The Stage Names
Album - 7 agosto 2007 - Debaser id 417289

What gives this mess some grace unless it's kicks, man - unless it's fictions, unless it's sweat or it's songs? What hits against this chest unless it's a sick man's hand, from some midlevel band? He's been driving too long on a dark windless night, with the stereo on, with the towns flying by and the ground getting soft.

And a sound in the sky, coming down from above, it surrounds you and sighs and is whispering of what pulls your body down, and that is quicksand. So climb out quick, hand over hand, before your mouth's all filled up. What picks you up from down unless it's tricks, man? When I've been fixed I am convinced that I will not get so broke up again.

And on a seven day high, that heavenly song punches right through my mind and just hums through my blood. And I know it's a lie, but I'll still give my love. Hey, my heart's on the line for your hands to pluck off.

What gives this mess some grace unless it's fiction - unless it's licks, man, unless it's lies or it's love? What breaks this heart the most is the ghost of some rock and roll fan, floating up from the stands with her heart opened up. And I want to tell her, "Your love isn't lost," and say "my heart is still crossed!" I want to scream, "hey, you're so wonderful! What a dream in the dark - about working so hard, about growing so stoned, trying not to turn off, trying not to believe in that lie all on your own."

By the second verse, dear friends,
my head will burst and my life will end,
so I'd like to start this one off by saying "live! and love!"

I was young and at home in bed,
hanging on the words some poem said in '31;
I was impressionable. I was upsettable.
I tried to make my breathing stop
or my heart beat slow,
so when my mom and John came in I would be cold.

From a bridge on Washington Avenue,
the year of 1972 broke my bones and skull,
and it was memorable.
It was half a second in;
I was half-way down
do you think I wanted to turn back around and teach a class
where you kiss the ass that I've exposed to you?
And at the funeral, the University
cried at three poems they'd present in place of a broken me.

I was breaking in a case of suds
at the Brass Rail, a fall-down drunk
with his tongue torn out
and his balls removed.
And I knew that my last lines were gone,
while, stupidly, I lingered on.
Oh, but wise men know
when it's time to go,
and so I should too.
And so I fly into the brightest winter sun
of this frozen town.
I'm stripped down to move on,
my friends: I'm gone.

I hear my father fall,
and I hear my mother call,
and I hear the others all whispering, come home.
I'm sorry to go.
I loved you all so,
but this is the worst trip I've ever been on.

So hoist up the John B. sail.
See how the main sail sets.
I'm full in my heart and my head
and I want to go home,
with a book in my hand,
in the way I had planned.
(This is the worst trip, I've ever been on.)
I feel so broke up, I want to go home.