1. |
À Votre Santé!
02:10
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LYRICS:
I’m wasted. I’m a waste. My coffee cup, filled with the blood of… Jesus Christ, it’s almost one and I’m tired as hell but somehow wide awake. A narcissist, a pair of horns, holding out for something more than a snarled, loose poinsettia crown- is it too late for redemption now? ‘Cause how could I be an artist with nothing else to be? How could I be a man with the number of the beast? I don’t know where I belong. But, you know what? Here’s to the past. Here’s to the dead. Here’s to the squandered and unsaid. Here’s to the time killed, passed, and lost. Here’s to the destitute and broke. Here’s to the setups of the jokes. Here’s to the punchlines never got. Here’s to the Camel smell on sheets. Here’s to the liquor store receipts. Here’s to the bile, blood, and gin I’ve tasted. Here’s to the hopeless in their prime. Here’s to those long Aurora nights. Here’s to the daylight creeping in. Here’s to the wasted.
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2. |
Such Fragile Things
03:36
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LYRICS:
This scenic drive keeps my knuckles white and blue, like liquid nails through wood glue, to you at ten and two. And the blood rushing from them is crimson, cold, and thick, and everyone I share it with eventually gets overwhelmed and sick. There’s no respite from this. I’m trying to remember where I’m going in all my car crash dreams so I know when to be scared. I’m struggling to remember what I’m doing and what I came for as soon as I get anywhere. It’s a matter of vanity. I’m afraid you’re gonna laugh at me when I’m barefoot in a beer-stained robe, genetics slowly robbing me of sanity. I’m afraid that my whole psyche’s one headlight in the rain. How could such fragile things sustain? These paper pills keep me focused on my breathing and window crack day-dreaming. My left ear’s always freezing and the blood rushing to them is crimson, cold, and thick, and everyone I share it with eventually gets overwhelmed. I’m trying to remember where I’m going in all my car crash dreams so I know when to be scared. I’m struggling to remember what I’m doing and what I came for as soon as I get anywhere. I’m sorry for the windows in my room, the sunlight always wakes you at its rise. I’m sorry for the concrete in my chest. I’m sorry for the moment either of us tries to forget. You best let go before it sets. I’m trying to remember where I’m going in all my car crash dreams so I know when to be scared. I’m struggling to remember what I’m doing and what I came for as soon as I get anywhere.
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3. |
Such Childish Things
04:14
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LYRICS:
The snow starts to fall as the credits roll on. You nurse a last Parliament, staring at the cement, watching it twirl and dissolve. I wouldn’t call it a grin but, in the red neon glow, there’s something about the curvature of your mouth as it’s billowing smoke. That was the last show at the Esquire. Your last few words, a mist outlasting your sedan’s exhaust: “We can’t sneak around like this, dear.” Fishtailing on Lincoln, the first dive bar I see is gonna be the last one, as long as you’re unhappier than me. I’ll watch the stained glass sweat, remember telling you then that you’re not a bad person as we brought out the worst in each other again. That was the last call at the Rover, the last chance to repent, the last first dance on tilting earth, “just to feel what maybe could’ve been.” Fishtailing on Lincoln through rosy flags and lights to sever us by morning, I feel like we’d be happier if we could lie in bed like degenerates, bathed in smoky light and intertwined on wine-stained purple sheets like two lost kids clutching stuffed animal friends. There comes a time we all leave behind such childish things. So don’t go home, home is never enough when you’re hungry. When you’re empty like us, you would rather die than wake up alone. So go somewhere, ‘cause you can never go home. Stay static. Stay to remind me, like static, snow’s only weather. Stay static, deep in a pipe dream. Like static, it won’t be forever. Break habits baked into our veins. Pragmatic, tomorrow is better. Break habits, break like a sound wave through static. Through static. You could lie in bed like an odalisque, bathed in smoky light and enshrined in thrones of dirty clothes while a callous clock shrugs your mortality off. There’ll come a time whoever’s by your side will wake up alone. And I could stay supine by a poltergeist, soaked in morning light and intertwined in wine-fueled saccharine dreams like a latch-key kid and his imaginary friend, but I’ll walk away, happy to forsake such childish things as long as you’re unhappier than me.
