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Click on a song title below to read its lyrics.


The Songs

Anchor and Wing
Bent Syllables
Bet You Thought You Had It
Brother and Sister
Clique It or Ticket
Escondido
Everything You Wanted
Extension
Flashing Bright Green Fireflies
House By the River, The
I Fell In With the Wrong Crowd
I had the Line
I Took Just What It Takes
If I Had a River
Impossible Paupers
King of the Avalanche
Late at Night in the Office Park
Linear Approximation
Love is like a Tightwire
Making Out With Mediocre
Migrating Mushrooms
My Old Friend
My Sciamachy
Nervous Breakdown Prevention Day
No One Ever Talks Like This
Noisy Nancy Norris
Nothing Lasts Forever
Nothing Without (Part 2)
People Are All Beautiful
Pitiful Pulls at Cupid's Bow
Plastic People
Reading Mark and James
Saline Solutions
Sitting With a Ghost Beside
Sticky Truth
Three Things to Remember
True Targets
White Out
Wouldn't it be nice?
You Can't Always Believe
You Can't Catch Me
You're in Everyone
You've Been Erected


The Lyrics

Anchor and Wing

In the black lakes, your past lives are covered in mud, filled with blind snakes who slither and feast upon blood. Their white eyes will hypnotize, and he who tries finds his demise and never returns. And at sunrise loved ones surmise, realize and wet their eyes.  Fires will burn.  Many are days and hours when spirit will roam, fly through the roof to find what it cannot at home.  Through those skies my spirit flies.  I realize I have no ties.  I’ll never return.  And as I rise, to my surprise, my mind denies and truth applies.  I just can’t unlearn.  Anchor and wing fight floating and falling away.  There is no rut so shallow that it’s washed away.  Let’s all baptize with joyful cries our new disguise.  Let’s flee our lives and never return.  And as we sing, at last revise, there are no lies to formalize.  No need for concern

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Bent Syllables

In that front room there, I cut off all of your hair. You and me, sitting bodhisattvas. Sounds they leapt into my empty head. The words they’re weapons, the greed it’s pain, I know what you mean. And you said, "Will you be my partner in evil here?" and I knew what you meant to me. It was that night I kept repeating myself: broken record, broken record, broken record. It was the grapevine, talking through the grapevine. The snake bites its tail, the head catches up. I know. It was that time, you were looking mean. "Two more years," you said. "You gonna’ catch me?" And somewhere in the distance, a bell was ringing clear, but in my brain it didn’t matter here. In that faded room, you were making it. I saw that, my friend. It was my loose sigh, and it was my goodbye. The silent symphony, my friend. And still I always wonder about what it was you meant when you said your syllables were bent.

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Bet You Thought You Had It

Bet you thought you had it all worked out. You take out and set it on the paper cup. Leave there for to wait for someone to fill it up. Bet you thought you had it all worked out. You take it out and set it on the silver moon. The cock is crowing there although you’re sitting in the room. You take it out and set it there by the shelf. You sit and call, don’t want to take it on yourself. Bet you thought you had it all worked out.

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Brother and Sister

You looked so pretty in New York City when you saved me from him. I ate squid next to your vegetables as your raincoat dropped to the floor. You were always so smug with your wheat toast and your dairy-free butter and coffee with creamer. You’ve always been just a ghost to me, and I was just a character in your book. But you were so kind in my time of need. He just talked of Special K and other odysseys, and he took his hypodermics when he spent all day with Harry. I can’t believe he turned his back on me and sent me on the ferry to Jersey City, with the roaring wind and the sideways rain. I wore my coffee on my shirt and I cursed his name. But you are both so similar, though you would hate each other’s guts. You are both always running from something, you just use somewhat different drugs. You’re a movie star, and your wardrobe’s beautiful. All the props are in place, and you’ve noted them well. Of course, it was raining as you read your fan mail in the sidewalk café with the bowls for cups. He is a mind trooper. He confronts his mind with needle and smoke, and time stops, and for a moment he forgets himself, which is surely something you have never done. Maybe that’s the core of the problem--you’re brother and sister in your showy parade, he with his modem, and you with your press kit. I watched it as I waited for the bus that never comes. What always seemed so funny was how easily I shattered your sense of progress and safety. My cynicism sent you reeling, and it made him raise his voice at me. How offended he got when I compared him to the Christians, how confused he was when I challenged his thoughts, but with you I mostly sat and nodded as I stole all of your cigarettes.

