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From "Cascade".

lyrics

Cascade

Like the River to the sea
something just meant to be
like a clash on fervent waters
albatross in stunning colors
like analogy foretold
like you like you like you fold
you splendidly drop off the face of the earth
before I could mutter a single protestation
into the depths of murky dismay
and your eyes make zig zag swirl and spiral away
like the jag of a jaw and the gin of a gurl
there’s nothing that matters when you've vanished
into the cesspool of Cincinnati

there was a church we sang and rang the bell in again the electric chimes from keyboards implanted in the fervent grass of our own mp3's and the last lost lingering lingerie of the never born child we never created and the listless longing lacerations that limbered down your face like a Sunday stroll and a tidal wave. and there was no one but you and there was a torrent of behind the back glances
and she danced with her boy and watched me o'er her shoulder and I crusted my glass and I thought of you bloodiest and remembered and I was castrated and cuttlefish at a Chinese buffet and she was listless, again, and her long hair was radiant like the death of the sun under the yawning horizon and she died again and again and so did I across that room as we danced with her eyes and I regretted being tee-totaller for just a moment to dream a dream of drowned whisky and the cat burger cutlass kindergarten that you cultivate out of stealing the days from the calendar till the year has slipped by into another
and you take over the cesspool of Cincinnati and fold it into your braids and the smell of Cajun food and chocolate we shared like a combined correlation of all those momentary moments you mentioned never remembered like the brick of blood from your head and I stared into the aether and I closed my eyes and we danced together before the cesspool and before the black black longings and the tyrant cried across the land that strong was strength by ripping and gnash, and that to ruin and burn was the mark of a man
and I stood my ground and screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed and stuttered and fell and cried and yelled and got up and spit in your face, life, spit in your brutal ruin and and your tortuous tormented titillation. And I buried my hatchet in your skull and went on.
Like a Native American, from Mound Builder to Casino builder, I watched the imbiciles ruin the good I had slathered across the ground, and use its bricks for toilet paper.
And I'm still shadowed by specters.


Inspector's spectacles were not keen enough to keep off the rolling plunge that riddles rancid rancor over our mouths and we blocked off the roads with candy bars and watched the cars rip through them with four wheel drive and we wondered where we had gone wrong if only we believed more but we didn't and the last light lingered a bit too long.
Like the end of a flower strewn aisle you never came along.



Long ago, before the tides swept in, I was but a courier of dreams
Old dreams, mainly, new dreams, yours, and the dreams of worlds unseen and unwhispered
Mightily I made my rounds, and sat by candles, fountains, streams, and wove those dreams
above our heads like hats, to keep the cold and rain from the dent of our faces
but dreams were never enough against knives
and they cut the shields to rag weeds
and left our dreams violated on the ground.
Like a riptide of tears, and a cascade of all your deepest fears
and it was deeper then deep
and darker then black
and when we opened our eyes
no one could dance because you couldn't even walk

1 specters not talents
2 Define that please?
3 Sorry, I wasn't aware this was annotated
4 Your mom is annotated.
5 You are all but the wasted words at the bottom of a page, left forgotten except for the book nosed scholars that dream of Britannia and Normans and rogues. Roses, like arose, at the words of long dead men, who slept in the beds of long dead girls whose lips were as crimson as
6 Your mom is annotated.
7 A reasonable debate is
8 Pointless.
9 The last thing he said before the sip of smoke suckled him into the parlor, and the invalids stared to greet his crippled skin and skeletal footwork. Like a mummy from Kokomo, where the cars hit the green lights, and the Stillwell starers wait for a sign to cross the current of cars.

and all the cars pass you by on the street corners
and everyone glares with the threat
of yanked hair and tumbling headlines
down a dead road
where only the willow trees go
and their knots and knobs
turn the black river red

seven seven blackbirds sitting in a pie
waiting for the teeth
hear them never never cry
the river runs by and the king is hot
and opens his robe as he feasts on the lot
seven seven blackbirds sitting in a pit
all they are now is one with shit

we wade.
There are tides amidst our feet
cold like milkshakes in our toes
and the sand is dark like thanksgiving
filled and content, as our hands touch between the rocks
but there is nothing so transient as you
and you were always a blackbird

There are nests of birds throughout the world
the bright and brilliant fuckaloo
and the soft and tender songbird
the broken winged blackbird
and the star sworn nightingale
and I wander their eyes through the sky
like hummingbirds
and they are no worse for the feathers they drop
all the better for the songs they sing
like an eternal albatross we sing for you
like a record we stick the needle gash
in your eye and in your arm
and ask you if it feels alright
to curl up in your nest to the falling circumstance of
what could have been a better flight
building up twig branches for the sake of weaving your hair
Into the fibers that hold up your bed
and let you sleep away the stars in your eyes
till the sun God crests the morning
and tells you dreams are worth the shit
you waded through for a chance to fall from the branches
to the nickel lined ground
like a puddle of wish drops
of a father
to his unbelieving daughter
like you always become



Songbird breaks the silence finally, and rises to her own action when the chords break the morning, and she never had the mourning anyways, so she lifts up across the dawn like a linger
Blackbird builds new nests and writes her beak along the dust inscribing new worlds and draws the line in the sand. Decades of months later, she is only her own memories, lost amidst the loss.
Nightingale blesses the morning and puts on her noir feathers, and brims her hair down above her hair and as she walks the night becomes her lantern like an echo of footsteps.
and there is a flock
and I am earthbound
till perhaps I stand in the tides again, my talons soaked in the icy cascade
and screech at the world and batter my wings against the foam





and alift myself to the pinpricks of God
and style myself Ichorus
never born to bird
but born to spit at the Sun
and rise again
till I perpetrate a fitting
wax recipe
till the shores become not torrents
but drifts below me
to which the Birds of night and day may flock to
singing of the lost lands, and the new lands
and the open sky
far below the towering Cascade of God

credits

from That Towering Blue, released May 1, 2016

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James Wylder Elkhart, Indiana

Author of "An Eloquence of Time and Space", "10,000 Dawns", and "Cryptos."

Learn more at jameswylder.com

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