[original fiction] break this ship & looking for the face of god
break this ship
- original fiction: poetry: free style
the wood is dying beneath our fingertips,
the mast is bowing to the hard-time blowing breeze.
we're sealing up the holes with lullabies,
and bandaging the scratches on our knees
with photographs and alcohol.
the wood is dying beneath our fingertips,
the mast is bowing to the song the ocean sings.
and though the desk is washed,
the crew has gone to sleep,
this ship won't break,
this ship won't break.
we have all the fallen here:
icarus hold up below
nursing his ego,
and a broken leg.
joan has strapped herself to the stern
says, 'i'll face the wind for you all, alright?'
mother tersesa reads by candlight,
whisperin' to the two of us who pray.
i asked holiday,
'what'd you know about love?'
and she said, 'honey, all i know's about heartache-
you better asked ella; at least she had that boy.'
but ella only sings the blues, and wishes for a port.
the wood is dying beneath our fingertips
and my father's compass won't point north.
the clouds and rain obscure the stars,
but as long as i can feel the hum -
the rock-steady-rock-steady-rock -
it'll be okay;
this ship won't break.
we let them off at santa bell island, say,
wish we could see you all again
'nah,' says woolf, 'you won't be missing us;
you have your own pockets to fill with stones.'
and as they disappear you say to me,
"our ship is cracked along the hull
'cause we patched it up with songs and stories
and now they're gone."
the wood is dying beneath our fingertips
the mast is bowing to the hard-time blowing breeze
looking for the face of god
- original fiction: poetry: free style
magazines and tv screens
tell us the world is aching at its core.
the fire's cold
the wind is still
the gold digger ain't diggin' no more.
we're waiting for the face of god
finding him in rocks and wonderbread
looking out for something
that doesn't feel like dread.
magazines and tv screens
report screamers, dreamers, dogs
barkin at the cat -
the firefighter's the evening hero
(while daddy's cousin falls in Kandahar).
the cat is safe
the dog is dead
and this is what we call justice now
what we call solutions now
what we call,
we call,
we call but no one hears no more.
magazines and tv screens
are crackling under the weight
of boom poles and lighting fixtures
all too intricate.
we're looking for the face of god
in every boney, dirt-faced child
searching for the reasons
that only he can give.
but god doesn't talk through magazines-
tv screens just aren't his thing.
- original fiction: poetry: free style
the wood is dying beneath our fingertips,
the mast is bowing to the hard-time blowing breeze.
we're sealing up the holes with lullabies,
and bandaging the scratches on our knees
with photographs and alcohol.
the wood is dying beneath our fingertips,
the mast is bowing to the song the ocean sings.
and though the desk is washed,
the crew has gone to sleep,
this ship won't break,
this ship won't break.
we have all the fallen here:
icarus hold up below
nursing his ego,
and a broken leg.
joan has strapped herself to the stern
says, 'i'll face the wind for you all, alright?'
mother tersesa reads by candlight,
whisperin' to the two of us who pray.
i asked holiday,
'what'd you know about love?'
and she said, 'honey, all i know's about heartache-
you better asked ella; at least she had that boy.'
but ella only sings the blues, and wishes for a port.
the wood is dying beneath our fingertips
and my father's compass won't point north.
the clouds and rain obscure the stars,
but as long as i can feel the hum -
the rock-steady-rock-steady-rock -
it'll be okay;
this ship won't break.
we let them off at santa bell island, say,
wish we could see you all again
'nah,' says woolf, 'you won't be missing us;
you have your own pockets to fill with stones.'
and as they disappear you say to me,
"our ship is cracked along the hull
'cause we patched it up with songs and stories
and now they're gone."
the wood is dying beneath our fingertips
the mast is bowing to the hard-time blowing breeze
looking for the face of god
- original fiction: poetry: free style
magazines and tv screens
tell us the world is aching at its core.
the fire's cold
the wind is still
the gold digger ain't diggin' no more.
we're waiting for the face of god
finding him in rocks and wonderbread
looking out for something
that doesn't feel like dread.
magazines and tv screens
report screamers, dreamers, dogs
barkin at the cat -
the firefighter's the evening hero
(while daddy's cousin falls in Kandahar).
the cat is safe
the dog is dead
and this is what we call justice now
what we call solutions now
what we call,
we call,
we call but no one hears no more.
magazines and tv screens
are crackling under the weight
of boom poles and lighting fixtures
all too intricate.
we're looking for the face of god
in every boney, dirt-faced child
searching for the reasons
that only he can give.
but god doesn't talk through magazines-
tv screens just aren't his thing.