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Clique It or Ticket

Ok, so what is this thing? Everything is great, right?  Objectively, everything is great, but somewhere there is this nagging feeling that arises somewhere out of the coffee, out of the morning paper, this feeling that something isn't right.  You've heard this all before.  Is that all there is?  Is that all there is to spending your morning?  Coffee?  But it's more than that.  Who are these people, these supposedly well-adjusted people happy in their Friends moments, cheerfully mucking through life's trials together.  It's all great! We all like shit together!  I think I got a lot of hangups.  I just don't know what I want.  You have so many directions, you just don't know which way to jump.  We all just stick together.  We all just hang out together.  We all just clique together.  We all stick together or we all fall apart. 

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Escondido

This is the point. This is the time.  This is the place.  This is the final line.  This is the crux.  This is the cross.  This is the feckless fling and toss.  This is the pitch.  This is the rock, this obfuscation, this double-talk.  This is the freak.  This is the loss, this violation, this double-cross.  Escondido—that’s where it turned around.  This is the fight.  This is the flight.  Don’t fuck it up.  You better get it right.  This is the crown.  This is the cap.  This is the compass.  This is the map.  In times like this, on the battleground, I feel so up when I’m shot down.  In minds like these that twist and grind, I know whose fault, and it isn’t mine.  Escondido—that’s where it turned around.

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Everything You Wanted

We're here, and anything can happen.  We'll wrestle bricks and beams.  We'll hammer down these buildings.  You'll never know they were there.  It's everything you wanted, everything in your wildest dreams.  Just come and make it happen.  Just come and plant the seed.  There's nothing now beyond this.  This is everything there is.  You never need go hungry when you're choking on this bliss.

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Extension

You got this song in your head, but you keep on driving. When you left it for dead, you ain’t leaving nothing. You said to me what you had, but it didn’t mean a thing. In you head maybe so, but I don’t know why you keep on driving. You said to me, "Sounds like STP, man, you ain’t going nowhere," in that tape you gave to me. "I want to play something else." You and me, we were cancer, we were different things at all. There you go in your car, and I wonder why you keep on driving. The wheel it spins. With the foot it begins. It’s an extension. It was a whim to go with him, but there was no one else at all. I wonder why you always do the things most sure to make you fall. I hope you know where you’re going, because there’s no turning back this late. You rush to meet your fate you can’t avoid by simply driving. The wheel it spins. With the foot it begins. It’s an extension.

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Flashing Bright Green Butterflies

The fireflies are in your eyes, and I wish that I could join them, but the zephyr has gently blown me far from your thoughts and your vision. And though I daily meditate, and I focus on your image, I know mundane and petty thoughts cloud your mind and your visage. And oh I wish I could light your eyes like flashing bright green fireflies. But truthfully it matters not, for I know you’re better off not to pine for some spineless creep with snide sneer and scoff. You deserve much better, a better name to tumble from your tender lips, a better face to fill your dreams, a better stride to match your step. But oh I wish I could light your eyes like flashing bright green fireflies.

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House By the River, The

The house by the river where it all went wrong.  The house by the river where I'll die alone.  I've called forever.  No one seems to come.  I've called forever.  It's no use.  I'm all alone.  I gotta' get out.  Tied up in the trunk, I could hear the tall grass brushing up against the sides of the car.  I was bouncing in the car, because of the tire ruts running through the caked dried mud.  The sound turned into brambles and sticks until we hit the clearing.  I can see the tools in the yard through the cracked glass.  I can taste my blood.

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I Fell In With the Wrong Crowd

I fell in with the wrong crowd.  There was nothing there for me, except a limber-lipped woman to tell me what to be.  I could see myself taking shape, like a man made out of clay, from earth to walk away, and I would say anything.  Those years were dark years I thought I would never escape.  But the haze around that feeling, sniffing glue inside my room, listening to the Sex Pistols and sulking in our gloom.  It was everything, just like a dream.  I could crawl out to the top with my mushy arms and legs.  Appointments and schedules, things to be done, if I turned away form this god to face another one.  And it was everything, just like a dream.

