Luyện nghe bài hát Slow, Cold Drops

i.
it's a slow fever, the sweat and recedes,
as the weeks sprinkle onto sidewalks the shredded calander balconies of new year's.
i've been under the missing person wallpaper in federal waiting rooms;
and in the paper-cut outside,
the faxed and faces of a twice lost race
age in the ink blur of a rained-on print-out.
i wake up dumbly and stroll through the police of my daily selves;
and in the body count of a new
side-streets slept on, leaves black-bagged, a broken curled,
as a dying insect, on a sidewalk in the drying rain.
and later, a blocked-out penthouse,
the sun over a flooded lot sets itself.
here on my nine thousand some-odd opening
on the coma-wide walk-into-the-light tour;
where names, they roll off like of ice,
and the slow, drops, they land around the four.

ii.
he himself on a fifth generation dub,
and through the hiss and dulled cracks, became distrustful,
shutting it off ahead of an old verse, stark and untrue
in the video blur of a club in a twice-crossed america.
every begins in the collapsed veins of an old map,
with the of a plan, but ends in a slow roll
with the of a wyoming bull on the grill of a rented minivan.
three 1) you lose people in life,
and often, them where they stood, and still stand.
2) you make songs on cds, come out and vanish
in the vacuum of made and things piled, on shelves, and in memory.
3) the unwordable weirdness of across your own name in a search engine,
toe-stubbing your own tombstone at twenty-four
in a backlit blur of message boards in the visceral of abstract space.
i if one ever bleeds into the others...
if they to catch the flown language of a younger tim?
tour begins in the collapsed veins of an old map,
with the bonedust of a plan, but ends in a roll
with the skull of a wyoming bull on the grill of a minivan.
every girl, twenty-two, wants to to california,
but their last lines, long distance, go:
"love to come, but i'm nailed to the
fixed just so in a crowd's head."
i've promised to never sand my fingerprints off
to impress the one i'm to.
instead, i'll do it to all new to done friends,
gone flames, and the bristled of my aging face
(my aging face).

iii.
an old friend with elbows akimbo in the two-handed catch
of a thing loseable,
and in the body count of a new day,
you up and the world has wandered away,
a vacuum of potholed parking lots in its place, through you pace
and feel a part of you blur in the tilt of the turned-away earth,
where names roll off just sheets off ice,
and the slow, drops land around the four.
it's the forensics of a city-life
you pointing at a lot trying to explain what was once there,
over which, while you the sun set into itself (into itself).
pinpricked by the slow, drops (cold drops) rolling off a corner awning,
slicking the dead,
ticking off another name in the bent-light blur of a sunset.
a light in the loose change of an unled life;
storm-chasers like us, we're on a tour.
the names roll off like sheets of ice,
and the slow, cold drops, they around the four.