golemII

  
darlin dont you go and cut your hair
do you think its gonna make him change?
im just a boy with a new haircut
and thats a pretty nice haircut

dont wanna hear the noises on tv
dont want the salesmen coming after me
dont wanna live in my fathers house no more
dont want it faster, i dont want it free
dont wanna show you what they done to me
dont wanna live in my fathers house no more
dont wanna choose black or blue
dont wanna see what they done to you
dont wanna live in my fathers house no more

cause the tide is high
and its rising still
and i dont wanna see it at my windowsill

dont wanna give em my name and address
dont wanna see what happens next
dont wanna live in my fathers house no more
dont wanna live with my fathers debt
you cant forgive what you cant forget
dont wanna live in my fathers house no more
dont wanna fight in a holy war
dont want the salesmen knocking at my door
i dont wanna live in america no more

cause the tide is high
and its rising still
and i dont wanna see it at my windowsill

mtv, what have you done to me?
save my soul, set me free!
set me free! What have you done to me?
i cant breathe! i cant see!
world war III, when are you coming for me?
been kicking up sparks, we set the flames free
the windows are locked now so whatll it be?
a house on fire or a rising sea?

why is the night so still?
why did i take the pill?
because i dont wanna see it at my windowsill

imagine immortality, where even a marriage of fifty years would feel like a one-night stand.  imagine seeing trends and fashions blur past you.  imagine the world more crowded and desperate every century.  imagine changing religions, homes, diets, careers, until none of them have any real value.  imagine traveling the world until youre bored with every square inch.  imagine your emotions, your loves and hates and rivalries and victories played out again and again until life is nothing more than a melodramatic soap opera.  until you regard the birth and death of other people with no more emotion than the wilted cut flowers you throw away

i dont know what i know.  i dont know whats true.  i doubt i really know anything

she was still sitting there when tristran came back through the gap in the wall, several hours later.  he looked distracted, but brightened up when he saw her.  "hello, you," he said, helping her to her feet.  "have a good time waiting for me?"
"not particularly," she said.
"im sorry," said tristran.  "i suppose i should have taken you with me, into the village."
"no," said the star, "you shouldnt have.  i live as long as i am in faerie.  were i to travel to your world, i would be nothing but a cold iron stone fallen from the heavens, pitted and pocked."
"but i almost took you through with me!" said tristran, aghast.  "i tried to last night."
"yes," she said.  "which only goes to prove that you are indeed a ninny, a lackwit, and a . . . a clodpoll."
"dunderhead," offered tristran.  "you always used to like calling me a dunderhead.  and an oaf."
"well," she said, "you are all those things, and more besides.  why did you keep me waiting like that?  i thought something terrible had happened to you."
"im sorry," he told her.  "i wont leave you again."
"no," she said, seriously and with certainty, "you will not."

i cant squeeze enough lemons to find the right words

but theres plenty of lemons so i might as well keep trying

mardi gras came and went
all my money has been spent
how 'm i gonna pay the rent
sitting on -my ass/your face?

who mistook the steak for chicken?
who'm i gonna stick my dick in?
were not those kids
sitting on the couch

my former life i -had a sister/was a high roller
i abused her and i dissed her/ walked my kids in a diamond stroller
she got swept up in a twister/ found my calling as a part time bowler
first i laughed and then i missed her/ traded my wife in for a new green roller
who mistook these baths for showers?
who fucked up that leaning tower?
were not those kids
sitting on the couch

oh get on a greyhound and ride away
different dreams from yesterday/ live on birthday cake each day
tell your -grandma youre ok/ grandparents that they're gay
kiss her cheek/steal their money- and run away
me and my friends are so smart
we invented this new kind of -darts/art
hit a bulls eye cut up heart/ post modernist throwing darts
smoking crack and -cutting back/crack
who mistook this crap for genius?/ who is dancing on the ceiling?
who is gonna stroke my penis?/who is gonna hurt my feelings
were not those kids
sitting on the couch
sitting on the couch

oh -even your mother is a crook/people are shiny like a brand new book
but if -i get/you take- a closer look
theres shit on every -road you took/hand you shook
you don't believe me?
read the book/ look at your hand
who made all these things for killing?
whose -empty heart/pussy hole- needs filling?
were not those kids
sitting on the couch

who mistook the steak for chicken?
who'm i gonna stick my dick in?
were not those kids
sitting on the couch

plants and animals!

