Luyện nghe bài hát Slow, Cold Drops

i.
it's a slow fever, the rises and recedes,
as the weeks onto sidewalks from the shredded calander balconies of new year's.
i've been dreaming under the missing person wallpaper in federal waiting
and in the windstorm outside,
the and photocopied faces of a twice lost race
age in the black ink blur of a print-out.
i wake up dumbly and through the police line-up of my daily selves;
and in the count of a new day:
side-streets slept on, leaves black-bagged, a broken curled,
as a dying insect, on a sidewalk in the drying rain.
and later, dodging a penthouse,
the sun a flooded lot sets into itself.
on my nine thousand some-odd opening night
on the closed-eye coma-wide tour;
names, they roll off like sheets of ice,
and the slow, cold drops, they land the four.

ii.
he watched himself on a fifth dub,
and through the hiss and dulled 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 begins in the collapsed veins of an old map,
with the bonedust of a plan, but in a slow roll
the skull of a wyoming bull on the grill of a rented minivan.
three things: 1) you people in life,
and often, leaving them they stood, and still stand.
2) you songs on cds, that come 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 your own tombstone at twenty-four
in a backlit blur of message boards in the black of abstract space.
i wonder if one ever bleeds the others...
if they strain to catch the flown of a younger tim?
every tour begins in the veins of an old map,
with the bonedust of a plan, but in a slow roll
with the skull of a bull on the grill of a rented minivan.
every girl, twenty-two, to move to california,
but their last lines, over distance, go:
"love to come, but i'm to the set;
fixed just so in a home head."
i've promised myself to never 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 face
(my aging face).

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