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1. |
battles already fought
03:15
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some feelings you left behind in notebooks, in bars, carelessly tossed them, so many, so what, that’s how it had to be and that’s how it is. that’s how it has to be and that’s how it is. put a bassline to it, never forget.
you end on the first song we all knew had heart, the way-o, the songform a stellar afterthought (have to start writing before the fears become my framework).
thanks for coming (sincerely) to each person he knew, and even – if he could freeze the room – thanks for coming to each person, a movie, the central conceit the suex’s last song, last show, the bassline to doctor bozzi a werther’s candy in the living room of my grandmother’s house, a place where nobody is anymore
owned, like our parents
house, by the bank of america
To steve kimock, to all of my friends, idols
to every evening being cramped
bulletin boards full of battles
already fought
to be re arranged
to the longest outro, bro
when this ends let’s get out of this town
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2. |
into battle with no rest
02:18
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For strength go into battle with no rest. You can do it. You asked me to wake you up. Yes I can read minds. No you are not just dreaming. Ivy thoughts and major league, boxer shorts and make believe. You can do it Emily. You can do it matador. String your life across the evening like a banister to a bonus evening: lights off, music up, eyes whatever, no intentions: sense the infinite (do you feel that) – as we sense the infinite how you feel that conduit the wind the bit at the end of a string that cannot be created from nothing and cannot be destroyed – as we sense each other in the same room come on tell me a secret, I mean, well (i mean well), the infinite. Let us take in as much as we can together and go our separate ways. Would you wake me up? How?
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3. |
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Sincerely,
I had to sit in a dark room full of people. I had to wake up in an empty house and row slowly out, idle there and not return. I watched it not returning from my chair, I heard not a single noise: the muffled shouts of a 12 year-old boy to his 12 year-old friends, muffled by my window; not the blood of a dead nurse preserved on paper, reprinted for my sake or the sake of others just like me; not the echoes of your teachings in my heart, dear teachers, for I could not hear them; but in the cherry dew dawn, how rarely, in the red jalapeño sun, blinking with each beat of my silence. I had to trim my voices. I had to sculpt what was absent into harmony, wisdom and new shoes. For a thank you note I posted a blog post and emailed it to everyone I know.
To everyone:
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