this is a story about a boy and girl,
a girl and a boy, a boy.
[ ], only flighting.
that some boy in the dark [ ] joan of arc
inverted crystal mountain kind of a story.
this is a story.
man, about the [sheriffs in cyprus? something else.] translations of sanskrit.
just as my handwritten story.
this is a story where the singers begin to appear
in the spaces between all the dashes and braces
in the mothbitten story - of getting left behind.
this is a story, some kind of a story.
and with the pages distressed that you held to your chest,
they were mangled and dog-eared while the rest were just mangy and gory.
this is a story about the memory of water
translating the sound of the traffic.
remember the traffic?
it's making you carsick all along southfield freeway.
and translating mistakes and the trees and the stake
and the trees for the woods and the sound of the trash
for the sound of the blowing leaves along the southfield freeway.
my name is a blackbird, [the rest is a two-tone]
feathers are warm in molasses,
twisting the words from the silence to gases.
now i don't have worry [of nuclear]
it's so unclear.
and i'll get her out my dying home,
not simply tired of crying.
my name isn't blackbird, [the rest is a two-tone]
feathers are warm in molasses,
twisting the words from the silence to gases.
now i don't have worry [of nuclear]
it's so unclear.
am i dead or am i dying or am i simply tired of crying?
my name is a blackbird
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