it's a night of beer and coffee on the couch of weary lonesome
and the dirty cups are stacking faster than we're pouring new ones
with the ghostly winds ahowlin through the trees, a fearsome rain storm
and the chimes clang crookedly throughout, an otherwordly chant noise
4am with nothing left
half a beer, my shallow self
i do forget to eat
but i don't forget to drink
how can we know where we stand
when the birds don't sing?
a pitterpatter pitterpat sings in the dark alone
the lonely redwood branches chant the heart of every song
i fall to catch the only thing that i know how to trust
the life that struggles in the dirt, the worm that's all of us
i'm throwing in this bit from an old song i wrote, stealing from yeats.
and this is all i know:
things come together
before things fall apart
things come together
sinking. singing. the chant of it that leaves me out. the pace of it that proceeds, as i sit , idle on the couch. the smell, the breath. nothing left. nothing to offer to wind or rain, nothing to gain. just take me, teach me, let me ride. i'll turn to storm clouds, pitch and glide. i'll become the blaze you want me to; there's no tomorrow but me and you.
and jesus christ my heart stopped when I saw it was me who left the carriage house door open
something about how the branches scraping the glass ends up sounding like the birds that i've wanted.
ugh this is terrible tom, please excuse me. but you asked me, and it's practice! practice is good. let's keep working. i wanna improve. let's go there.
