Weakerthans v. Astronautalis

"Aside", by the Weakerthans and "My Dinner With Andy" by Astronautalis have some strikingly similar melodic bits. Particularly in their choruses. Check it out! I often wonder how intentional these things are, and on the part of whom? Truthfully, I hope they are always beautiful accidents.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A927zcSSw2s

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YjbRf7g4FGI&feature=related

they both host quite eloquent lyrics to boot!

?
who is being interviewed here?
if it is i, could we trade places of seating?
if it is you, could you please speak into my other side?
& as for this room, did they paint and & then knock holes in the walls?
is it all to remind this place what it was and what we want it to be simultaneously?
is it all too soon to run screaming and wonder what would have been, had I not?
were there once decorations where there now are notations of accomplishment?
& if walls truly do recall, will you please ask them again to name a favorite song?
these hands, head shaking, uncontrollable smile, where do I put them?
do we know , though no one else knows, that this is in fact happening?
& when the water rushes in from salty ocean topographic shift, do we continue to pretend?
is our own facade strong enough to kill us?
it certainly feels like it might be.

tentatively forever after (la playa)

-these dynamics/refrain/shift-of-pitch are far too certain, that's to be certain
-it's not just these days, this week or this well begun year
-my old-souled-goat can climb through lifetimes, cared for and otherwise, and all the while hold notes no others utter
-audible only in certain sequences, with particular attendance
-clip clop wagon wheel, like a blazing fire
-& every time we wonder, well it only makes us wander (and for this we are grateful)

she said they used to love they used to love they used to love-
now they know what they mean-
each and every bird atop the library's clock holds your gaze for second & third scenes-
& numbers depict a sales pitch of what might be the end of even longer days-
breathing in each others exhausted breath the symbol said something of embrace-

-it's a hope in the hands of shaky lovers and their left leaned households' hem-
-and the desire of said lovers is what makes change of their adjacent riches-
-only for a beach-side garden, the laurels wait in patient queues erect-
-and when our eyes open to remind us both that it is not yesterday, we breath ever deanesthetized and fresh-
-feeding fields of mint leaves mending, the sounds become audible to company as present as ever-
-admittedly admitting, the tenets served their tender, and now for some snow-

pathology 176

i overheard a person talking aloud about a book that was about a band today. from his tone it seemed he knew people in this band, and had fond memories. he spoke as if there was someone there listening, but he appeared to be alone and without a phone.
i then caught myself talking aloud about how odd it was that he was talking aloud to himself.
that person was crazy.

break: a reason for these spaces

too fast? oh, okay. sorry.
not sure how to do these things i have done since i can remember.
you move here and i am off again. not that your movement was for me. nor my absence for you.
but i'll bother to feel bad if it's what you need to feel better about it all.
it's an iterative process, this process of knowing we think we know.
handbooks, ballots to bail out our other last chance: and you taste the same taste.
surely a ghost could do better, but who had time to understand that business anyhow?
so bother to grab me by the shoulders please, because that's what i need to feel better.
persons. places. smells. reasons. things i can not see, and am not sure i should want to. but i want to, and would you please show me?

resoled slippers

once you lived in Lisbon
so much more than just a summer
built pyramids of pleasures past, and those that did say never
faster, faster, faster cried the waning wake and tether
indicative of folks who study lives and loves of others

& it's not that I keep doing this
over and over
it's that i'm not doing that
over and over
never subverted
over and over
simply not mentioned

i used to be Algerian, from far external texts
stood in the arms of an ocean deeper than what we see here
worked hard for these marks, and never surrender
scathed from bow to stern, & recalling we both were

& the background sounds bleed bigger, awaiting recognition
all our backs bleed thicker, stood on by some past conviction
interlocking fingers, as if conscience was cohesive
not building fortress around, rather lush gardens within them

not a hagiography for my heroine

said it's thought they are under the covers escaping a winter--for a moment i'll believe that, if only to occupy my story book obsessions--the direction their feet mingle, as if a parent/caregiver/oppressor had never dissuade--peering gently through cotton fiber blends to watch the shape sunlight makes today--a stumble, a late family pet, ascended and brings endless loose ends to be tended--a narrative, from the untied tether, concerning retired relatives revolutionary folly--structures spread splinter to tooth, casualty free, lest we forget capitalism...or be forgotten--bed sheets spread in mid-west fashion, pock marked by insurrection--making sense in a bed's context, the narrative shifts willingly beneath sunlit shape--and how free was the choice/will/interpretation of where to hang hats/bomb shelters/a cosmic umbrella--bedsheets narrative is not for question, nor messenger to an inquisition--born in the unlit to die in the light, bright, glow of what might make change--the beauty of dark initial incubation holds far too much nutrient for aged bed sheet shifters--through the window/bedsheet/umbrella, the living/breathing sweat of stronger children we hope to have darker holds--grow

