Luyện nghe bài hát Slow, Cold Drops

i.
it's a slow fever, the rises and recedes,
as the weeks sprinkle onto sidewalks from the shredded balconies of new year's.
i've been dreaming under the missing person 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 dumbly and stroll through the line-up of my daily selves;
and in the body of a new day:
slept on, leaves black-bagged, a broken umbrella curled,
as a dying insect, on a sidewalk slate-gray in the rain.
and later, a blocked-out penthouse,
the sun a flooded lot sets into itself.
on my nine thousand some-odd opening night
on the coma-wide walk-into-the-light tour;
where names, they roll off sheets of ice,
and the slow, cold drops, they land the four.

ii.
he watched himself on a generation dub,
and through the hiss and dulled color cracks, distrustful,
shutting it off just of an old verse, stark and untrue
in the blur of a night club in a twice-crossed america.
tour 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 wyoming on the grill of a rented minivan.
three things: 1) you people in life,
and often, leaving them where they stood, and stand.
2) you make songs on cds, that out and vanish
in the of money made and things piled, on shelves, and in memory.
3) the unwordable weirdness of across your own name in a search engine,
like toe-stubbing your own 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 to catch the flown language 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 of a wyoming bull on the grill of a rented minivan.
every girl, twenty-two, to move to california,
but last lines, over long distance, go:
"love to come, but i'm to the set;
just 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 all new to done friends,
flames, and the bristled contours of my aging face
(my aging face).

iii.
an old friend with akimbo in the two-handed camera catch
of a thing loseable,
and in the body of a brand new day,
you up and the world has wandered 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 like off ice,
and the slow, cold drops land the four.
it's the forensics of a city-life
you pointing at a flooded lot trying to 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 name in the bent-light blur of a sunset.
a light dies in the loose change of an unled
storm-chasers us, we're on a black-out tour.
because the roll off like sheets of ice,
and the slow, cold drops, they around the four.