DON'T BLAME NASA

the freight, the freight!

I'm given sudden intuition underneath all the rape of earth. In the end of the week, in this golden summer, I hold mighty what I think I deserve. Oh, this pageant of noise. Could have been so convenient if I could ever shy from danger; if I could be all but a storm and see all the fractions rise--but I've such a weak hide. I'm wrong to believe that I'm emotive, knowing Jesus without my eyes. And I'm all through with the reduced impression of myself. I'm not a good liar. Could have been so unfoolish to witness help to those who reject the many numbers and letters that I'm called to display--but I've such a weak hide. It might have been a long and low surprise. Hitherto and bound for the knees to collide. I've begun to salt my lungs and pepper up my eyes. This is all I want and have and give and mean and might many other times.

((I'm known to become greatly concerned with exospiritual appearances. I want people to know I'm in love with Jesus, but still bad ass. What ends up happening is I shed the newborn skin God has given me and shrug off the burden of loving my creator so I can get on with the people surrounding me. Which is backwards, really.))

hey johnny appleseed
someday I would like to be considered brave. I'd hate the gays and pay dues to the NRA. But I want the leader out of office, and tie leashes to his rockets. Because as the oil dries up my pockets my social post becomes so obvious. Let the bell cry loud again. May the boldest liar win. And the quickest wits begin to make me dance for my supper. Father and mother taught me how not to be a loser; that I should eat over my plate and not make friends with cocaine users; that I should give money to my church and do my own mechanic work. Because there's not an honest man alive or a girl who won't fuck up my life. But a president, oh a president! What an honor! What a sentiment! To check that box, to punch that hole, it warms my heart, it stirs my soul! My courage leaps out from the closet. I turn a deaf ear to the gossip. I shove my finger in the socket. Let the spangled banner wave! Let the bell cry loud again. May the boldest liar win. And the quickest wits begin to make me dance for my supper. He says the war is noble, so long as the people don't jap out. But I honestly don't feel that I have written the thing down. The thing, it makes me dead with sin. The thing, it sold me out again. "Wouldn't God make a lovely candidate? a lovely president for us all!"
((This song was written during the Bush re-election campaign. There's too much to say about how I felt/feel on this issue.))

the habit rode me home

The habit rode me home when I was growing shy. The simplest of all rationale was humbling to mine eyes. Heaven is an awful lot to wage on flaunting war. My stomach fades with time. I loosen up the soil. The honesty is a big sad hole where I've planted control. It's all fun if you're alone--as long as I'm prepared to grip a heart with my white palms and see what's inside there. When it's nothing, you're my company, bright and homely man. Keep the time with sorrow mine. Dies mundaine and tastes just right.

((I think some addictions are like parasites that just bury themselves in a person's skin , gnawing and biting, impossible to destroy.))

pledge of allegience
The weight was the one that hurt you. And I'm good and ready to belong without you, and these, the hands, the fingers that paid me. You want yours and mine and his and hers, too. You told me that my heart was precious. But the asking of mine was the part you neglected. And now I'm here neath the surface while you get yours and mine and his and hers, too. You taught me the pledge of allegience and now I can see how my trust is convenient. How dare I trust in my government?! For God hates the democrats, so I've been told.
((This song didn't end up making it to the EP because I wanted pedal steel guitar on it, and couldn't find it, so it's on the back burner. This was also written during the election. When I first became a christian I was seeing a girl whose family was uber-churchy and I was very impressed with their lifestyle. One day they made it clear to me that there is no way a good christian could vote for a democratic candidate. I severly disagreed, but lost the argument somehow. I was in that same family's church shortly after G.W. was elected for the first time, and the pastor stood before his rather large congregation and praise God for implementing a republican president in our government. Following the statement I nearly went deaf from the uproarious applause and cheering from my fellow believers. I lost the argument. So I left. For the record, I know that Jesus would be sickened by our presidents actions in Iraq, and in the way he represents "christians", and in the way he's just a moron.))

w.m.i.s.f.w.y.f.f.O.s.h.a?

the whole damn thing
this is my crime, a cold bad lung and bullet eyes and bullet bones. oh, fragile bomb! oh fragile bomb! i'm sure it's fine, it's all a bribe to get us out, to colonize our homely tribes. you said it yourself, "folk is dead," and there you went. you meant it when you stubled on our modern bread. our hands are freed, our hymnal bleeds a golden blood and sputters weird and unknown tongues to me. this is my crime, i'm sure it's fine to learn it all from piligrims wise and their wordy wives.
((this song is complicated to me. the words stem directly from a large collection of unpleasant experiences in several different churches involving the seriousness of worship.))

on the plane, when you spoke in verse

"i'm not ready to have children, dear. i just want Sinai to come over and play. i'm not concerned with nurturing her. at these feet who wants children anyway?" our trip is like an oar floating stupidly away. but we can't be here anymore. i'm sure the south will be okay. "i'm not ready to make dinner, dear. i just want comfort to have us over. family can't make it better. distances can't make it slower." my wife feels like a road drifting beautifully away. i can't be here anymore. on this road i have to stay. home is my loved-one, and is my problem. this i've not made clean, i have no dreams. this i make my home, i have a queen.

((my wife and i were flying home to long beach, california from a wedding in seattle. we had only been married for a few weeks, and talking about children and houses and mortgages. in our conversation, we eventually scared each other enough into being honest about feeling unprepared for the american marriage experience. it was something we prayed about. God made it a song.))

i was a heathen

now i'm blatantly comfortable. how the heat makes the closet wonderful! now i fall into the heaps of grief while i electrocute myself to sleep. i see despair and i weep for weeks, like the children. i think i've got it wrong. walk down the cemetary wreckage. and i want to clarify my message. i'm not what God has designed me to be like--the coward that you see. i see Him there and i run for weeks. i hide from heaven, and cries my heathen.

