1. |
Walking the Plank
03:46
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We shuffle our shoes now. We’re stirring up dust. So to settle it down now, we do what we must. We’ve studied the maps, but got nowhere to go. So I’m walking the plank to get back what I know. In the settlement, are the tigers sleeping? When it’s whittled down, there’s no promise to stay out. We all were enamoured with the Hollywood myth. But when we found out, it didn’t change us a bit. There were some stirrings of doubt, but I smothered it all. If I don’t answer my phone, it’s not a good time to call.
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2. |
Invisible Syllable
02:33
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Electricity dissects what we say until it’s dead. Each invisible syllable sends static through my head. We communicate; distraction, lost messages. Contact dissapates; frustration, redundancy. Cut into flashes. Just dots and dashes.
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3. |
No Song
03:05
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I’m watching and waiting for something to happen. See the signs and cosines, but no signs of action. That translation was lost, or did we ever have it? All the versions were logged; it was the boss’s habit. “I’ve already signed several of your confessions. Your remedial math and your grammar lessons.” Chase your thrills, climb the hills to find the whitest rabbit. “When we audit your performance we find something lacking.” No song was ever that long. You’ve got the lyrics all wrong. I can’t remember that song, however cleverly you sing along. The miles keep rolling over. Polygraphs pay the bills and the pills that you take tend to stick in your craw and you wake up expecting, directing the traffic out of your back bedroom, that red room where I sat and straightened the doormat. I bet you never even saw that. You’re only listening to “Like That!” And I just can’t understand that.
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4. |
Cut Up
04:07
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You’ve got your right hand right on the blade, man. It’s at your throat again. And we’re still looking for your frequency. Toujours les memes. The same. And every night we count the same streetlights. You’re cut up. You’re cut up. You’ve got your left hand. Eyes on the second hand. How long can you stand (to) forget yourself and fall into step again? Toujours les memes. The same. And every day you’ll read the same headlines. Your’e cut up. You’re cut up. You cut yourself up just to cut yourself down. You’re cut up. You’re cut up.
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5. |
Situation: Hot!
05:13
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HOT. Now the sun is setting on us, and we won’t be letting on that the disappointment always comes. The outcome never hits the mark. Tires on the roadway send this out to all the boys and girls with the lost phone numbers and the adolescent bank accounts. Now the days are laid out: Saturdays and Sundays in a row. Calendar contrition. Count the ashtrays dumped out on the kitchen floor. Strike while it’s hot! Two feet on the floor. Situation: hot! One hand on the door. Strategies to stretch the night out. Chemicals combine; the right amount. Leverage is gained, but what a cheap reward we’re left with after that! Hot!
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6. |
Even If You Don't Die
04:03
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In drawer #3, and filed under “C,” was an archive of compromises. Cross-referenced with debts, footnotes and regrets: a history of none-the-wiser. There’s evidence here of accelerants near a half-empty book of matches. No suspects, I fear, but the motive is clear. Automatic request. We are here to serve. Even if you don’t die, we’ve got plans for you: a summons bearing the name that you can’t hide. The signal is jammed, the dialogue canned, but our inquest cannot be hindered. We have to record; we cannot afford to miss out on what’s remembered. Analysis shows that the witness knows the name of the perpetrator. The damage is done. There’s nowhere to run. We’re tapping the phone lines. We’re tapping the phone lines when you’re gone. We’re drawing our own lines. We’re tapping the phone lines when you’re gone (and there’s no way around it).
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7. |
Custom Critical
04:49
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“Custom critical,” read the label on the box. You, looking miserable, heard the clicking of the locks. What’s “critical” when they cuff your hands behind your back? “It’s pitiful, but it’s just a fact of life,” is what he said. Stuck in a tight one. All the boxes packed inside. Sweat on your forehead wets the tape across your mouth. They drag you past the shipping clerk with a bill of goods in his hand. It’s clinical. Mr. Blacksleeves pulls you out and he says “Just shut your mouth and keep your face to the wall.” Looked up your address. Waited outside your house to see the look on your face. I’d trade it for nothing.
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8. |
The Job's a Game
02:12
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In every job that must be done, there is an element of fun. This job is the same. We’re changing the name: “Assigning the Blame to Someone Better Qualified.”
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9. |
Tennessee for Victory
01:59
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“Which one is gonna set us free?” “Which one will come to Tennessee?” “Which one is gonna let us be?” Make one decision. What’s it worth? You want it only. Now, now, now. You wound up lonely. Which one will come to Tennessee? Tell us about another victory? Do we really wanna be set free, or do we want them all to let us be for the night?
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10. |
Plans
04:50
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In the outlying towns: power lines on the ground. Counted change that I found around. Climbed to the top of the mound. Lasted just long enough to get to the edge of the bluff. City bus down below. Just enough gas to go. We drove down through the streets, the rain coming in sheets. We made it into the city to find a black cloud in the sky. A newspaper blew by. “I couldn’t make out the headline, but still, the mail trucks are in wrecks, the banks cancelled their checks. Guess we can write off our debts!” Smoke pouring from cars, we ducked into a bar and locked the doors and the windows. And now: “I’ve got some time on my hands. You’ve got some time on your hands. If you don’t have any plans...”
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