Luyện nghe bài hát Slow, Cold Drops

i.
it's a fever, the sweat rises and recedes,
as the weeks sprinkle onto sidewalks from the shredded balconies of new year's.
been dreaming under the missing person wallpaper in federal waiting rooms;
and in the windstorm outside,
the faxed and faces of a twice lost race
age in the black ink blur of a 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 a flooded lot sets into itself.
here on my nine thousand some-odd night
on the closed-eye coma-wide tour;
where names, they roll off like of ice,
and the slow, drops, they land around the four.

ii.
he watched himself on a generation dub,
and through the hiss and dulled color cracks, distrustful,
shutting it off ahead of an old verse, stark and untrue
in the video of a night club in a twice-crossed america.
every tour in the collapsed veins of an old map,
with the bonedust of a plan, but ends in a roll
the skull of a wyoming bull on the grill of a rented minivan.
three things: 1) you lose in life,
and often, leaving where they stood, and still stand.
2) you songs on cds, that come out and vanish
in the vacuum of money and things piled, on shelves, and in memory.
3) the unwordable weirdness of across your own name in a search 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 ever into the others...
if they strain to catch the flown language of a younger
every begins in the collapsed veins of an old map,
with the bonedust of a plan, but ends in a slow
the skull of a wyoming bull on the grill of a rented 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 impress the one i'm to.
instead, i'll do it to feel all new to friends,
gone flames, and the bristled contours of my aging
(my aging face).

iii.
an old with elbows akimbo in the two-handed camera catch
of a thing 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, through you pace
and feel a of you blur in the shaky tilt of the turned-away earth,
where roll off just like sheets off ice,
and the slow, drops land around the four.
the forensics of a city-life led:
you pointing at a flooded lot trying to what was once there,
over which, while you the sun set into itself (into itself).
pinpricked by the slow, cold (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 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.