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 been dreaming under the missing person in federal waiting rooms;
and in the paper-cut outside,
the faxed and photocopied of a twice lost race
age in the black ink of a rained-on print-out.
i wake up dumbly and stroll through the police line-up of my selves;
and in the body count of a new
side-streets slept on, leaves black-bagged, a umbrella curled,
as a dying insect, on a sidewalk slate-gray in the rain.
and later, a blocked-out penthouse,
the sun over a flooded lot into itself.
here on my nine thousand some-odd opening
on the closed-eye coma-wide tour;
where names, they roll off 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 color cracks, became distrustful,
shutting it off just 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 bonedust of a plan, but 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, leaving them where stood, and still stand.
2) you songs on cds, that come out and vanish
in the vacuum of money made and piled, on shelves, and in memory.
3) the unwordable weirdness of coming across your own 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 strain to catch the flown of a younger tim?
every tour in the collapsed veins of an old map,
with the of a plan, but ends in a slow roll
the skull of a wyoming bull on the grill of a rented minivan.
every girl, twenty-two, to move to california,
but their lines, over long distance, go:
"love to come, but i'm to the set;
fixed just so in a crowd's head."
i've promised myself to sand my fingerprints off
to the one i'm waving to.
instead, i'll do it to all new to done friends,
gone flames, and the contours of my aging face
(my aging face).

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