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I had the Line

My eye was clear. I had the line. I knew no fear. I had the line. Yeah, I had the line. Right portions wine and beer--I had the line. Everything seemed so near. I had the line. Yeah, I had the line.

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I Took Just What It Takes

Figure fought and figure-ground. I’m homeward bound, but won’t you let my cigarette borrow the flame that sits upon your cancer stick? Fists and fickle fakes, and there I took just what it takes. I took him down, I fought the sound of your dissolving telephone near. My words can’t recapitulate the aching in my heart when you said, "Dear, the razor blades are dancing minuets, and if you haven’t guessed the water twists with my red ribbons!" You almost got me, too. The fortune making lock lover chalk and stalker, never shaking qua this and qua that. Where did you put my cigarette? The shingles quake, and in the stake a rocket shoots, and I will shoot you here. The bastard bow erupts the fingernail, the riddled sphere. The plastic porcupine it sits atop the plow particulate. You never get just what you set. Just smoke another cigarette and all the trees come crashing down around you. Celery passing major pop. The Nazarenes are living gods. The sickle cell barbiturates are possum-playing fatty pods. The magistrate in magnanimity, a hangar in the sky. The concrete bears my deep affection, but you never wonder why my ears can’t imitate my eyes in catching light reflected here, the prism pounding light dissection-- particle or wave? Is nothing saved? Have you waved goodbye?

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If I Had a River

There was a ladybug on my arm today, and there goes my lady on another’s arm without me. Fly home, your house is burning, and there’s a letter there from me. You may already be a winner, and would you like a subscription to my affections? If I had 20 billion years and a river, I couldn’t wear a rift in your heart. I can put my feet behind my head, but I can’t put you behind me now. I’ve got a box of chemicals underneath my kitchen sink. I can make mustard gas, and I can clean my oven range. I can mop the kitchen tile. I can bleach the spots from my sink, but I can’t remove the stain you left on my brain. If I had 20 billion years and a river, I couldn’t wear a rift in your heart. I can put my feet behind my head, but I can’t put you behind me now. Did I explain how I disdain your wallet chain? Did I elucidate how I hate the sound of your name? But I’d still like to claim the piece of real estate in your brain with my name on it. If I had 20 billion years and a river, I couldn’t wear a rift in your heart. I can put my feet behind my head, but I can’t put you behind me now.

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Impossible Paupers

Just don’t look over there. Those people have nothing to do with us, you and me. We’re about the angels’ fists and spit, impossible shapes and chiseled faces. We are not, could not be that. Some people are impossibly fabulous, but you and me, we’re impossible paupers. Just avert your eyes. Those people just aren’t like us, you and me. They’re about capital crimes and motor oil and fetishes. We are not, could not be that. Some people are impossibly fabulous, but you and me, we’re impossible paupers. Just focus your gaze on me. Those people, they lead other lives, not like you and me. We’re about tree sap and the heavy undertow and broken bottles. We are not, could not be that. Some people are impossibly fabulous, but you and me, we’re impossible paupers.

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King of the Avalanche

This soil is creeping all over my toes.  Where my feet are sleeping, my mind always goes.  I am king of the avalanche.  I am ruler of snow.  I shall make it all right here like it was long ago.  Mighty mind topiary.  Mighty muscle and grit.  Full of courage and valor.  Never just full of shit.  I am king of the avalanche.  I am ruler of snow.  I shall make it all right here like it was long ago.

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Late at Night in the Office Park

Late at night in the office park. The sky was black and the lot was dark. Two men with an awkward gait, and the man in front was the boss that you love to hate. You’d better run. He’s got a gun in his back. It's too late to pray, because he’s falling away. A passerby walks into the fray. The gunman grabs her as she runs away. He grabs her neck and he holds her tight. He says, "Don’t make a sound if you want to live through tonight." And she starts to scream, "He’s got a gun my back, he’s got a gun in my back!" It must be a dream, because she’s falling away. Late at night in the office park.

