the noon office

[[ how days pass ]]

It's not so awful,
this office glass,
these window shades,
each slice of light
across my face.

At noon with tea
I look across:
another building,
another looking glass
ten stories high,
half an hour long,
thirty minutes,
one thousand
eight hundred
seconds, to stand
at this window
to settle my mind.

We learn to catch
it in the glass:
A cloud, a cloud,
a cloud, a cloud,
another cloud.
A cloud, a cloud,
a cloud,
the track of sun.
And day is done.

At night I am
a tattooed cannibal.
At night I am
engraved.
At night I am
the pinpoint voice
between my ears.

And then we are
a binary star.

boy on the beach

[[ from a picture we have all seen -- Alan Kurdi ]]

A boy on the beach
in the waves on the beach
in the sand on the beach
unafraid of the sea

You're not afraid of the open sea
You're not afraid of the rolling boat
You're not afraid of the open sea
You're not afraid of the rolling boat
You're not afraid of the deep deep water
You're not afraid of afraid anymore

You're Mama's brave boy
You're Baba's brave boy
You're not afraid of
anything anymore

now where were we?

[[ it's a sort of country music love song gone wrong -- or a couple of heroin addicts ]]

there's nothing pretty
about getting old
you turn down the heat
but I'm always cold

I count my pills out
you jab your skin
we're good for a day
the state that we're in

but isn't it all so much prettier than turning blue?

All our clouds
blow away
we turn silver
against the day
against that day

look at these photos
how old were we then?
how old are we now?
how old will we ever be?

dust off that mirror
is that you and me?
never saw this coming
how old will we ever be?

we were so skinny
when you came to stay
do you remember anything
before yesterday?

do you remember
when we walked the earth?
we had nothing but sky
and the sky was enough

now I count my pills out
you jab your skin
we're good for a day
the state that we're in

but  isn't it all so much prettier than turning blue?


||: turn up the heat :||

certain situations

you find yourself	you have yourself	you find yourself	you make yourself
some mornings	a couple	afternoons	say something
in the kitchen	eggs and bacon	elbow to elbow	promise progress
watching someone	mumble something	with working people	to a  roomful
you don't know	go to work	you don't know	of unknowns

and where do you drive to now? 

you can't go home

it is not home

the quiet crawls the length of your back

you cannot work

it is not work

the seasons roll past airtight windows

you want to fill your pockets
with the pebbles of the beach
and measure out the pier

and one step more

it's dark down there

it's deep enough
to do the job
just long enough

sharpening

[[ it's all figurative -- talk in the kitchen at a party, right? right? ]]

we're in the kitchen

sharpening wits

honing the edges

of our slicy bits

taking our knives out

steel and bone

dragging each edge along

sharpening stone

pushing our knives in

steel and bone

stop when we find ourselves

all alone

pulling our knives out

steel and bone

calling a taxi on
a dead man's phone

burning churches

[[ I have stopped to watch big churches burn -- it's very dramatic -- but words do double duty here. What is most important in a church -- what they carry out of a burning church -- is the art and the records. Churches are the local warehouses of time and beauty. Something like that. ]]

I have stopped
to watch
your churches burn.

What you carry
out from churches
filled with fire

is art -- religion
of religions,
and the only true --

a trap for frisson,
how it feels
along our nerves,

art and history,
a trace of time
in curled ink,

the word on page,
a jar of you
in vinegar

to evidence that
you were born,
your mother born,

and time sleeps
in a pile
of local stone.

tremblers

[[ it's all about zombies or alien lesbians or feminists from beneath the earth or something or everything ]] 

poor little girl been  

wearing a disguise

pull back her hood 

and look in her eyes

with her laser look

she lays her down

in the softest grass of England 

on a hill we all know

we hear the mysterious hum grow

they come -- from deep underground

they come -- from just around the corner

they come -- between the night and morning

they come -- wearing no warning

they come -- for what they shouldn't ougrht-terr 

they come -- for your daughr-ter [[ dor-terr ]] [[ you could repeat this line as many times as you like ]] 

[[ and it could morph into "they comfort your daughter" for an alternate ambiguity ]]

hidden in your jeans  [[ genes? ]]

is your i-dent-i-fi-ca-tion

they come -- adorning the morning 

they come -- from just between the trees 

they come -- scorning your warning
they come -- with lust on the breeze

winding up the watch

[[ song for a censor ]]

I know you're listening

I know you're watching

I know you're fumbling 

at your crotch

Volunteered for this gig

Pretend you're a prig

but we know, we know, we know

you like to watch

Do you like 

what I'm doing now, 

mister lonely?

Do you wish 

you could click that button

and phone me?

