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 calander of new year's.
i've been dreaming under the person wallpaper in federal waiting rooms;
and in the paper-cut outside,
the faxed and photocopied 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 body of a new day:
side-streets on, leaves black-bagged, a broken 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 thousand some-odd opening night
on the closed-eye walk-into-the-light tour;
where names, they roll off like 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 ahead of an old verse, stark and
in the video blur of a club in a twice-crossed america.
tour begins in the collapsed 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.
three things: 1) you lose in life,
and often, leaving them they stood, and still stand.
2) you make songs on cds, that 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 blur of message boards in the visceral black of abstract space.
i if one ever bleeds into the others...
if they strain to the flown language of a younger tim?
every tour in the collapsed veins of an old map,
with the bonedust of a plan, but ends in a slow
with the skull of a wyoming bull on the grill of a minivan.
every girl, twenty-two, to move to california,
but their last lines, long distance, go:
"love to come, but i'm nailed to the
fixed just so in a home head."
i've promised myself to never 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 contours of my aging face
(my aging face).

iii.
an old friend with 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 lots in its place, through which you pace
and feel a part of you blur in the shaky tilt of the earth,
where names roll off just 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 explain what was there,
over which, 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 name in the blur of a repeat sunset.
a light dies in the change of an unled life;
storm-chasers us, we're on a black-out tour.
because the roll off like sheets of ice,
and the slow, cold drops, they land the four.