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lyrics

Digging For

Flipping through the songbook, singing the same dire tunes,
over and over again.
I see your gun drawn under shadow of grizzled face,
whiskey breath,
sitting on the piano
you might even resemble
Old Stagger Lee.
Speak to me in dreams and visions, but don’t raise your voice;
my nerves can’t handle it.
I feel a little shaken.
Could you shoot straight as a note of music, played badly,
on a recording running in reverse?
Is the music of our lives a cacophonous blending of bone crunch notes blasted into the firmament of sunrise?
I can’t dream you Colonel,
as soft as a Kentucky downpour,
warning the black man about a plot to murder his children.
Somewhere,
in the siren wail of a passing train, loneliness stills the panic
as I drain the last dregs from my cup.
I am looking for an image.
(I am seeking a pale treasure, haunted by the realization that slow words ring hollow, as I type out my waxen effigy of little spaces and droll dots.) Couldn’t I form you out of mental clay, and erect an idol that could laugh, and sing, and cry and perplex,
and solidify this straggling poem until the image bursts,
like dire sunrise,
through the cloud covering of my benumbed skull?
Where is my image?
Where is my music?
Haunted hallways beckon nature to creep, like straggling tendrils of time, through the boarded windows of the soul;
Time is not a friend to me, I do not walk with it
in shadows cast by the yawning mouth of a stone monument called
“All Our Days”.
Instead here I sit, bleached white as a midnight bone,
tucked into the comfort of cold walls where hate dwells and knows me for the coward that I am.
The dream will not leave me.
I cannot see my image.
I do not hear the music.
But my fingers work restlessly at the keys because they must.
They must.
I am digging for something grand.
I am hunting treasure in the back brain.
I am picking my mental nose.
I suppose…

credits

from Curtains: Readings from Molotov by Tom Baker, released November 9, 2019

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Extreme Volume Pop Indiana

Hopefully, my various musics are ultimately like magic bullets that enter and impact at the base of the skull, ricochet around the brain chamber, and then leave a gaping exit wound in the forehead. You may hate them


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