Spencer Tracy
With your Beverly Hills know-how I'll try to understand you Maybe lets go back to White Plains the venerable needle in the sieve of truth, Clinging to masks, actors conjured so well Afraid of uncovering What lies beneath these shells. You've got a dish of pearls worn and extravagant i've got the torn penny loafers walked through a puddle just a few We all have this desperate cry for freedom to be smooth and abundant Freedom is manufactured, a factory! Hard to find We struggle to leave our past selves behind I'm grumpy and labored in sticks you're Spencer Tracy, with deep set eyes Struggles in the classy and the ditches we see Hard-won prizes, wisdom as our badge Time brings us those twisting railways and trains that are paved in golden light and trains that are raked in coal mine muck. California lights though, the thought Makes our lives more divine. Yet, man the harder we try, the more we fail to see, The simple truth of living, is smoke in that clouds of freedom we are in that endless quest for love and all those good things Cling to our bent walls and beat out the fear sometimes. The calendar is our hardened strife. Escape ourselves to become Spencer Tracy leave the trash bags in the light to be seen Talk resonant, rich ideas, exchange traps of medicines from our cribs, the guiding light, to the reluctancy of sitting towards the window reflections with ashtray in hand, shining bright Within the warmth, dressed like scarecrow men Humans, irate and salty, beautiful and blossomy Can they uncover the deeper truths of our own satisfaction Be our own movies, Be our own Spencer Tracy? Life in the Burning Wind While my veins are down in this water hole I see twists come from the burning wind I resemble a buried statue, with a resisting rainbow resting in the sky. Feathers in the burning wind, came from sneezes from the waterfalls to the birds that jump from cirrus clouds to the volcanic blending of the last verse when the violins and the pans smashing together become one song. to become voiceless, nothingness dysfunctional, penniless well I'll just live to be buried in the burning wind with ignorance and watch you become the cute joke to the insidious Insult me while i'm thunder, but praise me when i'm lightning you'll understand, when the money starts frying. Broken, moldy. Rebuilding the gag of the city. Classy, very classy Dolly Ruth Rose Poem They named this girl Dolly Ruth Rose kind of a scary, smoker girl country though, from dirt doldrums where frogs rained, pockets would mildew sitting on fences the whole way crows, silly fellas with mustaches digging holes. Always by the road, with eyes for Dolly Ruth Rose. Red blouse, blue eyes and a wicked bend from shape to the curls in her hair she'll plot your future in the back of her brain Once she meets you, you go from man of strength and brawn to slim, slimy, smashed up like a green grape, a little yellow, a little insane. It is cute though, how all the churches gather here Drinking lemonade and pretending it isn't old beer. Respect, it comes in compliments and death threats here, I mean, here it's a Dolly Ruth Rose or it just is a dream of some old man drunk on a cot. A toe tied up and wicked in the ropes. Blind Whitney I re-met a blind painter, the other day Yeah, well sort of blind, mostly though too. He was from Brooklyn made his way through the fields of Iowa Worked with Union Pacific Railway with my grandpa just about a dozen years ago The guy I believe is named Whitney decomposed breath, smashed up Wrigley's gum in his pocket. Strawberry Jelly dripping off his stained yellow t-shirt Laughed like a gremlin, moved like humpty dumpty I think he was a real huffer, in the back, when not seen He'd go back calmly and come out the kool-aid man! Anyways this guy was an empathic fuck Saved my grandfather from getting smashed on the tracks During one of grandpa's sparks of madness. When he believed he was every bird in the sky Magnolia wagon wheels were rolling by with new ladies wavin' hi The brightest, the most intense man A metaphor he was to a Harvard scar I can't exaggerate the power of Whitney that day He dragged grandpa up like a bail of hay, and brought him to a bungalow by the river, saved his life Threw away about 14 bottles of whiskey, maybe saved them for himself. This Whitney, he is impossibly remarkable real sturdy, but a broken ladder A can of paint full of splatter He was guttural and basked in the glow of a radiant sun All the while he dreamt of driving the racecars he watched on his tv. Always outside, he became that psychic that guardian, that guy you drove by the highway that looked like an uprooted potato. Down the road it always smelled like skunks And down the road it always looked like an aura that could actually see everything just fine. Incandescent beauty for miles. Another Chorus I listen to depths of despair, like an audience to freedom's dream, on a careless July night I listen to the hope in some broke sassy whisper with distant scheming rattling in their moaning I watch a man standing there, like Marlon Brando A will to survive until he really learns to drink A force to be reckoned with, a spirit alive A legend in spirit, a shivering slob when they die. There I heard the struggle of another chorus A heart beating boldly, the blood stuck, pathetic Can't even walk the halls anymore, with a purpose true to false, shining down into a cup of what was me A misstep, I must have measured each breath wrong. My eyes feel strewn together, the stereotype anxious man woozy and boozy like, soulful inside Speaking of redemption, would have to have years rearranged. Now as a hero, a savior of souls A courageous man, with a heart beating rise to light, the darkest cells glow Awoke to a new day's angel, or devil broke out of the tolling bell. Sometimes he believes he can see through cobwebs and realize he's still looking through wax and grease. Oh remember the chorus, man is tested, mighty to rise. With strides of aching, endure the testament of the pest Walk these streets some nights in silence In others ready to burn down the bully's shed Sometimes to become the one who is filthy And be caught red handed in the wires and thorns. New skyways The clouds filled with old and young beyond the trees, a whole world The angry air jumps at us like rats And that is when it is shit and smells I feel that when I begin to flutter I can feel the skyway's path within reach Another dimension, reach in and pull the snakes from the ground A realm, where the impossible becomes real and we no longer fear the limitations. Imagination is freedom, Soaring through each world we never met. Worries and caring melt away, and no longer bored or fearing, or sickened, or feeling sick, or feeling fearful. Purity bounced down like a speck of God Somedays, the skyways can be All this vastness becomes someone's rooftop And we go from infinite space to claustropic jail realizing through this blending of sun to ground We're all connected in some way. Sometimes I take to the sky, in a pathetic attempt to evaporate away, to privatize the skyway to our own image, in some annoying phase. No limitations can be placed on stars, No ground can ever be too close.
Fevers of the Mind 