1. |
Wine On The Lilies
04:00
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The arrow quakes, in motion - defining wakes, a physic of devotion. So you had to go and live in an unrelenting world - shearing tiny parts from a bigger picture, cheap larks and half-filled pitchers. Easy, the winds caught your stolid heart, fetching fear; one petal, white, curdles in the dark - a final ferment, like days. White wisps of detritus and frames, an ordinal intersection; dispelled, away in walls - installed, by old instances. Sentinel dissuasions – such deterrence; an inference of a cold equation, cowed – the myriad bits of color, fade to grey. Baring all the quiet that the evening kills, the pain and progress - quickly our past blossoms into rage, forbidding solace. Didn’t life resent you, when - in the cracks it left you, then the sun seemed far from day, like a murmur muffled in the fray. Watch the bolt begin its final pass into the echo of distress: Throw it on the flowers, let the whiteness flounder. Let the evening be the nest, another lone projectile’s ruddy rest. The arrow’s spiral, the arrow’s wild - such a longed, forgotten spire, the current lingers. The arrow’s spiraling; the arrow’s wild wings. The exile childishly clings to that once remembered day.
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2. |
Pray For Rain
02:18
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Fevers few, and I’ll ache yet - where summers wait for aging men. They’ll all be waiting, the friend and the foe, huddled ‘round old fires. Wait until the burying, and never go, like blood that parches on the tine of rust and gold! There couldn’t be brighter one, but they’re all gone, and I’m alone. This land, of aging men - that silly boy’s club, it’s all they have. Such ailing arms hang from aching hands, but they’re all they have, they’re all they have. Life is just a ripple down a one-way brook, where mothers will weep upon the rocks - “So far he’ll go!” oh, but there he stands, in another land, it’s all in his head. Long and tired, bled by desire and despair; cloaks over diffidence, such regulatory ways. Speak out, speak loud - I’ve lived in shrouds, that old frilly fold; but no one’s too proud to be strung along by guile.
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3. |
Sleepwalker
04:20
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Well I woke up dreaming, the hour of an uneven light, the hero of a thousand fights yields for the broken breath, until the water‘d washed out. Kill those dreams and sold-out souls into a different hold, a piece of hope unto eternal skies, underneath the waking world, well, I’ll make my home. And I know that we feed on fear, and strife is a broken road; it’s all that I can know, and I cope. It feels like something’s gone, but something is not hope. Well I woke up screaming, the hour of a blinding black - the coward of a thousand nights, torn by the torrent’s eye, I couldn’t even speak. We don’t need those silver screens that they’ve sewn in clouds, beneath the blinking of a thousand worlds, none of them who know about us, and our errors… Paved by the spectrum, glowing, paid for by endless questioning; if I could burn the light, bright enough to open. Well I hope, and I know, that I feed my fear - though someday I’ll let go, until the hour of kind repose. Will I know? It seems like something’s lost, but maybe I’ve let go. Well I woke up breathing, rebounding light on speckled glass, the trample of a thousand steps sown by the waking breath - I couldn’t even wait. Reeds and reels are lost and tilled but we fallow few, reaped by amity; upon our yield, we might wake the world, and we’ll all let go… Well I know. Well I know, we’ll let down our fears, and, at last, in a perfect world.
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4. |
Halt
01:17
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5. |
Spears of Silence
04:00
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The wind upon the windowpane makes sounds that echo our cries - externalized repine, through the wan and gusty doom… It happens all the time. And even while the fleeting feet of youth echo away, the silence will have gained - over harsh and withered plains. Cacophonies of silences are bound between the walls - the spaces in our skulls, where we all first learned to crawl… I’m longing for the time. And even though remembrances might plunge, inducing pain - so careless a refrain - we’ll haunt those quiet halls. These are the days, these are the days: Impaling spears of silences. A cicatrix of empty rooms… What happened to the time? The clover leaf of summer wilts and all the pixels, grayed. Still remains. Maybe the drums might sound again… again… again… Again. The sun drips down the windowpane, another day dissolves again. The moon replies, our hearts in flames. We’ll never love like once, again. The sun is stalled, the window’s stained; the ‘sill belies an empty frame. Dawn will rise, beyond the window. The dawn will rise, somewhere, again.