i*d*a*h*o (or, the freezingly beautiful, retrospectively weary north)

you don't have an email account. that is likely the most intriguing thing a person has let me in on lately. the garages we hid from cops in, glow like heavens.
those two, they still hang out nightly. and this one still "uses the restroom" every other second minute. chest held, out, not that we've begun to believe it.
the children we all have make children out of all our warm hands. and nothing we ever swore would never change matters beyond some best intentions.
nervously i knew this wouldn't be good, but in that it is. i knew i needed to hurt for a second. needed to see you. breath in the frost bite.
is reminiscing really for our generation? i live distant and you stay as close as you can. both in a veiled attempt to veil all those things we will never do, and others we always will.
i cling lively to anything that looks like your shining aged face. icy rivers, banjos picked softly, hard-drugs, any source of energy. unacknowledged of course. so much of my root grew only in protest to your watering.
unpacking the vestments of your last trip home. we both know. and neither has a clue.
still, to the last syllable, i can not peck your name. draw a face. i'm learning that i like the implications of loosing. the latent ones that give us that hope we didn't have to work for.
talk to you soon, hopefully.

hawaiian mistaken

so that's not your number i have been in contact with.
what a quiet. good. bye.
the other end, with its "who is this". "k".
you have become part of the cosmos in a hopelessly illiterate sense.
we all wish to hold you...again.
and hope beyond dreams that you wish the same.
this is not only you, but all of us...we have bills to pay.
is this my message in a bottle?
sure, why not!
it's all the courage and/or cowardice welled up these past days.
and possibly someone else knows more concretely.
but for the more courage/cowardice required, we all have bills to pay.
i love you dearly my friend.

your lips are my life

i overheard you, as you may have intended.
penned feverishly on what i intended you to think were notes from my reading.
you had aged only eighteen years, this was fifteen years ago, the two of you met in some mathematics class at your high-school. the genre of math was not pertinent to the discussion.
"after fifteen years in a relationship you are really not in a relationship. it's more like, just there"
to this your friend replied, "yeah, but that drug addicted love you feel at first can't last forever. you wouldn't want to be addicted to drugs your whole life. i wouldn't. it has to calm down and become normal at some point".
you're not sure you still love your partner. not sure you even recall what love is to you. you would "never just leave", but you don't find it necessary to talk about why that is. this feeling/idea that once made you never want a moment away from your partner has evanesced, and where its shadow laid is this constant reminder that it may never return.
you then both go into a narrative discussion of past relationships, finding a conclusion that there is a two year limit on the a priori sense of agape.
& i thank you both for the intriguing & thought provoking conversation.
what is the answer to tall of this? should we resist the impulse to be near each other like hip-sisters in the beginning stages of a long term relationship? would that extend the goodness? is that goodness not the point? i think that the answer lies in the questions being addressed. they are not quite correctly pointed for answers being sought.
more milling this later.
postscript: is this "problem" inherent in monogamy?

BLOCKHEAD!!!

no time to enjoy writing, but I have recently enjoyed some super stellar music! please check out Blochead's album titled, Music by Cavelight. particularly the track called "Insomniac Olympics". Some of the best music I have ever heard!
also, P-Love, a Montreal based turn-tabelist has recently put out some mind blowing jams for your head. Check it!
lastly, a great ol' friend of mine recently turned me on to The Gaslight Anthem. for anyone up for some "soulfull" oldschool rock and roll, this may well be your tunnel light, as it has certainly become mine!!!

date and name please.

