Luyện nghe bài hát Slow, Cold Drops

i.
it's a fever, the sweat rises and recedes,
as the sprinkle onto sidewalks from the shredded calander balconies of new year's.
i've dreaming under the missing person wallpaper in federal waiting rooms;
and in the windstorm outside,
the faxed and faces of a twice lost race
age in the black ink of a rained-on print-out.
i wake up and stroll through the police line-up of my daily selves;
and in the count of a new day:
side-streets on, leaves black-bagged, a broken umbrella curled,
as a dying insect, on a sidewalk in the drying rain.
and later, dodging a 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, roll off like sheets of ice,
and the slow, drops, they land around the four.

ii.
he watched himself on a fifth 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 tour begins in the veins of an old map,
with the of a plan, but ends in a slow roll
with the skull of a wyoming bull on the of a rented minivan.
three things: 1) you lose in life,
and often, leaving where they stood, and still stand.
2) you make songs on cds, that come out and
in the vacuum of money made and piled, on shelves, and in memory.
3) the unwordable weirdness of coming your own name in a search engine,
like toe-stubbing own tombstone at twenty-four
in a backlit blur of message in the visceral black of abstract space.
i if one ever bleeds into the others...
if they strain to catch the flown of a younger tim?
every tour in the collapsed veins of an old map,
with the bonedust of a plan, but ends in a slow
with the skull of a wyoming on the grill of a rented minivan.
girl, twenty-two, wants to move to california,
but their last lines, over distance, go:
"love to come, but i'm nailed to the
fixed so in a home crowd's head."
promised myself to never sand my fingerprints off
to impress the one i'm to.
instead, do it to feel all new to done friends,
flames, and the bristled contours of my aging face
(my aging face).

iii.
an old friend with elbows akimbo in the two-handed camera
of a otherwise 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 which you
and a part of you blur in the shaky tilt of the turned-away earth,
where names roll off just like off ice,
and the slow, cold drops around the four.
it's the forensics of a led:
you pointing at a flooded lot trying to explain what was there,
over which, you watch the sun set into itself (into itself).
by the slow, cold drops (cold drops) rolling off a corner awning,
slicking the dead,
off another name in the bent-light blur of a repeat sunset.
a light dies in the loose change of an unled
storm-chasers like us, on a black-out tour.
because the names roll off like of ice,
and the slow, cold drops, they around the four.