But that would be contact

And you can't redact the fact

when we know, we know, we know

you like to watch

Whisky, whores, and gold (fuck this town)

[[ is it a Broadway song or a country song or a folk song? ]] 

Why should a man 

dig potatoes 

all day 

in these fields,

when there's gold 

to be dug 

from the ground? 

Why should a man 

hitch his wagon 

to the neighbor's 

pale girl,

when he could swing

a new dancer 

each night?

Why should a man 

grind out his life

in these 

four square walls,

when he could ride 

a straight line

till he's gone?

Why should a man

spend his days

signing checks

in this town,

when he could go

give a mountain

his name?

[[ first the noble-sounding stuff... ]] 

Ride 

with the morning behind you

Ride 

with the night in your eyes

Die 

with the stars rolling over your bones, but

Live

under infinite skies

[[ ...but then cut to the truth ]]

Course there's gold and whores and whisky,

Whores and whisky and gold.
Wouldn't want a girl to miss me

Wouldn't be a man to be told

All I want is whores and whisky

Give me whisky and whores
And gold.

I'm going out west, 

Cause fuck this town.

I will strike a match

I will burn it down

Fuck the thirteen colonies

Right from Maine on down

Fuck every city 
to the Mississippi

But, most of all, 
fuck this town.

I can't say I'm not going to miss you

I can't say I won't look around

But I can't stay another damned minute

Or I swear I will burn this place down

invasive species

[[ my genetics -- roots in the ground, then spread to another continent like my parents before me ]]

I pulled my father's 

self-consuming heart,

as he once got his,

up from the ground.

I pulled my mother's 

enfolding, collapsing mind,

as she once got hers,

up from the ground.

They never told us,

never warned us 

who we were,

where we came from

We reconstructed 

everything ourselves 

in perfect replica 

from plans they made 

and hid in our bones

long before the fall,

before the burst.

An invasive species, we 

fall from the sky, we

land and hold, we 

bring next to nothing and we 

learn to live with it, we
sink a tap root down, we
drive a spike through the earth, we
hold on tight, we

send a tap root down, we 

come up through the ground, we 

burst from earth, we 

turn towards the sun, we 

watch our flower flower, we 

green and flower and fade 

and dry and fly on this wind

somewhere on this wind 

that comes to pull us from ourselves

on this wind.

there is nothing 

I can't pull

from down in the dirt

falling into the well

[[ a love song, I think - falling in love, but also falling in orbit ]]

we are always 

moving forward

we are always 

falling down

this is how 

we measure all,

all of our time

how many times 

have we been 

round the sun?

how many times 

have we seen 

summer come?

and go?

how many times 

have we felt 

this coming snow?

you and I 

are always falling

falling into the well

you and I go 

round the world 

together every day 

you and I go 

round the sun 

together every year 

don't get tired

of going round

the one true faith

[[ love and sex ]]


She says she is,
and so she is.

This is the one
true faith:

a shaft
shot through

the opened chambers
of the heart

and lungs:
a gasp,

and then
transfixion,

butterflied
upon a sheet.

two dirt roads

Let's take a walk: 

here was the church,  

here was the bridge, 

here was the tavern, 

as fine a road 

as you could walk

on any other day

Rest your head 

here in this meadow, 

each leaf and flower 

once was a soldier 

as fine a man 

as you could meet

on any other day

Come Judgment Day,   

how many souls

will stand up in this meadow

rise up into the air

and straight into the sun?

Come Judgment Day,

how many souls

will walk out of this river

rise up into the sky

and burn gold in the sun?

The names they call 

these places now

could never say

what happened here

Here in this place,

a crumbled church,

a broken bridge, 

a burning tavern, 

at the meeting 

of two dirt roads

as fine a road

as you could walk

on any other day

you might have met

your oldest friend

come the other way

at the meeting

of two dirt roads  

Come Judgment Day,   

how many souls

will stand up in this meadow

rise up into the air

and straight into the sun?

Come Judgment Day,

how many souls

will walk out of this river

rise up into the air

and burn gold in the sun?

Come Judgment Day,

how many souls

will stand and stare  

at the meeting of two dirt roads?

how many souls

will stand and stare

at the meeting of two dirt roads?

You died

You died, and suddenly we all wore suits

like at a wedding, your whole family here,

my family there, two rows of po-faced mutes.

Someone enlarged supposedly the last

good shot of you, hung like a gallery piece.

They stooped to check the label as they passed.

Then two guitars began. And a recorder.

Oh, Christ, the jangle would have made you laugh. 

"Gone home to be" not here, and in short order.

I left as soon as you were in the hole,

dodged small talk, promises of anything, 

when anything is stew and casserole.

I'll feed the cats on casserole and stew,

and sleep off the vacation we were saving.