you gave me this shirt-
said it reminded you of her-
now i look at others wondering who you stole it from-
you're the whole story behind my poor tattoos, and i love you-
an aggregated heap of years since we were here-
growing deaf, old, and better as "musicians"-
we all dreamt together of the floors we would sleep over-
squatting countries, curb-sides, and watching closely those who still do-
& i know where i know you from, though not one of us will say-
basement, bathroom, second floor, we're runaways-
everyone i watch now reminds me of you-
'rushing back' may be the phrase to use-
& i see life in this, as i saw in us-
in that cold concrete space, Diamond Heights, all together now!-
this life is in no way complete, never should be-
& looks so much different today

of napkin notoriety

little down she said
stand-ups like kickstands beg impermanence
a little like "another" today
but chin-up, the seasons are coming to a close/beginning
weight has dissuade the balance's lanky levers
say i remind you of a lover, followed by faults of uncertain origin
& this is what we do
sit and talk of others, in an effort to avoid this seemingly inherent selfishness
draw upon books we've not yet read
drawing memories on our hands

affixed along the hips

i can be a vacation.
also i can serve as a book you hold fast to its epilogue.
furthermore it is possible that i am a page in a calendar with photographs of antiquated swing-sets, which you like very much and keep in a dusty paper box some place until that big move far off.
a long run through cool dark wood, filled with a special sort of excitement that your grandchildren will relish the telling of.
the grade you deserved to receive for work you feel represents your thoughts in splendid order.
the delicate balance between what someone said and what they intended that you never quite wish to spoil with a question.
the dust on both your old records and vinyl that maintains a scent so dear to your heart, tucked in the webbed corner of every other great space.
seasons you love to warm up to, and recall the last when you did the same.
& for this not just a memory, but a piece of something great to help everyone get to the bus stop on time & without panic.

perfection is for dreams, reality more for the fucking up

it's a battle, tossup, contradiction
the space between my shelter and yours shrinks each interaction
is this time the one i find some reason behind?
in the still life there are covert options, following orders, hidden by dental lamps
polarization is so weak and waning
and this is not the only ripe fruit, but it is ripe fruit
fuck absolution, and forget it the same way fate and faith were
pieces of a language left on the same island in the same bound book
the links that hold muscles and bones in suspended necessity are absolves of a mission
there is a hustle in the alley that can find solemn peace in a vomit yellow street light
but it is not light or dark that allows me to smile or nod
those are concepts for someone else to uphold and internalize
my reality is in a dirty novel and a pack of your cigarettes

tired of hiding

so that was what a bad day looks like.
then i returned home to find a message from my department chair asking for a meeting with me asap.
it may not mean anything at all, but all i can think is that she has more bad news.
i really need a kiss in the hair (the kind you get with a hug from a very dear friend) and a really really really really long hug (the kind we call cuddling). the kind that lets you get it out. the sort that hits you in the gut & reminds you why you do what you do every day. the sort that valiantly gives a fuck about something other than its self & its own historical context.
this blog is not a place for me to rant and let out "my poor feelings", but today (& recently) there is nowhere else for that. the best place feels like this, because no one will read it.
done

cartography of me, vol: I

it's not a house shaped after a viola, though i wish it were-
gardens in the f-holes, along the fingerboard, skirting scroll-
shelter in a belly, with hallways scented as all the pain it took to grow-
this thing made of trees, the gut of sheep, & rich in coal from beneath-
texture, resonate, run, run, run-
this space shelters anyone, fill in the blanks as you see it in your moment-
& if the keys loose their tune, allow it-
& if the bridge slips a step, play it-
where your bow meets coal is where you hold the world-
a saddle with no time for pitch perfection-
play off the imperfection and chose what you art will entail-
release, fluidity, run, run, run, run, run

things which can be "drawn"

lines, string, out, pictures/images, cards, pistols, numbers, cards, a bath, & quarter, straws, to a close, blinds, a match or competition, together

positivism & faith: similarities? *~

clever acronyms delineate the proper worth of a prospective candidate
every last barely breathing thought rationalized to an acute point of stoicism

what are you worth, & to who?

life long aspiration of becoming a specialist. in a decidedly fallow field
the doctor said don't do it. even scientists can't handle hearing narratives of what they don't want to know.

you'll never work in this town again.

houses constructed of ending resources, rooted in shifting sediments
the shift is what goes unnoticed. the movement of energy blinded by an "enlightened" light. emphases on consistency solely.

headlights in the eyes of critique.

move around a globe to find some smoke and a place where weather shifts & animals feel it. the experience will be shared with the choir, but they will sing rather than listen.

the disdain of enlightenment,even now, dilutes you.

SHE'S TWO!!!

i know that people in many countries don't celebrate their years of age, and don't even know how old they are, but until she doesn't care we will celebrate the lovely Penelope Beatrice in human years.