i trace back/youre songs
not another one of those dylanesque things
poet/write her/old age scribe
well the wind whips the smell of
urban artifacts into the ends of your hair
my skin opens and lets it all in
im still looking for a face on the run
just one/but maybe im getting ahead of it
with a charged stomach
it hurts
tell me why this sounds like/earlier sounds
cassette bound/around the early nineties
yet again im listening/close to the speaker
TEACH ME SOMETHING NEW
please im tired of girl faces all alike
in the pillow the talk is better
ill open up my music collection
play my favorite voices
and then my favorite sounds
and where will you be
standing on the end of a word
and wrapped in words
paper tags/rags of a line
pens and thread
wrapped in the dead
chew on something new
and for once im not down
im getting out