fluorescent lights engage
blackbirds frying on a wire
same birds that followed me to school when i was young

were they trying to tell me something
were they telling me to run

the hammer clicks in place
the worlds gonna pay
right down in the face of god and his saints
claim your souls not for sale

im a dying breed who still believes
haunted by american dreams
haunted by american dreams

so i lose some sales
and my boss wont be happy
but theres only one thing on my mind
searching boxes underneath the counter
on a chance that on a tape id find

a song for
someone who needs somewhere
to long for

homesick
cause i no longer know
where home is

i was just a tender chicken in the Florida rotisserie
my own sweat's basting me,
thunder storms are chasing me
i bit into a lighting bolt
my own tongue began to smoke
i woke up with an empty mouth
watched the watch tick backwards
south of the south

the csx vibrates the tracks
mighty roaring shakes the shacks
purple skies and orange moons
plants are confident in june
the humidity - it's thick, you can cut it with a knife
if you'd like to take a breath here, honey,
i'm gonna cut you out a slice

so i developed gills and i moved into the aquifer
fell asleep in wakulla springs
woke up down in jupiter
than i moved back to the land,
high into an orange tree
was set for life with citrus
but my body couldn't take this
acidity

so i strolled down to miami
tried to find myself some friends
found myself in south beach,
and i met some manequins
who smelled of coconuts and coppertone
like those smells real well
but as far as conversations go,
i guess that it stopped at the start
of the smell

it was elvis and sinatra
now where's your wallet, man, i got ya'
but now if you're poor like me,
they let poor people like me be
they say that north beach is a war zone
high rise hotels hollowed out
but now we were living large,
we were stepping out
into a thirty dollar beach front motel
down south of the south


south of the south
down in north miami
south of the south
my and my old lover terry
south of the south
we were practically married


so i jumped my pogo stick
all the way to ybor city
where they burned up a couple blocks,
and to me seemed like a pity
that was once a cuban district and a center for the arts
was now a mall like atmosphere
homogonous and insincere
they burned it's heart right out
down south of the south

so i became the snake bird
an old swamp turkey
and some redneck tried to shoot me,
tried to make swamp turkey jerky
but i evaded all his bullets
and i flew into the gulf
and i jumped upon a west wind out to a safer heaven
out near alcaniz and balin
down south
south of the south

in the town of pensacola
riding bikes like we were kids
over cobble stones and brick
they fenced moonlit bridge
there's a sandlot shotgun shack
to move all rusted out
and there's a couch on every front porch
flapping screen doors
ants on the apple cores
pop's boiled peanuts and more
down south
south of the south

south of the south
south of opelika
south of the south
south of tuscaloosa
south of the south
old alpharetta
south of the south
south of south carolina
south of the south
down south of the south

there is no heaven and there is no hell
no limbo in-between -- i think its all a lie
just a white light out to velvet black
and back to neutral gray -- thats all when we die

there is no fate that divides our day
no spirits hard at work, no unseen hand at play
people talk like its a given thing
i dunno what they mean -- nor, i suspect, do they
i guess thats ok

but how do you know im not a sentimental man?
is it really so hard to see these things? i guess it is
i couldnt tell you why, i think its right there
nobody's perfect, but im doing what i can
and you best believe ill keep it real

im an old testament type of guy
i like my coffee black, and my parole denied
even as i flake on every deal
i ever made with myself, before the ink could dry
well i should keep that one inside...

how do you know im not a sentimental man?
is it really so hard to catch that vibe? i guess it is
i couldnt tell you why, i think its plain to see
certain disaster, and I really couldnt say how the fuck i could let this get
so far

"The same mistakes we made as cavemen," says Mr.
    Whittier, "we still make."
    So maybe we're supposed to fight and hate and torture
        each other...

Mr. Whittier rolls his wheelchair to the edge of the stage,
    with his spotted hands, his bald head.
    The folds of his slack face seem to hang
    from his too-big eyes, his cloudy, watery-gray eyes.
The ring looped through one of his nostrils, the earphones
    of his CD player looped around the wrinkles and folds of
    his beef-jerky neck.

Onstage, instead of a spotlight, a black-and-white movie
    fragment:
    Mr. Whittier's head is wallpapered with newsreel armies
        marching.
    His mouth and eyes lost in the shadow boots and
        bayonets that worm across his cheeks.

He says, "Maybe suffering and misery is the point of life."
    Consider that the earth is a processing plant, a factory.
Picture a tumbler used to polish rocks:
    A rolling drum filled with water and sand.
    Consider that your soul is dropped in as an ugly rock,
    some raw material or a natural resource, crude oil,
        mineral ore.
    And all conflict and pain is just the abrasive that rubs us,
    polishes our souls, refines us,
    teaches and finishes us over lifetime after lifetime.
Then consider that you've chosen to jump in, again and
    again,
    knowing this suffering is your entire reason for coming to
        earth.
Mr. Whittier, his teeth crowded too many in his narrow
    jawbone,
    his dead-tumbleweed eyebrows, Mr. Whittier's bat-wing
        ears spread wide
    with the shadow armies marching across,
    he says,
    "the only alternative is, we're all just eternally stupid."

We fight wars. We fight for peace. We fight hunger. We love
    to fight.
    We fight and fight and fight, with our guns or mouths or
        money.
    And the planet is never one lick better than it was before
        us.

Leaning forward, both his hands clawed on the arms of his
    wheelchair,
    as the newsreel armies march over his face, those
        moving tattoos
    of their machine guns and tanks and artillery,
    Mr. Whittier says:"Maybe we're living the exact way we're
        meant to live."
Maybe our factory planet is processing our souls ...just
    fine.

emancipation, emancipayation

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this reminded me of you, rachel