black box recorder song

I remember being aggravated
when the snow fell
dark and soft in patterns unseen to
the science eye.
We fell our own ways
into crystalline snow angels
ageless faces on our mind
(“time doesn’t turn over”, we told ourselves.)
crisp morning air
and madness at the edge of dawn
this was the way of the world here,
at listless cough syrup dream syndicate
wakefulness
at always here and fading
(we are between stages)
and air flight attendant blanket pillow shit-taker
for you.
And all the rest that never know
just how far past home we are.
But I’ll fiddle on, play the piper
and retell the stories of the my life
in eggshell universe detail like
mental masturbation theory
and past quake activity
(clouds lulling by)
cars like ants at our feet
and reasons to leave this cold dark heart of a room
with it’s frenzied paces.
No one can outlast the sun.


2004-10-22 | 11:18 a.m.
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