she is wet like the land that she lives on,
her eyes deep-set and green.
i might see her soon in the traps of my sleep,
but she won't remember me.
her voice is soft like the way of her hands.
she pours my coffee smooth.
and she smiles in a way that suggests warmer days,
as the rain makes beats on the roof.
she is wet like the sea that lives by,
the salt comes from off her skin.
she waves as i head out to catch my boat,
but i won't see her again.
she is in the wake.
-----------------------------
on long winter nights, our heads all a mess,
we'd stay in my high-ceiling room.
and those were the times, some privacy found,
that i would play these songs for you.
but now they all sound wrong,
i'm so out of tune.
my body's gone cold these last years without kissing you.
don't look at me,
cos' i can't look at you.
the first kimberly i knew.
your face is still in my air,
but i don't meet you there.
i hate you. i love you.
your body's still in my hands,
yes, but never again.
i hate you. i love you.
don't look at me, cos' i can't look at you.
don't talk to me. i won't hear you.
don't think of me, cos' i can't play for you anymore.
on these long winter nights,
my head's still a mess.
i stay in my low-ceiling room.
------------------------------
it really was quite simple.
i found the river you described.
and along its banks,
the gold and diamond mines,
from a hundred years ago,
before our time.
i remember your voice on the phone.
i read all of those letters you wrote,
telling me to come home,
telling me to come home,
but i can't come home just yet.
it really wasn't difficult,
to leave that life behind.
i followed the map you drew,
when you still had an adventurous mind.
and i recall your voice on the phone,
and i kept all of those letters you wrote,
telling me to come home,
telling me to come home,
but i can't come home, and i won't.
-------------------------------------
oh, my friend, Paul Blair
the house is quiet these days, but the street is loud.
and the sky is angry with me, it's calling out the clouds.
oh, my friend, Paul Blair, Big Bear,
come and sort this out.
oh, my friend, Paul Blair, Paul Blair,
i'm going to need some help.
ay, ay , ay , ay
oh, the view that once was fair,
is empty without you.
i tried to cook our favourite meal,
i haven't got a clue.
but together, we don't need clues, do we?
no, together, we don't take any clues.
oh, my friend, Paul Blair,
one minute you were there.
-----------------------
when i was in school,
the eighteenth man that i met named john,
said he was getting old for folk song.
i said what do you mean,
i've heard you play,
you gave me a shiver of a cold and stale day,
at the end of may. hey hey.
we walked through the park
on the old side of campus,
the discussion and laughter
all fading behind us.
i looked at the trees and said
i guess some day we'll die.
john said i don't think so,
i haven't even started my life.
and he turned away towards the night. my my.
one can choose the swing set,
one can choose the slide.
one can choose a lot of things,
and i'd say i've tried.
i've been called a fool because of things that i've said,
been taken for a lover,
while walking around half dead,
without a shared bed,
and i said, at least i'm only half dead.
this silence takes my sadness to a place all it's own.
the caffeine and the alcohol colliding in my bones.
makes my muscles decide it's time to build a home.
i scream to the air, i don't really ever care.
the breeze answers me,
yeah, friend, i've been there,
go and wash your hair. there there.
this song is getting kind of long,
i guess i'll pick up the pace,
cos' life's a struggle similar to a long distance race.
and i don't want to lose face.
stuff gets skipped,
i'm talking shit.
oh, well, that's how it is,
i guess i'll rap a bit.
speaking of lit-erature,
i'm writing a book,
combining all the shapes and sounds in life,
at first i mistook,
for something soft,
something gentle,
something tangible,
sometimes i've got promise but i can't quite get a handle.
don't ever trade your running shoes for sandals.
when i worked in the coffee shop,
the twenty-first man that i met named john.
he said hey, i heard you play folk song.
i said no, you're wrong,
folk is dying,
and i've been dying all along.
he just said, that's a shame,
but i'm never wrong.
on a cloudy afternoon i slipped into a dream.
in a mirror i saw myself
falling apart at the seams.
a ghost came up beside me and said,
tom, where's your head?
i laughed out loud,
i wasn't sure i ever had one.
the ghost said to me,
ghosts can laugh too,
and this one's laughing at you. ooh ooh.
i took the subway into the old part of town,
considering a new career as a clown.
i try to smile, make others smile,
but it just gets me down.
maybe i'll end up with these old guys i see
sleeping on the concrete underground.
i promise i won't make a sound when you walk by.
a group of young girls cornered me in a pharmacy.
they said you look so sad
it makes even us feel bad. i laughed.
i said i play folk songs that you'll never hear,
and the smallest one looked up at me and shouted,
that's no reason not to play them.
the night turned wild.
the night was free.
i crouched down by the docks and knew where i would be.
the water reflected the youngest parts of myself,
all this rising and falling
and constantly stalling,
it's bad for my health.
i've got a guitar and i don't need help.
all the johns that i've met have up and left.
but in the thick air around us their folk lives on.
and when i die this pen will still write songs.
better than mine,
so give me a push,
help this process along.
i am empty.
i am empty.
i am gone.
