1. |
Song of Myself
03:06
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This is my plan:
I have a pen inside whose well I plan to bleed
and its writing is nice,
and worth your time
and possibly a second read --
but I snap it in half, and leave it be,
then sing a song of myself,
and I sing it out of key.
Ha ha.
Here's the trick:
I've borrowed all my wit from books I plan to read.
And this is my mess:
my art is part of everyone, and everything.
But I gave it my best,
and so I at least have a laugh,
even if it came at the expressed expense of me.
Ha ha.
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2. |
Being Grateful
01:06
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I don't know much about anything
except for how I like my eggs,
but even then I break the yolks;
or how I like people
but burn bridges everywhere I go.
But I am thankful:
for my mom
I saw her struggle when it was harder
to work hard.
And for all the non-examples in my life
that showed me what was wrong
and what was right.
And for all my influences,
when I have writers block
it's with their words I will start.
So I sing: "Blah blah blah."
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3. |
On Inspiration
00:41
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But I wrote Nora those smutty letters
and I blew my brains out like Hemingway
and I stabbed my wife like Althusser did,
but
it gave me nothing smart to say
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4. |
Part A
01:06
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"In the swamp the banks were bare, the big cedars came together overhead, the sun did not come through, except in patches; in the fast deep water, in the half light, the fishing would be tragic. In the swamp fishing was a tragic adventure."
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5. |
Asceticism
01:15
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Tan my skin and make me shoes
Grind my bones and make me glue
Cut my hair to test shampoo
Repurpose my atoms and make me
New and Useful
Grow my dust into a tree
Chop me down then I will be
a place for people to live in
(I'm all about sharing)
I will help in any capacity
at all.
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6. |
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What am I to do,
with all this overflowing grace?
It burns a hole in my Determinist's wallet.
Cause if there's no ethical consumption in Late Capitalism,
then is Adam Smith,
ideologically,
tardy
to the party?
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7. |
||||
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"Oh! But it's so hard!"
and "Oh! Woe is me!"
I think to myself,
as I walk by myself,
down the street.
I am but a cog, and I am just a drop
in an exploitative machine, and despairing global sea.
Still, I don't have it so bad.
There are those so much worse off than me.
Yet here I trash about in agony over my art,
and what does it mean?
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8. |
The Breakfast Sermon
01:51
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I am the crumbs in the butter.
I am the eggs left in the pan.
And the dish soap on your mom's hands,
that I am.
I am the socks balled up at the end
of your bed.
I am the Eliot reference without
context.
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9. |
Part B
01:09
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"Marathe's sniff held disdain. 'Then in such a case your temple is self and sentiment. Then in such an instance you are a fanatic of desire, a slave to your individual subjective narrow self's sentiments; a citizen of nothing. You become a citizen of nothing. You are by yourself and alone, kneeling to yourself.'"
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10. |
True Love
03:03
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My baby don't mind
when I'm feeling bad.
She doesn't care
when I feel like trash.
She never gets hurt
when I make a mistake.
And she thinks my heart
is in the right place.
My baby tells me
that I'm worth a shot.
She respects me
and my art.
And she is attracted
to my physique:
A skeleton of twigs
with big hands and clown feet.
My honey says I am a genius,
and better at writing
than most that she's read.
She sees my good deeds
and lauds me with haste.
She thinks that my satire
is done in good taste.
And she lets me sleep
in her city -- just like a bum.
And then, she picks me up,
as the sun starts to rise,
and I'm gross.
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11. |
||||
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I wanna be like a Chekhov tree
or the Compson family,
that way I know that my suffering
is the result
of the class overhaul,
that dear Karl thinks we need.
I wanna be the Coleridge albatross --
murdered by superstition,
eventually, coming back
and haunting;
the British really love their irony.
I wanna be like Toomer's setting sun --
imperfection implies a horizon.
And I wanna be Basho's banana tree,
I wanna be where my name comes from.
I wanna be like Shakespeare's jew
the whipping boy of what Christians knew
to be mercy.
And I wanna be like revenge:
Swift, like Jonathan's opinion,
of English grammar.
I wanna be ruthless and superficial
elite and controversial.
If not, important,
at least historic.
Even though, I feel like a Monet.
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12. |
||||
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I'll tear down Big Business
and strike out the Patriarchy.
And I'll only consume what I need.
And I will be the change I want the world to see
in me.
Maybe I don't want a legacy.
Maybe what I really want is change.
And if a legacy inherently involves my name,
maybe I don't want to get in the way.
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13. |
Part C
01:09
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"who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning
were stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure
vegetable kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, &
alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,"
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14. |
Lord Lackbeard
04:59
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I get myself up every morning
and stand up on two legs,
look outside my window
and hear my mother say:
"Oh Nick, don't worry,
you're fearfully and wonderfully made."
But what does that say,
about those stitched together
in different ways --
if I privilege how I became?
Don't you like my beard?
Don't you like my muscles?
And aren't I so tall?
How'd I get so handsome?
I think my body's better.
I think my body's worse.
The matter I'm composed of
dictates my sense of worth.
In eighth grade I cried
cause I weighed 103.
When I told my mother
she said this to me:
"Allison, don't worry,
you're perfectly and beautifully made.
Don't think about size, or compare yourself,
you're not the same."
But she still cared
about the numbers on the scale.
Don't you like my ass?
Don't you like my makeup?
Aren't I so thin?
How'd I get so pretty?
I think my body's better,
I think my body's worse.
The matter I'm composed of,
dictates my sense of worth.
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