I need a drink, a smoke, a drink, and you. 

this church

This church is stone,

so full of empty

that to kneel

is hard as bone.

Inside this church 

a cold air rushes
through from arch

to arch to arch.

This church was built

of weight and stone,

of stone on stone

and space between.

Now all the weight

is lifted off.
Watch each stone shift
and float away.

migrant blues

the country we grew up in

does not exist anymore

the country we grew up in

does not exist anymore

the home that we were born in - 

had strange men kicking at the door

we have seen the people vanish

we have seen the people die

we have seen the people vanish

we have seen the people die

we have nothing left to stay for

and the tide is rolling high  

one more for the boat, sir

one more for the sea,

one more for the boat, sir

one more for the sea,

one more for the wind, sir

one more 

for life 

in a new country

is there room for my child, sir?

is there room enough for me?

is there room for my child, sir?

is there room enough for me?

one more for the wind, sir

one more 

for life 

in a new country

Hold on to your children

Hold on to your skin

Hold on to your children

Hold on to your skin

For a fistful of money

Somebody will always take you in

We may die on the water

We may die in the dark

We may die on the water

We may die in the dark

Our graves may be the open sea

Or a truck in an empty car park

crawling blues

[[ this could be the myth of Robert Johnson's death -- see the notes at the bottom ]]

[Verse 1]
Take another man's wife
But leave his liquor on the shelf
Take another man's wife
But leave his liquor on the shelf
If he offers you a whisky
You best open that bottle yourself

[Verse 2]
Tip your hat to the stranger
Tip your hat to the foe
Tip your hat to the stranger
Tip your hat to the foe
Check the shape of his skull
See where those horns might grow

[Chorus]
Seen a grown man crawl
Craw-ling / on his / hands and / knees
Seen a grown man crawl
Craw-ling / on his / hands and / knees
He barked like a dog
And he died, he died like a disease/

[Verse 3]
Pour a sweet one for your baby
Pour a strong one for your host
Pour a sweet one for your baby
Pour a strong one for your host
Pour yourself a long, cool water
Or you may travel home a ghost

[all sorts of silly guitar things go here]

[Chorus]

[Verse 1]

[Coda]
Corn whisky make a man forget his own name
Corn whisky make a man forget his own shame
Corn whisky make a man forget the lies you tell
Corn whisky make a man forget he's in hell
etc.

[[ horned = devil + cuckold ]]

[[ Bring your own bottle, pour one out for your girl and your host -- trust neither ]]

[[

The song finishes with a stomping song about drinking whisky. Because why not?

There's a story (and I mean story) about how Robert Johnson died from drinking poisoned corn whisky given him by the husband of a woman he'd been flirting with:

http://www.newworldencyclopedia.org/entry/Robert_Johnson

Recollection survives that Johnson died after drinking whiskey poisoned with strychnine, allegedly given to him by the jealous husband of a lover. Fellow blues singer Sonny Boy Williamson II claimed to have been present the night of Johnson's poisoning. Williamson said that Johnson crawled on his hands and knees "howling and barking like a dog," later dying in Williamson's arms. Another, perhaps more credible, report was given by Johnson's temporary musical partner, David "Honeyboy" Edwards, who had teamed up with Johnson for a regular "gig" at the Three Forks juke joint near Greenwood, Mississipi. According to Edwards, the man who ran the juke joint became convinced that his wife had become involved with Johnson and determined to get rid of him. Johnson temporarily recovered from the initial poisoning, but soon died, on August 16, 1938, in Greenwood.

Could be true, could be totally made up. Everything is a story.

]] 

How far apart

Did you see that flash?

Was it just the lightning?

Or are the bombs

coming down again?

Did you hear that sound?

Was it only thunder?

Or are the guns 

coming round again?

Can you count the seconds

between the flash and the thunder?

And wonder

how far away?

And wonder

what comes today?

How far apart are

the flash and the thunder? 

How far apart are

the flesh and the wonder? [[ the body and the mind, the base instincts and the higher instincts and reasoning ]]

Dracula's Castle

[[ dance song -- or vampires going out for the night ]]

I fix my face

I fix my lips

just one last time

Before I step

into the night

to find my crime

Poor little you

What can you do?

You cannot see

what this world is coming to

I fix my eyes 

upon your eyes

I say your name

to hypnotize...

poor little you 

What can you do?

You do not know

the trap you've come into   

I fix my face

I fix my lips

upon your flesh

grandfather never

grandfather never [[ as if that's his name ]]

quite back from the war 

went to the corner store

never came back again [[ vanished again ]]

found him out gibbering 

under a bush

gave him high voltage

to lay him out low

grandfather never

sees machines coming

knows where he's been

there's a village back there