From the recordings Hopefully More than a Blanket of 'I' Statements and Hopefully More than a Blanket of 'I' Statements (Streaming)
Lyrics
{Intro} I’m on a plane; life is soaring eloquent in turbulent conditions. I’m a relatively steady, slow and steadfast, win the race eventually, a zigzag, probably. A clear path hasn’t shown yet. An epidermis is a Mothman prophecy, Coyote painting hallway, a monumental balustrade, your misdirect economy—prevaricated, on my way to reach my resting place before I get my ride cut shorter-than, by someone else. {Hook 1} And when I die, the world won’t notice. I might get a funeral. I might get listed. Obituary blues in a fine print mention—the world won’t miss me. The world won’t miss a beat. {Verse 1} I’m anesthetized to modern tragedy, where God is played as airplaness crashing into buildings in a tapestry of suicidal last resorted glory: corporal synecdoche upon it’s forced into the concrete flooring. I’m porcupine-clairvoyant telling anything I think of’s probably been done or doing. Man’s iniquity’s enormous. Inordinate prospects—B.Y.O.B.—build your own bombs using household products. Psoriasis: a lacerating shrapnel, lot leviathan, exonerated architecture, inundated rain. Pneumonic conduit deficiency’s hallucinating Nazareth—thoracic cavity phenomenology. I fantasize the sound of boness snapping simultaneous. The pain of deformation irreversible. Unabashed, shameless screaming in a vacuum; visualizing watery of every splintered body part internally annihilated. Dogma, yielded to the point at which you find it. Loyalty, calling all national security. Unarmed pacifism is naivety. It’s friable I’m too much of a coward to anything. *An incredible plane crash—crashed into the side of the building to at least three floors taken out—debris raining down—this has to be deliberate, folks—another plane just flew into the second tower.* September 11th was just another event, another fun fundraising for agoraphobia. I morbidly-abhorrent don’t believe your story for a second if your case-and-point is pointing to Bin Laden as the felon. Not enough explaining, evading, and lack of evidence—and now don’t sell me short on ignorance and civil unrest! Tell me, how many names of passengers do you remember flying on American Airlines Flight 11? How many people fall to non-predicted outcomes? I don’t want a human power choosing how I go out. I don’t wanna’ go out. I don’t wanna’ die in a Rube Goldberg device. I’m not anti-patriotic; I’m just not so patriotic. I will die for what I love before I die for my country. {Verse 2} Flags been hung at half-mast, as it was last week and the week past. I don a mask of happy-fake-a-smile-and move-along—we’re the living! Revel in the marvel that you’ve been preserved another reaping from the all-impetuous—a customary 2000-some societal anesthesis. Don’t worry; it’s been just another preschool homicide, not up in my neighborhood. I’ll wait until the strike is close to home to understand the laws of grieving. Internal pandemonium: occurring in Francium in its natural state. Amateurish, happily death-novice, head bobbing, I don’t go to funerals. No disrespect; no caught up in the undertow until the earthquake hits. Segregating monetary status from the facets earning shelters that’s stupendous in their permanence. Immersedness—grave, inadvertent graves rented by the dead whose variables had granted them misfortune. Sullied as the African American death toll—maybe less so now. Still, it’s a new millennium. A melanin equivalent lapel’s a scarlet emblem. The dreads are half for style, half to make me equal. An errant bullet marries face bone of a three-year-old Ugandan, woven by the hands of providence, and no one seems to notice ‘til the photos published in a magazine and surface on the television impact a man at home to make a $20 pledge. Hah, nice that life has a price tag. Nice that ObamaCare costs you if you don’t wanna’ use it. Nuisance, Zumba ‘round the matter that’s denying right to being by means of hospital bills for kids recovering from a stab wound. Boston, Pittsburg—yeah, you know the rest of them; a cornucopia, too many worth enumerating. I can only hope to one day be as big as Michael Jackson; otherwise, and even him, have taken secondary siting to mail delivery, and grocery lists, and paying taxes, and besides that some remember only face value. Oh well, I’ll probably get shot in a movie theatre. It sucks being nothing and amounting to it. {Hook 3} And when I die, the world won’t notice. I might get a funeral. I might get listed. Obituary blues in a fine print mention—I won’t get to wake up to the next days headline. *Hey, when you die you get more popular than you’ve ever been in your whole life. You get more flowers when you die than you ever got at all. They all arrive at once, too late.