[[ Based on the "Albert Johnson" case of 1931-1932 but not a slave to the page. ]]

That was never his real name.

He wasn't from around here.

He was a nothing from nowhere,

come north to disappear.

A minor legal infraction

put the Mounties on his case,

but he was no one for no one

and so began the chase.

When the game gets up to run,

all you can do,

all you can do

is run him down.

They tried negotiations;

He put a shot through the door.

They tried to reason man to man,

but he was no man anymore.

They chased him up the river;

he went over the divide.

They chased him through the winter

till one of them died.

 

And that was it, son. You don't kill a Mountie and run.

When the game gets up to run,

all you can do,

all you can do

is run him down.

Leave his carcass steaming on the ground.

seance (I'm the flick of a switch)

[[ Fairly obvious. End-of-life medical care and typical family gathering to see the person out. The person is more than ready to go. (Also, this is my living will: snuff me out when things get bad.) ]]

Die in hospital 

Holes in skin

Tubes go out

Tubes go in

That's the balance

Lungs abubble

Every breath

One for life

One for death

That's the balance

Now gather round

and watch me burn down,

my tribe around a fire.

I'm the flick of a switch.

Turn off the light

and look for the spark

from the end of this frayed wire.

I'm the flick of a switch.

Let me go.

I'm the flick of a switch.

Stop the meter. This is the end of my ride.

intentional love song 19: this is how you fall in love

[[ This could be a silly little old-fashioned song with some flighty young thing dodging the advances of a Maurice Chevalier type, or it could be a thing of menace with an awful creeper pushing himself on her. Or both. Is she feeling safe and free to choose? Or is she actually in a scary spot and feeling like she has no choice? And play with the genders to get interesting results: she's a he and he's a she, or two women, or two men. ]]

oh, look at the time

oh, how it's getting late

oh, here comes my train 

oh, get me out of here, out of here,

oh, here comes my fate

this is where a girl should be careful

what was I thinking of?

this is where a boy could be a handful

this is how you fall in love

oh, look at the time

oh, how it's getting late

oh, there goes my train 

oh, get me out of here, out of here,

oh, here comes my fate

this is where a girl should be careful

what was I thinking of?

this is where a boy could be more than a handful

this is how you fall in love

this is where a girl should be careful
this is where a girl should be coy

this is where a girl should be forceful

this is where a girl should be

this is where a girl should be

this is where a girl should be

this is how you fall in love 

intentional love song 18: if they come for us

if they come for us, honey, we'll run 

we will wish ourselves 

into existence, 

we will wish ourselves 

far, far away

listen for thunder, 

count off the seconds,

wait for the falling rain

hurry the two of us 

up to the hilltop 

try to catch lightning again

neither here nor there

the heretofore hereafter
that definite infinite
those undeserved deserts
are dying with us

there, now, there, there
she's in the hereafter
one of the winged choir
perched on a rafter

(no one has ever
heard anything dafter)

now, there, now now
he's in the eternal
all the liars pluck lyres
to tunes from the hymnal

(no one has ever 
told something more criminal)


the elsewhere,
the otherwhere,
the anywhere,
the somewhere,
the nowhere,
now they are neither
here nor there

before she

listen to this conversation

listen to him hedge

she makes him dig his grave and

stand at the edge

walk away before she

before she

before she

do you recognize this city?

somewhere that you knew?

the woman in the window

floats out of view

walk away before she

before she

before she

venus and the lion man

[[ This is Venus and the lion man and a nod to last week's potatoes.  ]]

Venus and the lion man

emerge from the soil

rooted up with this year's crop 

of bulging potatoes.

toys of inspiration or the

roots of reproduction?

all cooked up by

last week's potatoes.

Venus and the lion man

emerge from the earth.

when are you coming down?

I see your eyes when 

I close my eyes

clouded like summer could rain

I see your eyes when 

I close my eyes

sunlight will not come again

when are you coming down, darling?

summer is fading away

autumn is whirling in dark clouds of starling  

loving is only today

when are you coming down, darling, my darling?

summer is fading away

unmolested

I'm not a talker 

but tonight 

we can talk

let's get outside and 

find a place 

we can walk 

let's find a place we can walk back time 

let's find a place we can walk unmolested

if it's not too late 

if it's not too late 

i am swimming and breathing in this atmosphere

maybe just one more beer 

let me bend your ear

i am gasping and grasping collapsing in this atmosphere

let's get right out of here
let me lend you an arm, my dear

intentional love song 17: a girl from Love Canal

she was a girl from Love Canal

she had a taste for the banal  

now she is dead - what of it?

now she is dead - what of it?

only her and me and the river, and only the only river means a thing

we would park out by the river

i would give what i could give her

now she is dead - what of it?

now she is dead - what of it?

only her and me and the river, and only the only river means a thing

she smelled of coconut and woman

i was young and barely human

now she is dead - what of it?

now she is dead - what of it?

now she's gone with her family

nothing and nothing to do with me

only her and me and the river, and only the only river means a thing

paint by numbers

this life you're given 

is paint-by-numbers

one numbered picture

some numbered paints 

this is the picture 

what is supposed to be

some bright family 

only somebody 

down at the factory 

must have packed for me 

the colors for a picture they called "Storm on the Sea" 

this is the picture 

here are my wife and son 

blue-gray like a gun

this is the picture 

graphite and stone and flint 

day to day living skint

this is the picture 

charcoal and stone 

thunder and shadow

charcoal and stone 

this is the picture 

dancing with Bobby

[[ I like writing to a video, a movie, usually with the sound down. This one started with that Bobby Banas Nitty Gritty clip that went around. ]]

Who's that dancing out there with our baby Bobby? (dancing with baby Bobby)
White dress, white shoes, white ribbon
She can hardly keep her hands off baby Bobby (hands off baby Bobby!)
White dress, white shoes, white ribbon

Does Bobby even go - for a girl like that?
Would Bobby maybe go - for a girl like me?
Does Bobby even go - for the girls at all? Like, really.
Does Bobby even go? Let's see.

Here comes Bobby
Pouring though the crowd
Hair set to midnight
Smile set to loud

Listen to Bobby, baby,
What does he say?
He says "Can't get enough of this beat"
He says "Can't help but move my feet"

 

singing at the end of the world

now it's never
dark at night

long midsummer
in my mind

morning dose of
fool euphoria

then alone till
late at night

light still burning
in my head

---

birds are singing
even here

even at the
end of the world

birds are singing
birds are singing

let's go out to
where the birds are

singing at the
end of the world

threading the eye of a needle

a mug of coffee

steaming on the front step 

striped pajamas

stooping to the news

three martinis

waiting at the airport

Sunday morning

is turning the screws

threading the eye of a needle

meanwhile, we're dying 

strapped in our cars  

the kids in the back

watching shooting stars

meanwhile, we're dying 

slumped in a chair  

leaving EMTs

to stroke the kid's hair

going out happy

surprise, surprise

look at daddy's eyes

look at mommy's eyes

threading the eye of a needle