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Linear Approximation

In the world there is a man, and in that man there is confusion, and in confusion there is danger, and in danger there is truth, and in truth there is certainty, and in certainty there is justice, and in justice there is righteousness, and in righteousness there is Jesus, and in Jesus there is blood, and in blood there is hemoglobin, and in hemoglobin there is iron, and in iron there is strength, and all of these things there is knowledge, and knowledge is power.  In there is an iceberg, and in that iceberg there is a metaphor, and in that metaphor there is meaning, and that meaning is the unconscious, and in the unconscious there is the id, and in the id there is greed, and in greed there is anguish, and in anguish there is learning, and in learning there is knowledge, and knowledge is power, and in power there is corruption, and in corruption there is intolerance, and in all of these things there is humanness, and in humanness, there is mystery.   In the sky there are clouds, and in the clouds is water vapor, and in water vapor there is hydrogen, and in hydrogen there is ubiquity, and in ubiquity there is potential, and in potential there is expectation, and in expectation there is failure, and in failure there is probability, and in probability there is theory, and in theory there is humanness, and in humanness there is mystery, and in mystery there is life, and in all of these things there is mechanics, and in mechanics there is linear approximation.  In marijuana there is antimotivation, and in antimotivation there is indolence, and in indolence there is work, and that work comes from the devil, and in devil there is pain, and from there is deliverance, and in deliverance there is salvation, and in salvation there is complacency, and in complacency there is stagnation, and in stagnation there is equilibrium, and in equilibrium there is Newtonianism, and in Newtonianism there is approximation, and in all of these things there is death, and in death there is rejuvenation.  In war there is high emotion, and in high emotion there is prejudice, and in prejudice there are heuristics, and in heuristics there is efficiency, and in efficiency there is progress, and in progress there is better living, and in better living there is consumerism, and in consumerism there is a strong economy, and in a strong economy there is rejuvenation, and in rejuvenation there is new growth, and in new growth there is expansion, and in expansion there is multiplicity, and in all of these things there is tunnel vision, and in tunnel vision there is group think.  In the sun, there is atom smashing, and in atom smashing there is energy, and in energy there is motion, and in motion there is change, and in change there is transformation, and in transformation there is miracle, and in miracle there is faith, and in faith there is devotion, and in devotion there is commitment, and in commitment there is labor, and in labor there is profit, and in profit there is gain, and in all of these things there is optimism, and in optimism there is selective attention.   In hot liquids there is convection, and in convection there is turbulence, and in turbulence there is chaos, and in chaos there is order, and in order there is trust, and in trust there is bias, and in bias there is selective attention, and in selective attention there is error, and in error there are ramifications, and in ramifications there is linear order, and in linear order there is convention, and in convention there is tradition, and in all of these things there is discovery, and in discovery there is science.   In the womb there is an embryo, and on that embryo there is skin, and in skin there is protection, and in protection there is security, and in security there is comfort, and in comfort there is happiness, and in happiness there is discovery, and in discovery there is science, and in science there is religion, and in religion there is questioning, and in questioning there is a quest, and in a quest there is there is a journey, and in all of these things there is continuation, and in continuation there are cyclic patterns.

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Love is like a Tightwire

The moon is sings my memories, and you are like the child who feared her life would leap out if she accidentally smiled. I am the blind photographer who caught your red lips rising. I stole a photo of your face without you realizing. Though the waters rise and fall and mighty mountains tumble, you are truer than the sun and you stand when I stumble. Your disposition never shifts, though it might be a blessing. I’ve just got one question: who is it you think you’re impressing? Love is like a tightwire you make me walk to prove I’d do a bunch of stupid things for you. If I haven’t shown you that, girl, maybe I don’t get the question, but if you seek to punish me, I swear I’ve learned my lesson. Echoes ring from yesteryear; my will it never follows. I wish I could repay the debt of every heart I’ve borrowed. I tripped over my tongue as it moved to ask your pardon. You laughed at me, and said, "Boy, you’re not forgiven!" The weeks they pass so quickly, but the days last forever. I see my monkey evolution, and I thought I’d never lose sight of what it was I said I would always do, but it faded like a dream and someday so will you. I’m a lonely sinner, and you’re my lowly savior. I just hope you’ll let me off for decent behavior. In my mind a thousand dreams of you keep playing over, and the ending’s always the same--you say uncle.