* {Verse 3} Gus died in a car accident. I’m saying his name so it’s repeated again. My sympathies to Quick Nick’s, and everyone related. It’s a waste that some have been let go so early. Urn and nerve-emergency are differentiated. Tapering is pain and everyone wants death to be immediate. A mediated middle ground would be the act of “plug-pulling,” obligated by the conscience of another family member. I’m unfit to be a victim of dismemberment. A million ways to die, a million more to be facilitated. Left to my imagination, I’m a walking lunatic cavorting the calamity, depressed as if I’d actually endured the real thing. Bite the curb. I wonder what it’s like to having teeth shatter, jaw dismantled, crushed against the grit of sandpaper. It’s Americana History ex-exaltation. Daydream the possibility of being home-invaded and the pain in being tortured in whatever variation. I just wanna’ die like all the other normal people getting cancer from cell phones, McDonald’s, and drinking bottled water, and not sweating the dumb things in life I’m so good at, like your ex-boyfriend’s a dick. I didn’t go running today. I seize it, didn’t get enough accomplished for my own requirements that’s setted higher than the average is, and wallowed in my silence rather than opening orifice. At least I’m not addicted to a drug like those unfortunate. And thankfully I come from where’s a lot of people loving me. My mom and dad support me unconditionally; even though my dad has sacrificed a lot for what he wasn’t. All he ever listens to is Limbaugh, only adding to the problem. I’m a cynic in a sense, and yet feel less and less connected. I don’t need to hear from any why this song—it sucks or doesn’t. I’m so sick of all excuses and comparing me to others. I’m so sick of fucking half-ass non-committal efforts. I’m so sick of people’s lack of taking others in consideration. Know I really fucking try. I really fucking try. And sometimes, I wish I didn’t. For every person that is ruining my day with something minor, there’s a lesson worth abiding by that’s easier to lecture on. It’s easier to speak than making done. It’s easier for population control than x + y and solve for famine. Nab a coffin, FEMA body bag, cremation container—or if you can’t afford the fee, then here’s a trash bin. I express condolences more worthless than a rose bed. The only thing that’s left to resurrect is our forgetfulness of everything. The flags back up again. I guess sufficient time for remembrance elapsed since the happening. Fuck that no one gives a fuck and nothing ever changes. You go to work as usual ad nauseam—inoculum—complaining that your coffee isn’t hot enough. I hope you're fucking happy in your fucking glass aquarium—for all of those whose finances afforded life-luxurious. And parents that’s non-profiting their child’s timely irony, whose kid was wonderful, and you’re demoralized. And anyone who’s acting hard at all can pull a gun on me to end my life easily as persons who preceded me—some advocating “bigger-than-yourself”—more than I’ll ever be. You’d think we’d make amends, but now it’s only gotten commonplace. I get the NRA, but not the people that’s supporting them. Your ignorance and outlook’s only adding to damages. A father grieves hysterically his son was shot for nothing, as my girl does on her grandmother’s passing. I’d like to think there’s maybe more, but maybe this is it. Agnostic, 360, other five I’m atheist. I’m really having trouble these days dealing with a whirlwind of emotions in my realizing I really don’t have any of the answers. I wish life reset, and that your past was all hallucination. I want every bit of you in the space-time continuum, ignoring who or what you did while I was blindly idling. And maybe you were too. And maybe I can’t accept it. Maybe I am “Mr. Self Destruct,” the cause of my infection. I should be accepting both of us for all our imperfections versus idealizing nevers, making crazy my cerebrum. Thank you for your suffering with what you have of my psychosis. Thank you for your comfort. Thank you for your being. Thank you for your contribution to making my life having meaning. And you’re welcome if this is anything “your sentiments, exactly.” Grossly moribund, I’m terrified of dying solitarily and fear my death might be abrupt or play out less than cinematically. I hope the supplement’s a soundtrack-elegy. I’m sorry if this song arrives to you as less-than-happy. My apologies, if I am selfish writing this apology. I’m sorry if this serves an inconvenience to your pageantry. I’m sorry if my exit’s unrehearsed. {Outro} Machines eventually break down, and some people choose to replace old technology.