Luyện nghe bài hát Slow, Cold Drops

i.
it's a fever, the sweat rises and recedes,
as the weeks sprinkle onto from the shredded calander balconies of new year's.
i've been dreaming the missing person wallpaper in federal waiting rooms;
and in the windstorm outside,
the faxed and photocopied of a twice lost 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 body of a new day:
side-streets slept on, leaves black-bagged, a 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.
on my nine thousand some-odd opening night
on the closed-eye coma-wide walk-into-the-light
where names, roll off like sheets of ice,
and the slow, cold drops, land around the four.

ii.
he himself on a fifth generation dub,
and through the hiss and dulled cracks, became distrustful,
it off just ahead of an old verse, stark and untrue
in the video blur of a night in a twice-crossed america.
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 bull on the grill of a rented minivan.
three 1) you lose people in life,
and often, leaving them where they stood, and stand.
2) you make songs on cds, that out and vanish
in the vacuum of made and things piled, on shelves, and in memory.
3) the unwordable weirdness of coming across your own name in a engine,
like toe-stubbing own tombstone at twenty-four
in a backlit blur of message boards in the visceral of abstract space.
i wonder if one bleeds into the others...
if they strain to catch the flown of a younger tim?
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 bull on the grill of a rented minivan.
girl, twenty-two, wants to move to california,
but their lines, over long distance, go:
"love to come, but i'm nailed to the
fixed so in a home 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 feel all new to friends,
gone flames, and the bristled contours of my face
(my aging face).

iii.
an old friend with elbows akimbo in the camera catch
of a otherwise loseable,
and in the body of a brand new day,
you wake up and the world has away,
a vacuum of potholed lots in its place, through which you pace
and feel a part of you blur in the shaky of the turned-away earth,
where names roll off like sheets off ice,
and the slow, cold drops land the four.
it's the forensics of a led:
you at a flooded lot trying to explain what was once there,
over which, while you watch the sun set into (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 change of an unled
storm-chasers like us, we're on a tour.
because the names roll off sheets of ice,
and the slow, drops, they land around the four.