Wake

or, Letting People In

With the door closed, shades drawn, the world shrinks.

Let's open up those blinds.

But someone has to sweep the floor, pick up her dirty clothes.

That job's not mine.

Now that everyone's an enemy, my heart sinks.

Let's put away those claws.

I don't blame them for their curtain-calls because I pulled the rope.

I wanna call them back out for applause.

Spring and Thompson on the first of May is horrible.

We hid in catacombs.

So now I'm sleeping next to mousetraps, in a bed of all our clothes,

while I hope that she won't come home.

It was easier to lock the door and kill the phone than to show my skin,

because the hardest thing is never to repent for someone else,

it's letting people in.

Well you can come inside, unlock the door, take off your shoes.

But this might take all night,

to explain to you I would have walked out those sliding doors,

but the timing never seemed right.

When your helicopter came and tried to lift me out,

I put its rope around my neck.

And after that you didn't bother with the airlift or the rescue,

you knew just what to expect.

That with the door closed, shades drawn, we're dead enough.

They don't open from outside.

And someone has to speak with their teeth behind their tongue,

to never let that right be denied.

We can't rely on photographs and visitation time,

but I just don't know where to begin.

I wanna bust down the door, if you're willing to forgive.

I've got the keys, I'm letting people in.

Don't be scared to speak,

don't speak with someone's tooth,

don't bargain when you're weak,

don't take that sharp abuse.

Some patients can't be saved,

but that burden's not on you.

Don't ever let anyone tell you you deserve that.

Sylvia (An Introduction)

When you were younger, you had nightmares,

you had scissor-pain and phantom limbs

and things that kept you nervous

through that twelve-year interim.

When you fell crossing that street,

south of Houston, old Manhattan land,

those nightmares fell from building-tops

and took you by the hand.

And you were brought into those rooms,

with sliding curtains, shining children's heads.

And one of them, that boy,

was not as lucky as you then.

But he returns to you at night,

just when you think you might have fallen asleep.

His face is up against yours,

and you're too terrified to speak.

Oh, Sylvia,

Oh, Sylvia,

you may think that I'm not listening,

but I am, goddamn, I am.

I won't pretend I understand,

because I can't, and know I never will.

But something makes you sting,

and something makes you want to kill.

It made you crawl under that house,

and stick your head under the stove.

It's all connected in those

complicated nightmares that you wove.

Oh, Sylvia,

Oh, Sylvia,

you may think that I'm not listening,

but I am, goddamn, I am.

East River Berlin Wall

Ice-paved street, saved heat,

running low, running out.

We made this river a wall,

it's a natural drought.

But I can't feel a thing,

I can't feel a thing.

East blind to west, I confess

I've been tunneling through.

Waiting to meet him

in perfect positioning,

you know just what I'd do.

But I can't feel a thing,

I can't feel a thing,

not a thing.

Cold War

Nothing is waking up well,

our heart's gone to hell.

So come on,

Cold War's gotta stop.

Well, something

walking us home,

apart and alone.

So come on,

Cold War’s gotta stop.

In The Attic

Completely awake in the back of the car,

I don’t drift anymore.

All’s come into place

and I unlock the door.

If you have to warm up you can go back inside,

but I’m not going to follow forward.

I’ve come to prefer sleeping outdoors.

Upstairs and downstairs

and outside on the roof,

small stars and steel bars

say the ghosts up in the attic tell the truth.

Standing on shingles at night,

can’t you see that there’s a reason?

The plans aren’t on the ground,

they’re high and hanging down.

Well once I remember the words,

we can climb down from the rooftop.

I swear that I heard it right here, invasively clear.

But I was upstairs and downstairs

and outside on the roof,

small stars and steel bars

say the ghosts up in the attic tell the truth.

On The Roof

Stuck to a growing black balloon,

my neighbors are slowly glowing maroon.

Don’t throw away my broken telescopes.

Who has dragged you away?

Who’s that carrying the rope?

The Universe is Going to Catch You

It’s been a long time coming,

it’s not up for debate.

You’ve been a hollowed-out apple,

though you’re standing up straight.

It’s later than you think,

and we’re not going to wait

if you continue to tell us,

if you continue to tell us

“The Universe is going to catch you.”

It was fine until you fell off the face of the Earth,

‘cause we would call you at home and

no one picked up the phone.

We were worried that you’d fallen in the river, or worse,

but then you sent us back a letter,

it said in capital letters,

“THE UNIVERSE IS GOING TO CATCH YOU.”

Come back inside

to this house,

to your home

made of steel-structured styrofoam,

nobody’s out there.

But someone is singing you back to your birthplace.

That voice is the same voice you heard

on the same night that

everything glowed,

took you into the air,

and the arms of the universe

kept you from falling.

But after that happened,

those arms did not come back.

So when you leapt up and

nobody caught you,

your neck broke.

In the Snow

It got cold in the snow,

and I just want to go home.

I thought the stars were inside,

I kept them hidden, I tried.

But they kept screaming for release,

they picked me up off of my feet,

and brought me up through solid peace,

and told me,

“You can’t stay for long.”

I woke up without arms,

I stood up without arms.

I couldn’t walk in direction

with all this static reflection.

I was lost inside a map

that I had written in a nap.

When I heard a voice where branches snap,

I followed it home.