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Making Out With Mediocre

Making out with mediocre. Her lips aren’t cherry, but they’re beet. She is stable, level, grounded. The floor comes clear up to her feet. She is nonsense percolated, truisms and epigrams. With her, you always know the weather. Suburban living is her oriflamme. But you know that she’ll always be there, sitting by the phone for you, because she’s got nothing better to do. It’s a classic life dilemma: should you strive or settle safe? To seek perfection could be fruitless, but mediocre, she will always wait. So in the end it’s no conundrum why nice guys always finish last--they’re waiting for mediocre to call them back.

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Migrating Mushrooms

Migrating mushrooms falling from the sky.  They hit me in the face.  Got a capful of grappa to clean out my brain.  Got an umbrella to keep the dark on.  Migrating mushrooms falling from the sky.  They hit me in the face.  Got a bad disposition, voices in my head.  Those three dimensions, they are so lucid.  Migrating mushrooms falling from the sky.  They hit me in the face.

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My Old Friend

Come one, come all.  Let’s raise a toast to alcohol.  It’s been real good.  It’s been exquisite.  I always hope that it will visit my body bright and my body clean.  It’s harder than a big ball peen hammer this and hammer that.  Let’s all get hammered.  How bout that?  There are few friends as reliable as my old friend.  Stand up and dance around.  Go ahead, look like a clown.  There’s no one here to judge you now, so do a dance and take a bow.  Hold up, just a minute.  I stood up and my foot is in it.  Shoot.  Shit.  Throw back the cup.  Throw back another, and then throw up.  There are few friends as reliable as my old friend.  Holy moly, holy roller.  There’s a hole inside my molar.  He said, “Molar?  I don’t even know her, cause she’s so polar and I’m a goer.”   I almost skipped my favorite part, my nubile parka performance art.  Clap now as the show begins.  Our first act is the Boogie Grins.  There are few friends as reliable as my old friend.

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My Sciamachy

You gotta fight the thought down before it defeats you, before it just eats you, before you fall. You gotta kill the sound. It keeps repeating. It’s always defeating your pleading call. I went to fight my sciamachy. I swung first but it first hit me. I turned around. I tried to kick; I stopped. I tried to hit it, but I couldn’t hit it. There inside the town, they’re plotting to kill you. They will fill you until you drown. There inside your house, they’re talking about you. They speak, but it’s not true, and that’s not all. I went to fight my sciamachy. I swung first but it first hit me. I turned around. I tried to kick; I stopped. I tried to hit it, but I couldn’t hit it. It won’t let you sleep. It perpetually fights you until it lives inside you and makes you crawl. Your mental imagery comes not from within you, and yet you begin to believe it all. I went to fight my sciamachy. I swung first, but it first hit me. I turned around. I tried to kick; I stopped. I tried to hit it, but I couldn’t hit it. There within the mist, the phony pugilists call. And though you swing your fists, they never fall. And now you’re just the pawn. The creeps they just control you, and though I just told you, you’ll soon be gone. And worse than that, the shadows you’re fighting, the bombs you’re igniting are all your own

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Nervous Breakdown Prevention Day

Your black shirt is crumpled up on the bedroom floor, and Buddha’s staring from the corner. The confederate flag waves lightly in the breeze. I can see it from my window. This is Nervous Breakdown Prevention Day, and I am this close. They say no man is a mountain, and every rock will wash to the sea. My massive ego is bigger than any ocean, and when I fall nothing can contain me. Today is cloudy, just like every day, and Minor Threat is on the stereo. The sparrows outside, they don’t give a shit, and I can see them from my window. This is Nervous Breakdown Prevention Day, and I am this close.

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No One Ever Talks Like This

Dearest lover, pray you gaze at me. Your limpid lidded eyes give me frisson capapie.  My heart is racing like tigers pacing.  You're self-effacing while I'm unlacing you.  This is speech that does not exist, because no one ever speaks like this.  No, nobody ever talks like this.  In the gloaming, as I stroked your wispy hair neath the waning light, and you with mal de mer, your humors floral, though on the floor.  Discharge your cargo, sweet stevedore!  This is speech that does not exist, because no one ever speaks like this.  No, nobody ever talks like this.

