Dog Star - The Doneofits

https://soundcloud.com/thedoneofits/dog-star

Keep on whistling in the dark
It will make it right
You're going to make it right

Dream of highways lights and gleam
Angelic gleam
Early morning dream

Chase the dog star
To the end of the night
You've reached the early morning sun

Chase that dog star
To the end of the town
Chase it 'till we've begun

Race the ragged sailing stars
Into a shades
Of a distant place

Place the maps before your eyes
Navigate your vice
Another shadow ride

Chase the dog star till the end of the night
You've reached the early morning sun
Chase that dog star till the end of the town
Watch it burn and watch them run

Your gonna make it right
Your gonna make it right

Passing

He died as the toads ceaselessly

croaked from the culvert

                outside

died

sometime whilst old movies

flashed silently on a void

                tv screen,

died with one leg left - the other

blown off at Ima Jima

when he was 19 years old,

died to join his wife in the

giant fantastical where ever,

family in knots and priest

chanting the last rites as

candles wave fluid glow

                  sparkle,

no confessions left, everything

spent as toads ceaselessly

croak blurt call before the

winter wraps them up

              in death.

- - - - - - - - -

(August 20th, 2013)

Summer Will Come

Out there beyond the walls of this Saturday

morning ramshackle a river flows.

Gravity keeps to the river’s quiet

flow-shimmer.  This summer I’ll take

my wife to Surfside next to the Missouri

river and throw chicken bones to the

fish, giant river fish mealy mouthed

slime skulled at the river’s edge mouthing

at chicken remains.

Feverish.  Summer mad muck.  Curious

fly swarms over mud moss and

deep stench of life and death, transition

of gravity pushing the moisture down into

the ground cracks and mist expelling to

the permanent blue sky, cirrus clouds

grazing high above sparrows

wings and jet streams.

Summer will come as a shimmer wall

of heat lumbering heavy stumble step across

the continent, twill bake up the highways

and San Antonio will shimmer once

again as it did eight years ago in its

liquid perfect distance and bent

over heads of palm trees, a city

choked in pulpy green vines.

I remember all those summer heats

and basement pitfalls, seasons where

it seemed the walls could sweat.  

perhaps the memory flows out like that

river, adds to the oceans and seas

lost in the secret reason, the grandiose

secret experiment of water and gravity

and no-blink sunshine, summer comes

and will storm every day end in thunder

claps and lightning strobes.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

(March 29th, 2014)

Roughs #1 - The Last Bottle

https://soundcloud.com/urlp/sets/roughs-1-the-last-bottle-2008

Mostly the result of Nick Ryan coming over to my studio apartment on Capitol Hill setting up microphones and a lap top and capturing it that way. We drank a lot of whiskey whilst we did it, or at least I did. Not a good idea - - - alcohol has never agreed with me. The song Ribbons was recorded with Billy Pigati in North Platte when I was driving a great deal between Denver and Omaha. These are the last recordings I would do while living in Denver.

Compost

Water stained brown of my work boots

out in the backyard Saturday evening,

sun glossed over by a thin curtain sheen

of milky filmy clouds so the evening deepening

glow is bleached out, huff-tired.

The garden is now a series of dead lumps

and dirt clods, tomatoes of yesteryear

pinged and popped by mornings of intense cold and ice

frost, compost pile up at the end of the

garden near the ramshackled lean of

the garage, the pile ever-increasing in its

putrescent magnitude.

Birds twitter out early evening dots and

wiry bleeps and short terrified melodies.

I’ll sing into a microphone tonight.  I’ll

carelessly scratch at the walls.

- - - - - - - - - -

(March 29th, 2014)