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4. |
Birdsong & Prey
04:36
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LYRICS:
I had a dream about a moth that reminded me of you and the afternoon we spent at Kitchen’s Ink Tattoo. You were nervous, and I think I pushed you through in order to expedite permanence and, I swear, I felt it, too- another monument in a superficial wound, another masochist in mutual abuse, another mourning veil, another laughing face waving at a hearse like it's some summer's day parade- so we float like foam. The dawn chorus has us surrounded. Stagger slow, the flowers all wilting around us. Spiral home like samaras. A call and response in the dark. Hum along. In the quiet aftermath, a gentle April breeze casts fallout in the yard, amongst the honey bees. You were smiling, barefoot in the weeds, watching them pollinate. I’d ruin it all to stay tangled at your feet. Another city block, another desperate time, another final round, another townie dive, we were something else, something more than this, another maudlin song for a half-remembered tryst. Another artist saddled with the burden of a muse, shackled at the ankle by a Catalpa Sphinx tattoo. And I float like foam through gutters all along Downing. Stagger slow, the flowers all wilting around me. Dial tone and crickets: a call and response in the dark. Hum along. Flutter home.
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5. |
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LYRICS:
I remember the bed where we had it out with late December, up seven spiral flights and eight hours from northwest Denver. Bad moods and Camus, a leave of absinthe, flat in the bathroom, we had our own Versailles till the rent and the cold swamp water got too high. And I remember my every word neurosis had commandeered and the smell of that flannel shirt: luckies and beer. I remember the glass door between the metro tracks and the platform, coffee spilled on tables, how no surface between us was stable, trash heaps and Pastis, a spoiled brat half-asleep in the back seat who hasn’t come back down from a panic attack, a bad spat, and a blackout. Ten shots and counting, I’m about to dissipate. I wanna go home, I feel lost and scared and sick. I take a last shot and I don’t even know what for, but please don’t vanish ‘cause I need you. I don’t remember embracing earth or grasping at stratosphere, no bedspread or flannel shirt, just luckies and beer. But I remember the fear when the words disappeared and left a burning in my ear. You didn’t have to speak, I saw you scowl in your sleep and I knew the end was near. Somewhere miles from here on that foreign frontier, bleeding colors crisp and clear, I passed out in 2013 next to Maya Jean, awoke by myself in next year. And I remember the fear when the words disappeared and left a burning in my ear. You didn’t have to speak, I saw you scowl in your sleep and I knew the end was near. Somewhere miles from here on that foreign frontier, bleeding colors crisp and clear, 2013 only left me debris but, oh, how I’ll miss that sneer.
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6. |
Dear Theo
04:20
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LYRICS:
You’re far too young for Sundowner’s Syndrome, right? So why pace holes in the floorboards? Cicadas own this time of night. The firefly erodes, evaporating palimpsest and paper pills into baby’s breath. There’s something wrong, when you watch your city sleep from a lawn chair throne, that makes oceans ripple, glaciers shake, in the world inside your glass. Dear Theo, since the thing that matters most is going well, I’ve already said, “you’re strong, you’re brave.” Reconstruction can be done. But what if you don’t want to start over? The strong and brave are a lonely bunch. The butterflies collect, drilling holes in the pavement through former friends and fossil fuels into lion’s dens. It’s nothing new, and it’s fine by me if this lawn chair throne is everything. And it’s fine by me if Pacific and Atlantic wanna meet. I’ll learn to breathe and revel in the salty taste. I’ll still be pacing here as magic hour nears, singing: La tristesse durera toujours, suis désolé. Dear Theo, since the thing that matters most is going well, I’ve already said enough. Theo, I’m not the sum of all my parts, but I worry. I worry too much.
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7. |
February
04:42
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LYRICS:
In late January, Orlando isn’t all that bad. It’s at least a couple thousand miles off our beaten path. Your best friend’s wedding’s over, let’s stay an extra night. We’ll go to Denny’s in the morning before catching our flight. It’s alright, you don’t have to sleep at all If you don’t want to spend another second in this nightmare, but you’ve more than earned the right to fall apart, despair, kick, scream, claw, and cry, and I promise I’ll be there in February. She’s gotta go away, so we’ll try to celebrate off the Florida interstate. Come February, I’ll be pacing every night, so let’s savor morning light on our early Valentine’s day. February, we meet in the parking lot outside your mandated class. Work release allows us at least a fighting chance of a normal evening. We’ll sneak a kiss behind a nearby dumpster as the next class shuffles inside. It’s alright, you’re gonna make it through, then you won’t have to spend another second in this nightmare. And I know that it’s not fair. In February she’s gotta go away, so we’ll try to stay awake from here to DIA. In February, I’ll be living in the dregs. Right now we have all day, burnt toast, and runny eggs. And It makes you realize that nothing is a given. It makes you realize that nothing is concrete, and it makes you wonder when it’ll all be gone. And it makes you realize it could be. In February, she’s gotta go away, so we’ll try to celebrate off the Florida interstate. Come February, I’ll be pacing every night, so let’s savor morning light on our early Valentine’s day. February.
