Found, remember

Joe was wrong. we get them all.

That's why we sing.

Why we give a shit.

Why we'll raise our fists our fists to pop songs songs bar down steps from the apocalypse not just because it's so easy when your drinking to give the kind of shit that makes careers of mediocrity but because...goddamn we feel like singing.

Free, for the moment, from the revolutionary whispers of the tattooed wrist bands that mark the basement set.

And into the sweetly canadian.

Kittens.

Virtue the Cat Explains Her Departure.mp3

Right righteous

Beer sweats and the thought of walking that shame back to the subway and into the long grating rended mass of people whose lives were better off without the look and smell of the place was enough to kill even the darkest, calcified part of my constitution.

But greg was there.

A les paul and strange concoctions on the stove before either of us was literate enough to know that utz was not a staple.

And curious others.

Shit stains and puke in the dishes. woebags. blackouts.

Her fucking babyteeth.

But really it was the sound of summer. the cocktail, less suffering. lime twists and centipede. screaming 'carry on carry on' and when we finally did he told me i sounded like a frantic transvestite who looked a bit like jason lee but i was too muddy to tell him to stick it.

Before the whiskey dropped out.

Before the breakup.

The artless escape to feather boas and ecstasy. home ownership and us back at the rebar bracing lentil sprees.

Home to the typeset dream.

Onward, Fat Girl.mp3

Field passion

Set the needles to the west and sing that johnny march and hum. we're coming home again. one parcel pieced together from the stuttering holes in the sand digging graves for brightened daydreams.

Soot sift in amber as soft suffering.

And burn.

One as however many.

To glow.

Ebb the welcoming memorial.

Bring it Back.mp3