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lyrics

& you’re asking why synergy operates on the level that it does
w the pavement crumbling & breaking, static AM fuzz
on radios & car alarms
pigeons fly out, smoking wreckage, stolen memory + saints
like living on mars or worse
bloodstained water-towers or the litter of what doesn’t fit
static radio fuzz on the dial
while vadic kids maintain hunches this
barbarism’s real
on bombed-out mattresses stealing

selling frozen chords & diseased roses, plastic
vadic orations & a whole
wall of TVs, a whole
circuit underlying this
city, rotten in front of its perforations & seams
w boards going up & miles of debris, oceans of stolen
poison holding
memory, split-second
decision cards & barred
storefronts, thinking any of this might be free

or tossed under buses, lost information &
memory cards, flash drives & USB sticks
flickers of light in minor alleyways
trucks go by & tricks of the light
better to lie in wait, state
one life at a time, or
wine & pills, a gun—the sun, now
brown, creeping—in broken windows

& faced with
pacing of walking & smoking, cigarettes, pink
jet-trails fails lit chainlink
fences, plastic
bags, the failure of what falls thru the
cracks. Or grows there, pitch-black

thinking broken thoughts in thin air
lots gets done on streets unseen
windows & sightlines, night’s getting on & closing
cracks & packs of people dispersed
daily rituals & permutations, calculations of exchange
a range of treatments for
those to be confined, living in closed houses
powerless behind fences
stencilled lines & leaving in
fragments & places with
signs, train yards & terminals
sliding into radio slogans
& shape-shifters in public
boulevards, palm trees yawning into

troubling schisms & visions the blind see
only this world & the mad & diseased
unable or unwilling to deal with the grind are
confined, in the wheel, spinning
thoughts & pollutions, watched in their stations
the desolate locations
out of joint machinations
sidelining traces there is a new

cross in the wind—it is our
minds, imagination, will
lost in the fire & what rough
his hour in the houses & outer borroughs
where by helicopter
where by flashlight
ghosts hide, those unseen by
public libraries & all-night fast food shops
slinks what rough to write
Cocaine or Acts of Youth
whose hearts are fastened to dying animals
& rising out of fire bare, present
something like a gyre to the night

& in flight there, return & return to where
the great animals are caged
deadened, to sit by
belatedly write
the end of things, what
yet has come to pass—forthcoming—
with pitiless gaze on typewriter or
faltering in handwritten rage

a defiance—against which—
scraps of trash in a widening wind, our minds
the sacraments & commandments to dreaming
begin in thin air over skylines

suddenly as total wrecks, no
memory again, nerves & asylums
cut & forged of stolen words
barred split visions from dreaming on pages, lost—
woe to the homeless who are out on this night
criminal elements subdivide the mind
smoke rings & blocked thoughts in rented rooms
the fire you set you let destroy you
peels back the edges
pages crack at their endings
who by helicopter
who by attack dog
fine smashed port wine bottle
all excess is thine in this doomed court
shifting time
where no acceleration is left unmatched
all sped-up reason
lessons refined to their granules
instrumentalized
the dark in his youth alone cannot hear
but follows the low stitching of the singing,
going slightly out of control, what rough acts
born to eclipse even the night
bear down their thin force to be hidden

credits

from High Score Blackout, released March 24, 2009

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The Love X Nowhere San Francisco

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