((the mention of "the closet" is referencing where i record my songs. we live in a very small apartment, but there is enough room in our closet for me to set up all my junk.))

the failure

i tore the gown in the hospital ICU. sitting down, whispering, "man, don' they want my money, too?" i let you down. you can break this mangy body. you can find someone to stop me from whoring out your hands. the failure begs for patience. i don't know how i've become the fake believer that i am. the failure sees the arrogance in the way things turn out just fine. i torn the gown and i gave up my inheritance. not kind, not humble, just too wise to make the plans. it's alright, but you know i can't believe it. stubborn fear is all i'll ever need. they say someone knows my secrets. like how i write my boring songs and how i love my subtle wife. the failure sees the arrogance in the way things turn out just fine.

((i struggle constantly with giving myself over to Christ, allowing him to use my time, gifts, and whatever else. it's purely out of cowardice. and that is all.))

top and bottom

i'll follow through to the bitter loop when all that i want is a lamb. send the postal frame through the shame with figurative spies that i've named. this print, my signature of cream is yours to remove. do you think me to be the perfect face? i'm glad if you do. and on my best days i am wrong about the hate of my dear friends. is it me who's long and grand when i'm gone. but see, i meant to plea. i'll bring the coastal travels home for you to catalogue in the place i'm sure you'll the cure for the blood i leave at your door. and once again i sign the burning ropes, indeed i'll see the truth. do you wish for me to free the children's arms? i swear i didn't mean to. both of us are tiring of the winds that gust in our bed. it's pretty to you and frightful to me. and i know your heart's with the sea. let's take the poision ripely, dear. there's nothing else to do. is it formerly our destiny to pray for painful youth? do you think me to be the perfect face? you're dead if you do.

((i wrote the words for this song before my wife and i were married. i wrote the rest after. the last nine months of our engagement i was living in sacramento and she in los angeles. the distance became unbearable, and both of our minds were gone by our wedding day.))

we have pretty hair for good

it all falls behind my ears, in solid water, in gorgeous fire, above you. look, it's changing colors! it's bourbon like a rose. look, i'm changing thunder! it's bluer than i'd hoped. in my walls, pour like a barrel. give up my animal in peaceful power. above you.

((i've recorded something like four different versions of this song. i'm still not sure if i like it.))

the gift that cost less than $25

i fell down the tallest old mountain. i broke my bones on the rubble below. i saw my blood run to the children and a girl who filled my hands with melted snow. i remember a trip out to Boston. at the baggage claim i surrendered at your heels. it's funny how we made out circles. it's funny how we always knew just how we'd feel. i've been had once or twice. i'm lost on grownup grace. i seldom live full days. and you're the one, i'm sure. forget the rhymes of useless shame. forget the waste of pain, the deserts in my brain. all i know is i'm poor. i'm hungry, mean, and poor. and it's you that i adore. Bethany, i'm giving you my pantry. all my walls and windows, medicine and crows. Bethany, i hope you'll gladly hold me as the boy who's hands were filled with melted snow.

((i wrote this song for my wife, Bethany. hence, the slight cheese. we agreed to not spend more than $25.00 on our wedding gifts to each other. so i wrote a song. it was free. the harmonium-sounding thing used in the song is actually a portable electronic organ called a Traveller. it belonged to my best friend Aaron's mother. although she never played it, she couldn't bear to part with the thing. through a number of undisclosed actions, Aaron apprehended the Traveller, and left it in the back seat of my car. i promised him i'd use it.))

in several explosions

i believe we've outsexed each other in our battle of banter and numbing reflections. it's your duty to make me important and me the surprise and the rape and the roster. i know the poison is worse than the pleasure, but all my misfortune is due to the center. i've read the letters, i've had my abortion, and i swallow depression in dubious portions. dare i say that i'm a man who loves to hate his loving Lord. i think that i can make it run on masonry and firebombs. and tell me how to be a man with a lovely wife behind the stove, a suit and tie between my legs, a dollar bill inside my nose.

((i find that in my relationship with Christ i experience all sorts of different joys, but it never gets easier for me to come to him with my sorrows. at times i long for a life without accountability. but i couldn't live a day without Jesus.))

the answer

i heard it behind me while i planned out my august--a boy with a knife in his hand. he sheared my good hair with a harnessing grimmace, his heels in a snare, and his blazer was bland. my lady was gone, but she somehow was with me while the boy worked away at my head. i knew what she'd say, she'd tell me "mister, get with it! if we don't pay the bills, we're better off dead." and i'm aware that i'm useless and hasty and horny. my dilligence i've never met. but God's kingdom awaits me, and somehow he'll take me, even though i pretend that i don't know it yet. when the boy was done trimming he jerked my head backwards. i could see in his eyes he was burning. i said "friend, you look sorrowful, and it makes me feel awful. for the Lord your heart is yearning." my hair, it surrounded the place where i was seated. my head felt exact and refined. i waited for his words, for some sort of answer. he plunged in his knife deep through my spine. he said "Adam, i hate you. i want you to know that. i hope that your lord will forgive you for telling me what my lonely heart yearns for. it was my greatest pleasure to kill you and watch you die." hallelujah! death is the answer.

((i think it's rather straightforward.))