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Noisy Nancy Norris

Noisy Nancy Norris, the bus waits here for us. Noisy Nancy Norris cannot hear. Her ears are filled with clanging din. Her brain’s cacophonous within. The endless chatter, wise ideas, repeating thoughts, ennui and fears. Noisy Nancy Norris, the bus waits here for us. Noisy Nancy Norris can not see. Her eyes are giant dinner plates. They dart about like swinging gates, and though there ample light may be, she’s blind and in her mind only. Noisy Nancy Norris, the bus waits here for us.

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Nothing Lasts Forever

Inside of my boxes the universe slides. Galaxies dissolve and planets collide. Inside of my notebooks are 8 billion pages about you--every act of malice and spite. It might seem like nothing to you. The earth tilts on its axis from the 8 million tomes, eight million notebooks about you. Someday those boxes will open--the universe revealed--you’ll be in a house of mirrors. What a view. It seems like nothing to me. The seas there are seven, the mountains there are more still. The insects are innumerable, but they pale next to the pages that I’ve filled. If you can’t remember, they’re there for you to see. If I lose my memory, they’re also there for me. Our universal fuck story. Well, nothing lasts forever-- universal entropy. You won’t last forever. But my books are acid free, and this ink is indelible, and this story is so sellable. This might seem like nothing, but nothing lasts forever.

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Nothing Without (Part 2)

You are nothing without me, and I am nothing without you. You are nothing without me, but something around you has not changed. No, I am nothing without you. You are nothing without me. Ambivalence is not something I can allow, and I am over your memory. I am nothing without you.

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People Are All Beautiful

The fire's growing colder, and the fog is rolling in; the wires crossing over just like they've always been; and I am not a stoner, but you will surely find the lack you feel is surely real, but that bright screen won't fix anything, because people are all ugly until you know the details. People are all beautiful until you know the details, and dimension gives shape, and the shape tells the truth, but of what use is the truth?  We avoid pretension.  There's no ceremony here.  We quaff wine from our juice glasses.  We wear pajama pants.  You've come here seeking comfort, but you will surely find the lack you feel is surely real, but that bright screen won't fix anything, because people are all ugly until you know the details. People are all beautiful until you know the details, and dimension gives shape, and the shape tells the truth, but of what use is the truth? None.  Books cover every surface, and records on the floor, and we all dull our senses.  Can't see or hear anymore.  You'll have no need of senses if you can lose your mind, because the lack you feel is surely real, but that bright screen won't fix anything, because people are all ugly until you know the details. People are all beautiful until you know the details, and dimension gives shape, and the shape tells the truth, but I have no use for the truth.

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Pitiful Pulls at Cupid's Bow

Just decide what it is you want. Crawl under life’s skin and dig within. Try to capture your rapture and fill your fat future. For you, darling, are a stick in the throat of fantastic poachers; and you, darling, are a lemon squeezed over a paper enclosure. And I’ll make a motion to drink your love potion, to swill your fine philter, to drink in your deviance. Just pick between A and B. It’s not so hard to commit to one act or another, for truth lies within your inflexion, and your lies sit like stains on your complexion. For you, darling, are the kiss of a creep while you’re lying asleep; and you, darling, are a churlish disease, an importunate squeeze. And I’ll make a gesture to sit here and pester you, a poke to your punch, and swift disobedience. Just turn one way or the other. We don’t have all day, and the heat will smother us. I know you’re one step between dread and regret, but just flip a coin and note if you’re upset. For you, darling, are a passing parade on a rainy day, and you, darling, are a fox in the forest and a box in the street. Let’s forget about these pitiful pulls at Cupid’s bow. Let’s go home and drink on our own. I’ll put on a record if you pour.

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Plastic People

Plastic people under the steeple, they hurry and scurry around. Movement’s scarce except for farcical fairs in this dreary and dead little town. But for you and your letters dear, I’d have laid myself down in the ground, and I’d fade away into the faceless third shifts that rule towns like this. People here just shoot and drink beer and drive their pickups around. Cigarettes on the tall tombstone are the only joys in this town. But for picnics on your roof and movies in the cold underground, I’d fade away into the faceless third shifts that rule towns like this. Is it true that people like you eat clams on sidewalk cafes? Is it real that you never feel so hopeless? Got fired from bagging cans because I did too much standing around. No one left to play records with. They’ve all fled this corpse of a town. But for you and your missives dear, I’d drink myself back to the ground. I’d fade away into the faceless third shifts that rule towns like this

