April 6, 2009

Nobody's Fault (lyric)

I am watching you climb into the waiting car
And this might be a good time to say don't go, but I won't say don't go
'Cause there is nothing I can do to change the way things are
And anything I could tell you, you already know
If there had been someone who came between us,
if there had been some kind of fight
It might be easier
For me to say goodbye

But you are leaving, and I won't hold you
I am not going to make this hard
You'll be somebody else's sunshine
I'll be someone else's star
'Cause when you take a flight of fancy,
Sometimes you fly, sometimes you fall
And there is no one to blame here
It's nobody's fault

I won't take the coward's refuge
And I won't say it was a waste of time, that you were wrong for me
You were the reward for all my patience
You were my lighthouse in the dark and silent sea
You were the coin inside the fountain,
a comet through the sky
The wish in the wishing well
But now the well's run dry

Maybe we just ran out of wishes
Maybe we just ran out of time
Maybe we just turned different corners
You'll have your journey, I'll have mine
'Cause when you take a flight of fancy,
Sometimes you fly, sometimes you fall
And there is no one to blame here
It's nobody's fault

April 5, 2009

Busker (lyric)

He'll never make a record
Or play any big stage
And the only hit he'll ever have
Comes in a ten-dollar bag
But he's playing to a captive crowd
Of thousands tonight
In the 14th Street train station
Of the downtown-bound F-line

His songs never will get played
On the radio
But you're probably heard his voice before,
Though I bet you'd never know.
Sometimes, he sounds like Dylan
Sometimes, he sounds like Waits
Ah, you probably never noticed him,
You were busy, or running late

His fingernails are dirty
But his notes all come out clean
When a coin falls, it makes a sound
Like a sleepy tambourine
And for your kindness, he will add
A new lyric to an old refrain
"Thank you, brother," "thank you, sir,"
"Thank you, darlin'," "thank you, ma'am."

He'll never make a record
Or play any big stage
And the only hit he'll ever have
Comes in a ten-dollar bag
But he's playing to a captive crowd
Of thousands tonight
In the 14th Street train station
Of the downtown-bound F-line.

April 3, 2009

Drinking from the Lethe (archive)

Maybe I should lean against the wall
And let the wall claim me.
And maybe I should lay out here,
And let the sky come down and stain me.
What use is my identity?
Does it mean anything to anybody?
If I die tomorrow, they will only know me
By the dog tags in my blood and body.

I'm mechanized, automatized,
I'm optimized to do my duties.
I'm sterilized, I'm socialized,
Lobotomized to be a beauty.

I've gotten lost between the circles,
I'm sick of offering resistance.
And all around me, addicts offer up their cells
For another hit of existence.
What use is my reality?
While everyone enjoys the songs of faith
They open their veins for another refrain,
While the conductor shoves a stick in their face.

I'm centralized, I'm normalized,
I'm strapped into the Great Divine,
Upgraded and revised, so I
No longer need to analyze.

And isn't it beautiful?
This passive perfection
Oh, I'm so grateful
For your helpful corrections
Yes, I am amazed
By what can be done. . . .
. . . . I'm hypnotized, I'm mezmerized
By all I've become.


Spring, 2002.

". . . what else do you love?" Part 2

I love the first real day of spring,
when everything finally fills its lungs all the way,
when the sun stops playing coy at last
and warmth comes naturally as laughter.

I love coffee shops that have an empty table,
even if there is a franchise name over the door,
lingering there, leaving lipstick on a paper cup
and my doodles on a napkin.

I love used book shops,
the held breath of untold, unidentified fingerprints,
the soft rub of grainy old paper,
the surprising curves of out-dated fonts.

I love park benches,
peeling islands in an ocean of haste,
careless evidence of past occupants lightly strewn underneath,
and my own temporary presence merely evidence of itself.

I love my notebook and pens,
the magic of the flowing line,
the creamy anticipation of an empty page,
the heavy, swollen silence of filled ones.

I love being able
to say how much
I love.

April 1, 2009

". . . what else do you love?"

I love my camera,
the feel of it in my hands, its smooth,
confident mechanics, the bright "click!"
of every capture, every release.

I love St. John's, Newfoundland,
the perspective up or down its steeply sloping streets,
the sound of floating wooden docks under my feet,
the silent milkmist of fog on water.

I love drinking coffee,
the crackling, dark aroma of it,
the slow white explosion of adding cream,
the warm solidity of a fresh cup, like a brown suede boot.

I love tea, too,
the languid bobble of a tea bag in water,
the spreading sepia rainbow of the steeping,
the bracing delicateness, like filigreed steel.

I love smoking cigarettes,
the sex-whisper sound of lighting one,
the casually assertive, masculine taste,
the downward dance at its tip.

I love whiskey,
the easygoing pride of flavour in a mix,
the four-second amberflash of a poured shot,
the over-heavy velvet with a coarse leather finish.

I love red wine, too,
the color like ink spilled into a ruby,
the dark spread in my mouth,
the peppered sweetness, like the taste of hard-earned trust.

I love dark chocolate,
the memory of treebark behind the sugar,
the yielding, growing intensity on the tongue
like melting together onyx and gold.

I love music,
the fact that it is a language spoken by everyone,
the dawning surprise of unheard notes,
the lust that thuds or shivers through it.

I love sex,
the blossoming of miles and miles of skin,
the muttered Pentecostal incantations,
the God-strong grip of momentary possession.

I love to laugh,
the rocking release of breath,
the flex of muscles in my cheeks,
the sudden reason to live.

And I love dancing
in dark places,
and boats,
and trains

I love train stations
and airports,
and planes and flying,
and long walks

I love the smell of rain-wet pavement,
talking to strangers,
and I love the moment they stop
being strangers,
and I love

I love, I love, I love, I love

so much, I will never be
completely happy,

but

so much, I will never be
completely miserable.



Inspired by this.

'Skine to skin

Open me up
like a music box
and I will sing you
your secrets.

Cover me in veils
of ink-spun silk
and I will dance
like Salome.

Leave gleaming tracks
like a worm on a leaf
and I will turn them
into light.



August 14, 2007