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| From The ShoulderI traveled over three thousand miles, always an hour behind.
Waking up in a town you don't even know the name of is refreshing. I know it might kill most people these days to have no internet or telephone for 6 days, but I thought it was great.
I was ignored by wind and water, and that's how it should be.
Welcome home, right? | | |
| Aliens Watch TV!It's summer, and I'm still only getting about six hours of sleep five days out of the week. That's okay though. Actually, I think I like that better than sleeping until 4 pm. It's a better balance I think, and like the Barenaked Ladies said:
Who needs sleep?
Today my reason for waking up half past the crack of noon was dear old Robyn, Mason, and the wonder of downtown. That new pizza place over there, just past the Braum's, is quite good. Mason had to go home sooner than I'd expected, so Robyn and I went to CD Tradepost where I found the new Matchbook Romance record (Voices), Saves The Day (Stay Where You Are), and then American Beauty and Beetle Juice on DVD.
Today I saw an airplane, soaring low and headed north. The way it looked over the trees and grassy hills made it appear perfect somehow. I wondered about a businessman in his gray suit and the air that escaped his body through hill nostrils, and what he thought of the view, and the child crying two rows behind him.
Then, I wondered about life on other planets.
Same thing.
"We're Sustained By The Corpse Of A Fallen Constellation" Circle Takes The Square
Fallow fields have fallen, sallow, sallow
Victim to encryption, disclosing an unspoken plea.
And the stars sang of the scorpion sun. to impale impaling impaled who for mercy begged for drought and blight.
to impale impaling impaled.
planted in the shadow of a new found impermanence
our new pyramids fashioned in cloth and the stars sang of the
scorpion sun.
to inspire, ventilate, increase volume, expiration
ventilated deceased.
threatened by the slightest breeze
to impale impaling impaled
threatened by the slightest breeze, the winds are stirring buried under miles of a fabric fallen
hollow constellation prediction shallow flat forget-me-not
(dissertion) no goodbyes, just carbon released in wind
resting fiercely on an early afternoon facade, ash released the
stars have risen, elevated in our loss.
And the winds have risen wearing fiercely on our cloth facade
horizons grown a sickly, sickly pale
to impale impaling impaled
threatened by the slightest breeze and grown a sickly pale(insert a single method) parse a tense a perfect past(insert a single method)
and is this choking proof that clutching hasn’t let me go?
we’re sustained by the corpse of a fallen constellation.
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| Eloquent Chaos?I wonder if I had a vial nightmare, because when I woke up this afternoon, I could taste the bad day in my mouth. It tastes hot and numb, except for when I swallow, but that taste is much harder to describe. I think after writing this I'll go brush my teeth.
This entry is just for the sake of making an entry. When I'm like this, words are used less to explain and more like a tissue to blow my miserable nose. Today, instead of a poet hunched over a typewriter, fluently stringing words together, I will sound more like a frustrated musician, slamming his head into the keys of a piano to create a chaotic composition of sound.
I am craving a different kind of weather. I would like to go outside and be welcomed by a more humid and hot atmosphere, but not an unpleasant one. (This is possible, I've come to find.) It felt more like that sticky, nervous heat between two people holding each other all night, with a nice gust of cool air here and there to set your mind at ease. I could smell the rain coming that day, too, and sure enough, it came.
If only everything worked that way.
The time 3:03 just means 30 minutes before the next time I compulsively check the clock.
I need to hear from you, like an unwatered plant needs to hear the low trickle of a garden hose.
"Poison Oak" Bright Eyes
Poison oak, some boyhood bravery
When the telephone was a tin can on a string
And I fell asleep with you still talking to me
You said you weren't afraid to die
In polaroids you were dressed in women's clothes
Were you made ashamed, why'd you lock them in a drawer?
Well, I don't think that I ever loved you more
Than when you turned away, when you slammed the door
When you stole the car and drove towards Mexico
And you wrote bad checks just to fill your arm
I was young enough, I still believed in war
Well let the poets cry themselves to sleep
And all their tearful words will turn back into steam
But me, I'm a single cell on the serpent's tongue
There's a muddy field where a garden was
And I'm glad you got away but I'm still stuck out here
My clothes are soaking wet from your brother's tears
And I never thought this life was possible
You're the yellow bird that I've been waiting for
The end of paralysis, I was a statuette
Now I'm drunk as hell on a piano bench
And when I press the keys it all gets reversed
The sound of loneliness makes me happier
Conor Oberst doing the shocker?! | | |
| Jenga Jenga JengaI found the nine untitled Brand New demos finally, and if you haven't heard them, I suggest looking into it. Most are incredible, and even the not-so much ones are at least good. You're listening to Untitled 04 right now, assuming your volume isn't turned off. Most fans speculate it's an anti-war song, since Jesse's brother went to war in Iraq in 2003.
Brand New has really come a long way since Your Favorite Weapon... All of their work has been good, yes, but if you listen to a song off each record in a row... Wow. Almost like Bright Eyes, in that it all sounds like Conor Oberst, but even if you weren't familiar with every song off each album, you could probably figure it out.
Sorry, but basically everything I've done all week has been music-oriented.
My mom made me watch a documentary on UFOs with her tonight. I was wondering what everyone thought about that... Life on other planets, I mean, and them coming to visit us.
Technology scares me.
"Untitled 04" Brand New
(also called "We Would Be Without")
I,
I am feeling like a veteran,
uncompensated for the blood i've left to pool on foreign grounds,
and I,
sometimes reach to rub at aching legs,
but they've been dust for over a decade,
and you're the limb i've lost but somehow I still feel it...
Until I awake,
we just hope that you made it,
we hope that you're celebrating,
with people you miss,
and burning like a beacon,
guiding our ship around this hellish shoal,
i'm happy to admit that maybe I am a little depressed,
cause i'm missing you to death.
And now,
it's only records of my memory,
some little thing you gave posthumously,
the details all dragged out,
to think,
of all the paitings we would be without,
if Van Gogh had gone and died face down from loss of blood the night he went and hacked his ear off...
Until I awake,
we just hope that you made it,
we hope that you're celebrating,
with people you miss,
and burning like a beacon,
guiding our ship around this hellish shoal,
i'm happy to admit that maybe I am a little depressed,
cause i'm missing you to death.
Until I awake,
we just hope that you made it,
we hope you're as decorated,
as the day that you left,
and burning like a beacon,
guiding our ship around this hellish shoal,
i'm happy to admit that maybe I am a little depressed,
cause i'm missing you to death.
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