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Reading Mark and James

There were times in my memory when I saw through the center of things. I was in the forest reading Mark and James, and the colors leapt out so vibrantly, things were different then. I’ve been chasing for that feeling ever since then. There are things I’ve always wanted to apologize for. I wonder what was my fault and what was just a matter of course. It doesn’t matter anyway. I wouldn’t want to shatter the frame you’ve boxed me up in or rock the boat again. It always stays the same, and the only constant is change. In those years I keep mentioning, things were on the make. Life had such potential; the world was ours to take. It’s bound to get depressing when the future becomes now, and every little decision has whittled away your future somehow. It always stays the same, and the only constant is change. From time to time, my mind turns to what has come before. I can’t put the past behind me, because it’s before me now. Every night my brain reconstructs different versions of your face. It’s always you, but not you--someone else walks in your place. It always stays the same, and the only constant is change.

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Saline Solutions

You’ve got saline solutions for my basest problems. We’re equal squares in your Pythagorean theorem. Your leopard skin is wearing thin. I’m nutrasweet, but you’re just saccharine. If you’d open your eyes, you’d see what you’ve done to me. Under your black hair, what’s going on in there? I’m a milk crate to hold your shit. You’re an ingrown hair in my armpit. Our fallout shelter has fallen in. Your name is silence, your face skin. If you’d open your eyes you’d see what you’ve done to me. Under your black hair, what’s going on in there? My fingernails will grow after I’m dead. My life will go on once you’re out of my head. They say the days are warmer near the equator. You tip your grave digger, but you pay your resuscitator. If you’d open your eyes you’d see what you’ve done to me. Under your black hair, what’s going on in there?

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Sitting With a Ghost Beside

There inside the rotting window frame, I saw your face’s glory lit up by the sky, looking over cobbled streets and passerby who never knew anything like this, the torture or the bliss of sitting with a ghost beside. Through this out of focus telescope, I saw the planets slide through the empty sky, and I saw the tear inside your eye fall onto the ground, land without a sound, mixing with the rain and mud of memories gone by. And the crumpled letter sits with its pathetic drivel, and the drool moistens your lips as you kiss the multitude of wishes for a time gone by. You light a cigarette. Smoke floats to the sky like a sacrifice, and all this I see through a single eye, and you don’t even try to conceal the fits or hide. Wind can whistle, wind can moan. That you knew quite well. Anyone could tell. Words were shot with great velocity, but it was just a drone. You want to be alone with your troubles to put down. And the sun falls from the sky as you seek a comfort zone. The mist condenses on your lips as you breathe water to the sky, and it mixes with mine, accumulates and drips from the gutter to the pavement, mixing mud and sediment and the grease that you lent, the spit that you sent--the baptism for your new life.

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Sticky Truth

Pinecones are dead birds in the yard. They tried to fly, but didn’t get that far. Thoughts are bottles at the base of the pond. They’re empty now and their contents gone. Filled with water slipping into earth, and a loss of form is a new rebirth. And the substance shifts, and you lose that grip, and your sticky truth begins to slip. Looking back through misty halls and crooked doorways, the shaky dream, that shifting shape you think, it is your being.

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Three Things to Remember

There are three things to remember: 1. Be careful of kin. 2. Be mindful of your mind, and 3. Don't go back where you been. There are six things to marvel at: marble, and bramble and stone, caraway and old Bombay and sitting in silence alone. I just can't explain the difference between crazy and sane in a world so immane. There are nine things to care about, and I don't care about even one. There are many things I've forgotten, but whatever. People say life's a journey, but that's just a cliche. There only five metaphors worth knowing. There are three decent bars in my neighborhood. I guess that's better than none. I have lots of ex-girlfriends, but just four I think about fondly. There are seven wonders of the world, but I keep wondering about you. There are just five ways to never leave your lover.

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True Targets

Thinly veiled wayward thoughts skim the top of the archetypical pots. Dismissed so lightly, their pneumatic perniciousness goes unchecked. Clearly these things clearly known are not so masked by diaphanous covers. Muddy dreams of seeds unsown and cloudy thoughts of virtual lovers. But you, my dear unspoiled goddess, free from the apparitions that rob my sleep, you have no knowledge or experience. True targets are not shown but lie buried deep.