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8. |
Variations on a Benedict
03:02
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[instrumental]
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9. |
Hoping Mechanism
03:16
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LYRICS:
Therapy days are breakfast-for-dinner nights. I’ve come to recognize that ritual serves a purpose within our lives- wait -I’ll use my "I" statements: I like the way the egg turns opaque. I like the sound the Cuisinart makes. I like to keep a rag wet to curb the mess. I feel like I’m good at this. And I’m not good with names, no good with faces, either. I’m not good with people. Don’t make me feel unwell ‘cause you don't understand it. I’m not that enigmatic. “Wine Wednesday” nights are backbreaking on the line. I’ve been pulling overtime. Back of house hangs out after the place is closed, drinking the unsold merlot, and I found myself somewhere in that repose. I guess I found some kind of hope. And I’ve found myself clicking my heels at home, staring at the drywall hole. You’re probably somewhere blacking out; screeching REM, a karaoke mic up to your mouth, looking at him while I’m sprawled out on our little Big Lots couch, dreaming about drywall plaster, hollandaise, hash browns. I don’t want you help me fix this. That’s too many cooks in the kitchen. And I’m not good with names, no good with faces, either. I’m not good with people. Don’t make me feel unwell 'cause you can’t understand it. I’m not that enigmatic, I just don’t want to be the mess strewn across our bedroom in the way you like me best. It’s a cognitive overwhelming success. You’ve always said that I should grow the hell up, so I have.
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10. |
Rinse Cycles
05:44
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LYRICS:
The funeral home by the cul-de-sac is billowing smoke from a concrete stack as fluttering snow lands on manicured grass or the side of the road, where fumes turn it black. This thing’s getting old, this build and collapse. This runway approach, this crash and crawl back. It kills me to know the burden I drag to every plateau and hang on everyone’s back. I wanna carry it by myself, over the sidewalk freeze, like the laundry I’m fighting with. Where only the traffic sees. I’m going to the laundromat, where I can finally be alone. Where neon signs and dirty couches whisper, “welcome home.” I’m going to the laundromat, soaring high on all-time low. It just takes a flask and eighteen coins to wash the afterglow out of my clothes. Chillers is close so I don’t take the van. This town is a ghost, but the tavern is packed with jocular folks on their Friday warpaths hiding out from the cold in a half-full shot glass. The jukebox is pounding out sweat and uncertainty. Wake up to cottonmouth, lipstick on purple teeth. I’m going to the laundromat, where I can finally be alone. Where TV snow and diet Coke still whispers, “welcome home.” I’m going to the laundromat, over moons through undertows. It just takes a flask and eighteen coins to wash the pheromones out of my clothes. The florist is tossing rose pedals into my path. The bridal shop mannequins swoon as I stumble past and Eisenhower’s lined with plywood valentines fastened to street lamps, basking in pallid light. Sweetheart Lanes hums a thunderous, distant dirge as I trudge through the blinding white glow of the mega church, and I saw my name in its “thoughts and prayers” literature tucked away in the den. Please don’t pray for me.
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11. |
Une Petite Reprise!
01:09
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LYRICS:
Here's to the wasted.
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12. |
Wild Cherries
03:46
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LYRICS:
I pulled over somewhere south of Laramie to throw up in the red Wyoming dirt and slump against a Toyota Sienna, where I thought about my grandma. This van used to be her's. I climb back in, adjust the driver’s seat. The doors, all riddled with Marlboro burns, tell stories like a redwood bearing rings as I white-knuckle myself across the Earth. Another nervous breakdown in Evanston. My cell phone didn’t work, but the nice Motel 6 clerk let me use the landline at reception and whoa, mom, I don’t know what I’m doing. Whoa, dad, I don’t know how to manage. I hung up and tried to breathe, then stress-ate delivery. I passed out to the Sci-Fy channel. I got an atlas at the grocery and a backpack full of protein. Got a good friend in Boise with a couch. I kept the seat guards in your memory, with the jackpot wild cherries, and I shivered as they carried me out. The sun is going down. The rumble strips all singing: don’t you dare quit on me now... I pulled up and parked the van outside her house. I hadn’t seen her since the band broke up. She gave a beaming tour of the town. I think it made me homesick for a place that never was. We met up with a couple of her friends for a local parking lot Oktoberfest. The breeze was far more frigid than the beer, so we left for someone’s backyard fire pit. It must’ve been several months since I laughed until I cried. We relived our Boulder days, raised our bottles by the flames, shared a cab and sentimental goodbyes. Whoa, Kat, I’m gonna miss you. Whoa, I don’t even feel tired. I woke up in Idaho, the smoke still on my clothes. I hit the highway smelling like a campfire. I got a coffee and an Advil for the throbbing in my ankle. Got a good friend in Seattle with a room. I keep the funeral program tucked in the visor for good luck and I’m happy just to know where I’m from. I kept the seat guards in your memory, with the jackpot wild cherries and I smiled as they carried me home. The sun is going down. The rumble strips all singing: don’t you dare quit on me now, it's shoulder to the wheel until the sound.