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6. |
True North
03:21
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Be careful of circles, weaving wreaths in the dust; deliverance and pensive lines about passion, of terror and trust. A fearful son walks an angry line; thin as the air, and glories, sublime. Tearing, tearing, tearing into what he’ll become. Don’t fall in wells… There’s nothing like the first one. Still, there’s a spell, and there might stand the next one. The hopeful points forever forward, fingers trace the future of a loving face. A placard awaits, formalities engaged – two spiraling enfants beneath stars. The wishes can wait and the fears shall abate, while spoiled dreams are left to conflagrate; heaven’s behind you, but hell is above, tearing into what you’ll become. Dreams never tell… There’s nothing like the first one. Still, there’s a spell, and there might stand the next one. Don’t fall in wells – not when it’s over – there’s nothing like the first one… Passion fires the life… Still, there’s a spell… Waiting by the line… Standing by the last one.
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7. |
On Rubicon
03:43
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Pathways are burning bright, a reflection in my vision - blind and buried in the light, insulated by a need to know. Sometimes the wind blows whispers, blithely, sometimes the rivers beg for blood. Seems though the path’s forever winding, under a moon that laughs when I fall… First light, second sight. Under the drifts and yards of sand lie the forms of a dust so sparse and thin; full as the vessel pulled in morning, tall as the grubs up on the hill. Tilled and tucked, like an angry breath; compost cures beneath my soles. Somewhere the dead are dancing, diving, somewhere the ferry sojourns for his toll. Tilled high, an amber sky. Beyond iron nations, beyond the walls of cement and steel; beyond the races and beyond language, there’s a dream – we’re searching still. So break the ramparts, unchain our fears; such shackles can dissolve. Beneath our bones are ancient stones, like dormant missiles waiting for the fall. The last night; the rare decline. They’ll be watching the days, that endless view; such a frivolous display of love lost, under falling fruit… that roll beneath the waves! And the bough that breaks, such a bitterness displays the altered edge; and the simple lives that we’ve barely ever led. It’s such a long way down, it’s such a long way down… It’s such a long way, a long way down.
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8. |
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The pyre’s altering, the voices calling out. The leavening of angels, the clearest way toward waking up… The fire’s breaking out, and I can’t wait to see its light… The smoldering of ashes, the flickering on silhouettes. The voices carry through the night, a tripling disarraying blight… The fire is breaking out, and I can’t wait to see its light! The time is passing, the time is now – the time is passing, our time is out…. The ashes snapping, loud; the teething terror, crackling. What wills are wasted, lost; revoke the awful cost… The time is ticking out… The time is here, and now!
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9. |
Volkslied
04:21
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They’ve always lived in nowhere, circumlunar roads; in desolation, between forests, where the absence grows. The bombs are falling down in Dresden, the children hide their heads - the bombs are falling down in London, the lovers hide their dead, alive. How can they be gone, when they were alive? We’ve walked on their moon songs, and still I’ve heard their cries… We’re living on their old wrongs, the dead leaves rustle and writhe; nothing here but a long song. The treble wakes the sunrise (an errant moment), and then the dust turns into dunes (hallow the molting hour)… Still beneath out morning excise (from fevers with desire), such a travail waits, the hours will be exhumed. These architects who build the burning crosses - struck down in the silts of the iron shores - in the desert graves, diggers dance with wraiths, and the cities cursed by the oil awake; war paint intermingling with hues, an atavistic brush and you. The dead gods in the garden wilt, as though they were you; lying under the walls they built, the walls will bury you. The walls will bury you. The treble waits for sunrise (an errant moment), before the dusts turn into dunes (hallow the molting hour)… then beneath our morning excise (to fill you with desire), such a travail waits, the hours, still, exhumed. And they were alive. In nothing on the other side… when they were alive.
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10. |
City of Dead
02:41
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The wintered city wakes up from the vile of despair; where once there was ascension in our hearts, there’s only a tear of parts: The symphony of existential wails… Tell me another story, love. The one about the man who couldn’t take it… Just so. And like the hurt that made you, there’s a thousand on the line; the metro is a factory for terror and design. I can’t make it, alone. Cold wires cross the wasteland, grey cement encircles bone. I’ve cried out for an island, but fruitless is the wish beyond the pale… Tell me a tale! In another land, where once simple lives were forming… The valleys, lost, the rarely wafted; idyllic crofts, and verdant volumes… The life… The life… The lie!
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Population Chicago, Illinois
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