Wednesday, April 20, 2005
let me have it all...
"Now the trees all rage and come to life
The day gives out but he takes a wife
Who carries on behind his back
Lets the rabble through
Time has run away with us
And it laughs at our tears and fuss
Best go with god and let me trust
The ghost in here is you"
(joe henry)
Strange wanderings and demands I have only the faintest idea on how to satisfy. Amazing moments surrounded with the same brilliant light that reflects off of deep eyes that curl back after goodbyes, asleep underneath blankets in the nook. It is a vaguely confusing experience, rife with the trembling notions that the cool breeze passes between strands of my hair before rushing on, moving faster than I can catch. Mostly just the onrushing tide of extremism, in all of it's vainglorious asperations of grandeur, tirelessly convincing the congregation of each sin that falls like pine needles to the ground. There are many, and of varied stages of decomposition, each insisting that not all is lost, not even to the brown needles that crave water and a chance to be green again.
Each lyrical musing is passed as if on a wire to the newest variations on old themes, each one building towards it's own sweet conclusion where words are no longer necesary, and fall to the ground. The serenity in the first words of someone's siren song like the first plucke strings on an acoustic guitar. Leaving something hidden behind the veil is more fun, leaving me only the barest of guesses as to where you see these words flying towards, and you're right, I don't ask questions as often as you, but I still I wander around what I can see of your soul and admire the landscape. Your daydream symphony on a sunny afternoon, or maybe just wondering how far you'll take a daydream before abandoning it in favor of something in the night. Well, even the siren has to stop singing and think occasionally, it isn't a sign of weakness, but an admission of strength.
I will finish the story tomorrow, for now I am tired and ready to attmept sleep. While I do this, in beds all across the nation sleeps the vagaries of the past, tearful inclinations proving, once and for all, that everything we knew was made up, and everything we made up was beautiful. Close-eyed sensations of ambiguity, and the very real possibility that none of it was real, just a bad trip that slowly ebbed with the tides, leaving us with all we'd ever need to survive, but without the knowledge to use it.
"Cut out picture of a sugar tart
With olive skin and a purple heart
Concrete shoes, it's just the start
Of bigger things unseen
The heroes of our glory days
They ride upon the hit parades
Of hometown girls who've been displayed
In dirty magazines"
(joe henry)
Well, time and tide wait for no man, so let's go, "All Skate!"
cf
ps - that is for colonel cairo, wherever he is. may he never skewer me with a cutlass, but reward me for my deeds. let us pray:
Our Papi,
Who art in Fenway
Hallowed by thy team.
Thou kicketh ass,
On Yankee grass,
And at home, as you did in the Bronx.
Give us this year our shiny rings,
And forgive us our talk of curses,
As we forgive those who talk of curses against us.
And lead us not into extra innings,
But deliver us from choking.
For thou art the Schilling,
And the Arroyo,
And the Wakefield
For ever and ever.
Damon.
-------------------
That is all I got tonight, I am ready for Friday to come...
cf
cf
The day gives out but he takes a wife
Who carries on behind his back
Lets the rabble through
Time has run away with us
And it laughs at our tears and fuss
Best go with god and let me trust
The ghost in here is you"
(joe henry)
Strange wanderings and demands I have only the faintest idea on how to satisfy. Amazing moments surrounded with the same brilliant light that reflects off of deep eyes that curl back after goodbyes, asleep underneath blankets in the nook. It is a vaguely confusing experience, rife with the trembling notions that the cool breeze passes between strands of my hair before rushing on, moving faster than I can catch. Mostly just the onrushing tide of extremism, in all of it's vainglorious asperations of grandeur, tirelessly convincing the congregation of each sin that falls like pine needles to the ground. There are many, and of varied stages of decomposition, each insisting that not all is lost, not even to the brown needles that crave water and a chance to be green again.
Each lyrical musing is passed as if on a wire to the newest variations on old themes, each one building towards it's own sweet conclusion where words are no longer necesary, and fall to the ground. The serenity in the first words of someone's siren song like the first plucke strings on an acoustic guitar. Leaving something hidden behind the veil is more fun, leaving me only the barest of guesses as to where you see these words flying towards, and you're right, I don't ask questions as often as you, but I still I wander around what I can see of your soul and admire the landscape. Your daydream symphony on a sunny afternoon, or maybe just wondering how far you'll take a daydream before abandoning it in favor of something in the night. Well, even the siren has to stop singing and think occasionally, it isn't a sign of weakness, but an admission of strength.
I will finish the story tomorrow, for now I am tired and ready to attmept sleep. While I do this, in beds all across the nation sleeps the vagaries of the past, tearful inclinations proving, once and for all, that everything we knew was made up, and everything we made up was beautiful. Close-eyed sensations of ambiguity, and the very real possibility that none of it was real, just a bad trip that slowly ebbed with the tides, leaving us with all we'd ever need to survive, but without the knowledge to use it.
"Cut out picture of a sugar tart
With olive skin and a purple heart
Concrete shoes, it's just the start
Of bigger things unseen
The heroes of our glory days
They ride upon the hit parades
Of hometown girls who've been displayed
In dirty magazines"
(joe henry)
Well, time and tide wait for no man, so let's go, "All Skate!"
cf
ps - that is for colonel cairo, wherever he is. may he never skewer me with a cutlass, but reward me for my deeds. let us pray:
Our Papi,
Who art in Fenway
Hallowed by thy team.
Thou kicketh ass,
On Yankee grass,
And at home, as you did in the Bronx.
Give us this year our shiny rings,
And forgive us our talk of curses,
As we forgive those who talk of curses against us.
And lead us not into extra innings,
But deliver us from choking.
For thou art the Schilling,
And the Arroyo,
And the Wakefield
For ever and ever.
Damon.
-------------------
That is all I got tonight, I am ready for Friday to come...
cf
cf
