1. |
Kneel
07:32
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I’m no longer fit to kneel at your altar. The eyes will confess. Your servant has faltered. And though every mark that I have inflicted seems permanent now, I beg you, forgive them, because I am certain they will fade in time.
So clear me a space to fall by my brothers, then color your lamb with stripes that may cover old blood with new blood, and failure with favor. But thicken your cuts and place them with care, because I am certain they will fade in time.
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2. |
Ink and Blood
03:38
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Is it true if I wake up that this story I construct will eventually come undone and reveal its empty tongue, like all along this ink and blood could just wear off?
I’m a book wrote in reverse, and with several pages torn. As you read, the plot gets worse and the characters unlearn every virtue, all concern for the lovers that they’ve hurt, for all pain has been returned.
So I’m keeping my eyes shut. No more pages will get cut. The few chapters not yet done will come. Don’t rush these words along.
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3. |
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If we take the time to recount the history to which we’ve been bound, we’ll see we’re walking around and around, wearing deep grooves in the ground.
But our memories soon fail. Recollections are veiled by what we believe we’ve not done, not accountable to anyone but ourselves.
So I’m taking the time to write down the story in which we’re now found, a blending of fiction and fact. The details were never exact.
Please, love, don’t come too near, lest all imperfections come clear. From a distance they all get smoothed out. Rough edges look seamlessly bound. But soon enough we’ll be found out. Glue weakens and threads come unwound, and our signs of misuse will resound when we hear these words read aloud. They may hurt, but that’s necessary now.
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4. |
Vacant Hotel Lobby
04:44
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With each lover’s bed, there’s still no rest. Must I be alone or dead to get the sleep that I need? Because in-between, I’m on my feet just pacing from room to room like some vacant hotel lobby, where the carpets are worn by footprints of men who’ve paced before me. So choose your key, for it’s your only memory when numbers start to blur.
These locks can only turn directions that move forward in time. There’s no way to return what you’ve already paid for.
There’s a book on my shelf, one that’s been held by many hands, except for mine. Breaking its spine just seemed so drastic. Why wound the words before I’d even read them? What story’s worth that act of blatant violence, when no hero’s work can keep the page from turning toward its certain end?
And still we think there’s hope, and tell ourselves that stories will always work out as the author sets down, with everybody happy that suffering had taught them that patience and pain could make our lives more whole. And don’t you think that’s right? I want to hope that’s right. I need to know that’s right.
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5. |
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The hair on your arms is standing on end, so you fasten your coat ‘til no air can seep in. But your fingers won’t move, they’re froze in a fist that you raise to the air, as if to resist. But slowly it falls back into your lap. This car is a cage, this drive is trap that will lead to a grave, a tear in your map, with crosses to trace the line of your path.
The windows are down, there’s ice in your hair. You wore it out wet, too tired to care. Now you drive with a crown of frost on your brow, like some arrogant king who’s too proud to bow to the sun that beckons before him and the warmth that’s ‘round the bend. But you drive with your eyes closed, intent to be led.
There once was a world so perfect and flat, men sailed off her edge or fell in the mouths of the dragons that scoured for ships to devour. And heroes wrote songs to tell of their power. But now there are roads that pass without end, as you drive alone, no lives to defend from the dragons that sleep in some distant sea. You quiet their jaws with whispers you sing
Those curious maps cannot still exist, for oceans dry up and continents shift ‘til the world’s born anew from infinite hues that drain into one uninspiring view. So this is your fate, to drive ‘til you find that one desert’s dust is another man’s sky, and the clouds he admires are crushed by your tires, as you wish you could share a similar desire, to see some small light in the distance (a horizon held in place by a faith you thought was lost)
to lead you away.
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6. |
Oh John
04:57
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7. |
The Gift
04:29
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A loose collection of words come together then fall from the tip of my tongue in a form that feels flawed, like a gift that was given with intent of return. So now I’m selfishly pleading to bring them all back to the mouth where they were born, because you’ve said all that you want, so why must you keep repeating the flaws?
Whether venom or honey, whether poison or cure, whether violence or beauty, I present you no more than an offering of words that I’ve grown to adore. Though their life is but fleeting, the persistence they lack is the reason they’re pure.
But still I stab into pages quickly to pin them down before they’re gone. But each new abuse keeps my fingers bruised, for even words will do harm.
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8. |
Of Writing / Of Violence
06:16
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First I looked upon a painter as she placed her mark
“with this portrait I have captured / every essence of the gestures
that comprise the human soul / and for eternity / every blessed eye will see”
but many who would look just searched for some representation
of the forms they thought were beautiful or true or simply pleasing
but mostly they would offer just a glance and their appraisal
“this isn’t art to me / there’s nothing here to see”
and so they turned away / leaving the canvas blank
for their critique to paint / the rest of history
Next I came across a writer pouring prose to page
He said “this pen could move a mountain / with a simply structured couplet
anchored by a clever rhyme” / and quietly he tried / but no words came to mind
and suddenly he shook from recognition that his silence
was more moving and more beautiful than any verse it rivaled
and each word that dared to pierce it was proclaimed an act of violence
toward the signified / that his pen hoped to find
but then his lips burst wide / breeched by the aching pride
that made him loudly cry / “there’s nothing left to say”
next I chanced upon a sculptor with a trembling touch
she said “patience is a virtue” / as she chiseled out the likeness
of a body she had seen / once in a magazine / how beautiful it seemed
but every fleck of stone she chipped away revealed beneath it
something further from the truth of what that image kept repeating (insisting?)
until she’d left herself with nothing but a pile of dust and gravel
scattered on the floor / uglier than before
“still I will someday craft / what God’s hand surely can’t
something of permanence / an idol to adore”
last I heard a lone musician grasping six bronze strings
“with these chords I’ll surely bind her / or at least send a reminder
that the wounds that made her deaf / will cease if she is mine / this melody’s divine”
but little did he know that the ascension of the spirit
of his song had taken place before her earthly ears could hear it
‘til it reached its final peak above the sky but short of heaven
and it just lingered there / a phantom in the air
to ever haunt his life / and every song he writes
will bear the awful price / of being born for her
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9. |
Zeppelin
07:27
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The coins rest deep in the wells of my eyes, placed gently there after I died. It’s a small penance I’m willing to pay for my fare, my fate, escape.
But what beauty and grace will remain as our ruins or relics or names? They're all constants that stand to remind us of what quickly passes by.
As we quit the shore, I survey the graves: rows of old stones, unevenly paired. Princes with thieves and lovers apart. So where shall I lay? With you? Alone?
The storm is now pressing its weight on all sides, as it plunges its nails into pine. The tall waters will wash us away. For now, forget, erase and leave nothing behind whence we came; no ruins, nor relics, nor names, nor anchors to hang in the tides that slowly still unwind.
But we rest assured that we’re safe in our graves. With faces upturned, we look to be saved. But the rustling of soil will slowly subside and quietly die.
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