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White Out

Girl undecided, she tries to fight it. You can’t deny that her figure’s fought, her figure’s ground. She’s angry. Might it blow up? It’s lighted, and though you derided her, she’s loaded, and she’s gonna’ white out your mouth. You think you’re hot shit. The zines say that you’re it. You must deal with her spit, because she knows you’re a hypocrite. Though you got hot chicks with your phony rock licks, you’re not cool. You’re just sick, and your words will never stick. She’ll white out your mouth.

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You Can't Always Believe

Hello, little darlin'.  How long has it been since I done last seen you?  Been since I don't know when.  What's that look on your face for?  Why you lookin' like that? Why, you know I did nothin'.  I ain't no alley cat.  You should know you can't always believe every single thing your eye should see.  It was compromisin', I have to admit, but it's not what it seemed like.  It's nothin' like that.  We was just talkin' and sittin' around.  It didn't mean nothin', so don't get so unwound.  You should know you can't always believe every single thing your eye should see.

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You Can't Catch Me

On these blackened streets, I am free.  I am everything, anything, slicing through the breeze, the buzzing in the trees.  Concrete rolling by, and I own everything.  This whole place is mine.  It belongs to me.  Run, run as fast as you can.  You can't catch me.  There is thickness here in this air, here in everything.  It slows thoughts and time.  It's now always.  Frozen in this ash, it will last.  Lasting's not for me.  I'm in for the big crash, and the crashing becomes me.


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Wouldn't it be nice?

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could take a flight across the Atlantic? Wouldn’t it be romantic? Wouldn’t it be nice? Wouldn’t it be nice, if we could buy a home? If we could have a dwelling that we could call our own? Wouldn’t it be nice? Wouldn’t it be nice to go out on the town? I would wear a suit and you an evening gown. Wouldn’t it be nice? Wouldn’t it be nice if you sat next to me, put your hand in mine, and you and I were we? Wouldn’t it be nice? Wouldn’t it be nice if you would look my way? We could talk about the weather. I could ask about your day. Wouldn’t it be nice?

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You're in Everyone

Better days are in the future. You’re running from the words that you had written, but little worry and little consternation. You are better off with him. He is better off with you. It’s little wonder why this happened. Two caustic chemicals should not be mixed, but you need some pesticide to grow a garden. They weren’t really friends to you. They weren’t really friends to me. These lonely days grow to restless nights, and the pale light in my room is mocking me. In my dreams a million movies play, and you are in everyone. The days go on, and I grow shorter, but you’re standing tall like some big sick billboard. I am growing weary for what is going on. I saw the way he looked at you. I saw the way he looked at me. I think back to that drunken night, and I scan my brain for what you’ve done. In my dreams a million movies play, and you are in everyone. Better days call for better drinks, and better drinks make for better days. You’re untouchable, and I’m imperturbable. What a match I made for you. What a match you made for me. I’ll drink a toast to rosy cheeks and futures, and I’ll raise my hand high to salute you. In my dreams a million movies play, and you aren’t in anyone.

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You've Been Erected

In my mind, you’ve been erected to fight troubles down. There were times I felt deflected. There were times, but they are gone. You said you had never been here before, and you said things were different now. I felt something different, and the sky leapt down my throat. There are times I feel disconnected from you and this fuzzy old memory. There are times things get disjointed and ripped from my head and thrown down. I’ve seen the way the sun sets around your hair, and I’ve seen the way the leaves turn. I’ve been fucked up before, and I fell on the floor dead and dizzy with the thought of going home. There were times things were forgiven, and a man without a face is not a man at all. I have known many people who go and plant a wooden nickel and wait for it to grow. This old time has gone, and you will know what has come before. I’ve had these dreams unprotected, and I can’t tell you any more. There were times I’ve felt elected by a body of my peers in a landslide victory. I have felt likewise dejected. I don’t know how to feel anymore. Every piece of everything is stuck in my pores. Plugged in, plugged out, washing free. I feel like I’ve been here before. There were times I’ve been injected, and I rocket to the stars and I won’t come down. There are lives I have rejected, but don’t feel bad.

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