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13. |
Rosemary Sinead O'Donald
03:33
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LYRICS:
I arrived to the Puget Sound from deep inside a vacuum. I met you the kitchen of a co-op called Bike Ranch. Roots in the sodden ground, you’re grappling with grad school. I'll see you when I see you, see you when you get a chance. I live with a longtime friend and I’ve agreed to dog sit for a long and listless weekend void of plans. The pup is an anxious mess. I’m equally neurotic. Both looking at the floor, unsure of how to interact. On aimless walks, we pace the blocks but never get too far. I’m asking the dog when she wants to go home, forgetting who’s in charge. And all along the main drag, they’re hanging strings of lights. I’m stopping by the Hummingbird tonight. It’s getting colder, aging almost silently, vibrantly reminded by the fumes. So please come over, and when our brains refuse to sleep, I’ll write a whole nights worth of dreams for you. Sick from a stormy night, I slept away my Sunday. Dreamt that I was a father, steeped in iridescent light. A rise and a shine in time for civil twilight rain, amble like a baby deer down the stairs to find a pile of trash and my favorite cap with bite marks in the brim. I say sorry out loud as I’m looking around for the leash and an Ibuprofen. And all along the main drag, they’re hanging strings of lights. You’re far too far to stop by here tonight. It’s getting colder, collapse into the mattress pad after chasing lights through dampened streets. So goddamn sober, the anxious mess leaps into bed and lays her head against my freezing feet. I’m getting older, aging almost violently, quietly reminded by the mutt and late October, so as she slowly falls asleep, I’ll write a whole nights worth of dreams for us.
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14. |
Ship of Theseus
05:14
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LYRICS:
Union Pacific split my birth town in half, as did Mom and Dad on their warpath toward the right side of the tracks. Vanishing act, I left a lot of blood behind. I want it back, but I’m too scared to ask. With a couple bathroom towels around our necks like capes, we went soaring through the trailer park like prairie hurricanes. We let the next 20 years wash ideals down the drain with blue hair dye and sour mash that would never taste the same. We drank to grandpa Jim, same blood different veins, on a rooftop in Fort Collins where we swore we’d never change. But I watched the six riflemen salute and shiver in the rain and, when they buried him, you were a 1,000 miles away. I’ve been homesick for a decade, and I hope I come unglued because all I want is to go sifting through the wreckage for scraps of me I like so I can piece together someone new. With manifesto pages stacked up in our heads like band posters from high school rooms- it all seemed permanent- we let four lousy years and the burial grounds we tread lead us from the Boston fog to punch a clock instead. We sang the same anthems, always harmonized, till I flew in for your wedding and was barely recognized. But we set the world ablaze before it set us blasé, and when they buried us, I was a 1,000 miles away. I’ve been homesick for a decade, and I hope I come unglued because all I want is to go sifting through the wreckage for scraps of me I like so I can piece together someone. New England weather turned my ring finger black. I need to know if where I’ll choose to stand is on the right side of the axe. Blood brother’s pact. You always used to break the jokes I cracked. But I’m too scared to laugh.
Tell me this is not forever.
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Zachary James Ward Los Angeles, California
In a past life, I was murdered by Charles Bukowski after defeating him in a freestyle haiku battle. I was briefly
reincarnated as a gorilla in the Cincinnati Zoo before dying the exact same way. This time I chose the form of an ostensibly straight white man because I don't like challenges. Now I write songs about being him.
"Floating like rogue ash
in a sea of lukewarm beer.
Suck it, Bukowski"
... more
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