1. |
Forever Overhead
03:18
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I haven’t awoke to your voice in a long while. Let me remove my head from my hands to pull the sheets back, only to realize that I’ve fallen asleep to the answering machine again. Yeah, well I would let go if I knew where that would leave me. Is there solid ground between “breakdown” and “complete?” My fingers ache, and this would come as a relief if I wasn’t left to finish the bridge you left incomplete. The irony is lost on me: I’m left waiting to receive your call. I gave just enough cord to choke my voice off. Yeah, well I would let go if I knew where that would leave me. Is there solid ground between “breakdown” and “complete?” My fingers ache, and this would come as a relief if I wasn’t left to finish the bridge you left incomplete. This note is none of your concern—just write it off, don’t say a word.
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2. |
614
03:54
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|
Car exhaust and cracked pavement have me in
a slumber.
I’m humming softly, trying not to forget
your number.
A rhythm practiced is a dance earned,
but I’ve ran out of coins for the
juke box.
Leave your pockets
upturned,
empty the bus-fare that’s your
hiding in your
sock.
Restless hands need something to grasp;
restless hands reach for the hem of your dress.
Restless heads make rustled sheets;
restless heads are left to sweat not sleep.
Save me a
prayer
‘cause I’ve exchanged all mine for a
little more time with you,
to try to make you
mine.
A heavy
heart
puts its weight on the
gas ‘cause I’ve spent all my
reason at your
expense. I could never take a
hint, romance never made
much sense.
Restless hands need something to grasp;
restless hands reach for the hem of your dress.
Restless heads make rustled sheets;
restless heads are left to sweat not sleep.
Restless hands are grabbing at a thread;
restless hands unravel what was promised them.
Restless heads are left counting sheep;
Restless heads are left to breathe not speak.
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3. |
Pennsylvanian Pastoral
03:12
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|
Central Pennsylvania sundown:
the clouds ripple and
swell like
curdled milk.
And I swallow it up
Into my lungs—
keep it down,
grip the wheel with my back to home.
Ahead of me I can hardly see the sun—nothing but
crumbling cement
and pretty pollution.
Behind me, your stare
glitters like
broke glass. You fail to burn up,
a season that
just won’t pass.
Sullen royalty lines these
streets—graying gowns and no water to wash their
sheets. I wrap myself in all they offer.
Smother myself
and hide
what’s left
in my breast’s
coffer.
Ahead of me I can hardly see the sun—nothing but
crumbling cement
and pretty pollution.
Behind me, your stare
glitters like
broke glass. You fail to burn up,
a season that
just won’t pass.
All we said could have been
said better
if we knew what to say
when it mattered.
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4. |
||||
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In the gloss of sentimental eyes, I see
my reflection in the dewy windows of abandoned cars.
I see
scrawled initials, exhumed by fog
summoned by
the April rain.
It seeps deep into the ground (it seeps deep into the ground),
but no flowers
bear its name.
In the soft tracks trodden in sandy soil I see
pine needles and beer bottles. I see
faint footsteps cemented by
the April rain;
life collects (life collects),
but dwindles away.
In the shadows cast by moonlight I see
a shadow dissolve like taillights.
Our spark cannot be kept alive
because of the April rain.
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5. |
Buy Clay
04:05
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Saint Brazil Marlton, New Jersey
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