Luyện nghe bài hát Slow, Cold Drops

i.
it's a slow fever, the 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 wallpaper in waiting rooms;
and in the windstorm outside,
the faxed and photocopied faces of a twice lost
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 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.
here on my nine thousand opening night
on the closed-eye coma-wide walk-into-the-light
where names, they off like sheets of ice,
and the slow, drops, they land around the four.

ii.
he himself on a fifth generation dub,
and the hiss and dulled color cracks, became distrustful,
shutting it off just ahead of an old verse, stark and
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 ends in a slow
with the skull of a bull on the grill of a rented minivan.
three things: 1) you lose in life,
and often, them where they stood, and still stand.
2) you make songs on cds, come out and vanish
in the vacuum of money made and piled, on shelves, and in memory.
3) the unwordable weirdness of coming across own name in a search engine,
toe-stubbing your own tombstone at twenty-four
in a backlit blur of message in the visceral 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 of a plan, but ends in a slow roll
with the skull of a wyoming 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 to the set;
fixed so in a home crowd's head."
i've promised myself to never my fingerprints off
to impress the one i'm to.
instead, do it to feel all new to done friends,
gone flames, and the bristled of my aging face
(my aging 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 world has away,
a vacuum of potholed parking lots in its place, which you pace
and feel a part of you in the shaky tilt of the turned-away earth,
where names 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,
which, while you watch the sun set into itself (into itself).
pinpricked by the slow, cold drops (cold drops) rolling off a awning,
slicking the dead,
ticking off another name in the bent-light of a repeat sunset.
a dies in the loose change of an unled life;
like us, we're on a black-out tour.
because the names roll off like of ice,
and the slow, cold drops, they around the four.