Pace. Echo. Pace. Alright, let's go:
Shiner. Shiner. Some things don't heal up. Some things don't wheel up. We walk on air and then get up. To Hawaii and Pittsburgh. To New York and then sand dust. To the dunes, then the Pacific, to the lakes and then soft shoals. To the swamps and the trees, to the trails and cement. To never never lands and the houses that meant. Everything's lost. Everything's good and then gone. Everything's looking like 21 and two aces and ten grenades with a spare clip and then gone. Everything's ice and then boss. Everything's numbers and then bomb. Everything's looking like a thing and then not and while it takes a minute to be about it along it comes up real short at the cost and accountant is looking like we about the bounce and a toss and instead what we got is the witch and the flame and across the game is a cross up in white light blue name and the trough is full with somebodies blood and there's a body on the ground and no one can spot that outlines name. Damnit. Shiner.
original works of parts
Tracers 3
after Such Great Heights
I cried myself to sleep
until my sockets freed
themselves from the meat cage they stowawayed.
You, out there on the road
telling yourself it's all a lie
will hear the shrillest highs and lowest lows
when this song haunts you at the doorstep of your home.
That, frankly, will not fly.
Use a wrist to dry your eye.
The one that still has skin that has not been able to regrow.
Somewhere in the grass
where you lay your spine to rest
where you check the pockets of your vest
to breath out and find your phone
while the fire pit you built cracks
and the stars above are the same
the moon exactly where you left.
The world, it did not die,
your howl did not spy
a new peak or tree line.
You know there is still no where for you to dine.
So watch
the fires from afar.
Dance while all of the tracers fly.
Wait for the ash to settle
and nudge the bodies that you find
before taking a bite
to survive.
I cried myself to sleep
until my sockets freed
themselves from the meat cage they stowawayed.
You, out there on the road
telling yourself it's all a lie
will hear the shrillest highs and lowest lows
when this song haunts you at the doorstep of your home.
That, frankly, will not fly.
Use a wrist to dry your eye.
The one that still has skin that has not been able to regrow.
Somewhere in the grass
where you lay your spine to rest
where you check the pockets of your vest
to breath out and find your phone
while the fire pit you built cracks
and the stars above are the same
the moon exactly where you left.
The world, it did not die,
your howl did not spy
a new peak or tree line.
You know there is still no where for you to dine.
So watch
the fires from afar.
Dance while all of the tracers fly.
Wait for the ash to settle
and nudge the bodies that you find
before taking a bite
to survive.
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