Luyện nghe bài hát Slow, Cold Drops

i.
it's a slow fever, the sweat and recedes,
as the sprinkle onto sidewalks from the shredded calander balconies of new year's.
i've been dreaming under the missing person wallpaper in waiting rooms;
and in the paper-cut outside,
the faxed and photocopied faces of a twice race
age in the black ink blur of a print-out.
i up dumbly and stroll through the police line-up of my daily selves;
and in the count of a new day:
slept on, leaves black-bagged, a broken umbrella curled,
as a dying insect, on a sidewalk slate-gray in the rain.
and later, dodging a penthouse,
the sun over a lot sets into itself.
here on my nine some-odd opening night
on the coma-wide walk-into-the-light tour;
where names, they roll off like of ice,
and the slow, cold drops, they around the four.

ii.
he watched himself on a generation dub,
and the hiss and dulled color cracks, became distrustful,
shutting it off just ahead of an old verse, and untrue
in the video blur of a night in a twice-crossed america.
every tour begins in the veins of an old map,
the bonedust of a plan, but ends in a slow roll
with the skull of a wyoming bull on the grill of a minivan.
three things: 1) you lose in life,
and often, them where they stood, and still stand.
2) you make songs on cds, that out and vanish
in the of money made and things piled, on shelves, and in memory.
3) the unwordable weirdness of coming across your own in a search engine,
like toe-stubbing your own at twenty-four
in a blur of message boards in the visceral black of abstract space.
i wonder if one ever bleeds the others...
if they strain to catch the flown language of a tim?
every 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 to the set;
fixed so in a home crowd's head."
promised myself to never sand my fingerprints off
to the one i'm waving to.
instead, do it to feel all new to done friends,
gone flames, and the bristled contours of my aging
(my poor face).

iii.
an old friend elbows akimbo in the two-handed camera catch
of a otherwise loseable,
and in the count of a brand new day,
you wake up and the has wandered away,
a vacuum of potholed parking lots in its place, which you pace
and a part of you blur in the shaky tilt of the turned-away earth,
where names roll off like sheets off ice,
and the slow, cold drops around the four.
it's the of a city-life led:
you pointing at a flooded lot trying to explain what was there,
which, while you watch the sun set into itself (into itself).
pinpricked by the slow, cold drops (cold drops) rolling off a awning,
the roadside dead,
ticking off another name in the bent-light blur of a sunset.
a light dies in the loose of an unled life;
storm-chasers like us, we're on a tour.
because the names off like sheets of ice,
and the slow, cold drops, they around the four.