It's knowing that your door is always open
And your path is free to walk
That makes me tend to leave my sleeping bag
Rolled up and stashed behind your couch
And it's knowing I'm not shackled
By forgotten words and bonds
And the ink stains that are dried upon some line
That keeps you in the backroads
By the rivers of my memory
That keeps you ever gentle on my mind
It's not clinging to the rocks and ivy
Planted on their columns now that bind me
Or something that somebody said
Because they thought we fit together walking
It's just knowing that the world will not be cursing
Or forgiving when I walk along some railroad track and find
That you're moving on the backroads
By the rivers of my memory
And for hours you're just gentle on my mind
Though the wheat fields and the clothes lines
And the junkyards and the highways come between us
And some other woman's cryin' to her mother
'Cause she turned and I was gone
I still might run in silence tears of joy might stain my face
And the summer sun might burn me 'til I'm blind
But not to where I cannot see you walkin' on the backroads
By the rivers flowing gentle on my mind
I dip my cup of soup back from a gurglin'
Cracklin' caldron in some train yard
My beard a rustling, cold towel, and
A dirty hat pulled low across my face
Through cupped hands 'round the tin can
I pretend to hold you to my breast and find
That you're waiting from the backroads
By the rivers of my memories
Ever smilin' ever gentle on my mind
(#stolen)
the hill and the dune
i lower my music
every time i get to the door
because i know when i pass through the glass
she will wish me good morning
she is entirely distracting
knowing that there is something between us
the way she looks at me
is uplifting and motivating
but i dont have the credentials
i'm not a good mormon boy
and i dont know if she knows yet
i believe in death
my religion is philosophy
the study of how to deal with it
she doesnt know it yet
she is a good mormon girl
so im pretty sure that disqualifies me
i would corrupt her
as i have been known to do
sad
my life is a greek tragedy
hers is a pipe dream
with light at the end of the tunnel
but fair enough
everyone should choose
to date whom they desire
it just gets me thinking
if i asked her out
and she knew who i really was
would she say yes?
This and more, after the break...
Thank you for tuning in to this episode of the Joshua H. Experience!
Today we view the details of chapter 9 in section 22 of the sensational life of Joshua Hill!
In Chapter 8 of his life as seen on yesterday's television program he experienced euphoria with an absolute uncanny release of stress!
Will this new passerby become a special someone?
Will the unfortunate details of his life press him to fight feelings?
Will we find out more juicy details of his parents' divorce?
Or will our favorite protagonist live out another ordinary day in Sunny summertown, Provo Utah?
This and more, after the break...
slow knife
it's not easy
being loved less every day
slowly, as your differences start to settle in
when they don't like the way you spoke just there
it's never all at once
just as you suffer
no matter how much you care
the day comes
when they don't look at you the same
you'll look back at your gaunt eyes in the mirror
as they catch you walking by
a moment with yourself at 2:49 in the morning
suddenly your back will break
from the pressure of life
your hands holding the weight of your body against the sink
long dark hair hanging over
the face your mother gave you
nobody is there with you
in front of that mirror
no hands rest on your shoulder
in that moment
nobody is there to understand you
it didnt happen all at once
where she was there for you
and then she wasn't
she was slowly but surely
not there for you sometimes
but sometimes became often
until you'll have a moment like this
in front of the mirror
and you'll realize
that she doesnt love you anymore
you'll reach that point
and struggle to see yourself in the mirror again
as your eyes fill up
and your chest sinks
it's not as if one day she loved you
and the other day she didnt
its moreso
that over months
she bargained to herself every day
if she liked the way you did something
and every other day lost the bargain
until one day she looked at you
and her heart didn't flutter
the next she was angry with your shortcomings
soon enough
she didn't want you to touch her
your hands somehow unwanted
your warmth somehow cold
it didnt happen overnight
you watched it happen in slow motion
and it's not easy
to watch someone un-love you in slow motion
its not easy to hear
that your hands
make someone who you love
feel uncomfortable
the same hands that hold you up
in front of that mirror
its not easy
to feel like those hands
cant make that person
feel at home anymore
it makes you think
and wonder how the four seasons of the earth
metaphorically describe the way
she stopped looking at you the same
how you were unloved
a little more every day
your hands needed less and less
until you are back in front of that same mirror
without her
you'll wonder how you got there
and you'll retrace your memories
grainy pictures and quiet nights
soft and subtle music humming in the background
candles in the van
in those memories
you see
every day she loved you less
suddenly it won't shock you anymore
that it's over
because you saw her drifting away
and there was nothing you could do to save it
you witnessed your hands pushed away
again and again
until
you'll find your eyes in the mirror
looking past your long dark hair
the same eyes that she fell in love with
you'll realize
that you shouldn't be surprised
by something that unfolded slowly
before those same eyes you stare at
when the summer you wished to spend with her
flickers in your unwanted palms
you'll begin to hate your eyes
for not seeing sooner
that she'll never love you again
like she did in september
when her hands
were electricity in yours
when her eyes
were sprinting at a future with you
when her lips
were begging you to come home from logan
and leave the silliness behind you
carefully you'll prepare yourself
for another life without her
and you'll wonder
if you can trust
the eyes in the mirror
you'll wonder
why your parents don't love eachother anymore
you'll wonder
how you lost her
you'll wonder
why you had to see it all happen slowly
you'll wonder
if it even matters that you have hands
if they're not wanted
you'll wonder forever
but you'll understand
the one thing you were meant to
that it is the slow knife that kills
Page 40 Volume 23 on Shelf 4 of Wall 3 of Hexagon:
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A most unusual feeling
Sailing on electric ribbons of sound
Dark wood grain and the soft hum of strung flourescent lights
An odd colored rug and a dimly lit garage
The dance beyond his limits
Blues for Allah
Free your mind, your ass will follow
Adventure holds fragrant memories
Bathing in smoke above a cedar-fire
Crude burning engines that barrelled across the old west for a campout
Lining a future cask with memories, sounds, and cascading quantum frequencies
Stopping at a motel and levy for three minutes of an uninterrupted smoke break
Neon signs buzz under the residual beating heart of a cancelled day
These sounds, these sonic ribbons of light.
The present time fleets this far past the breathing man.
Generations.
Though far dead now, remains a succor to a digital prisoner
The central scrutinizer
Eyes aren't meant for computer screens
Computers once worked with pencils, and would go home at night and eat dinner
Their tireless work carried meatbags to the moon
now replaced with copper wires and motherboards
Chipping white face paint
Gaunt eyes rounded in an egyptian curtain of charcoal
Slobbering poetry through meshed metal into the electrical signal
Transcribed into magnetic current, wound into a tape
Fractal gradients of color and sonic throbbing
It fills his ears, the magnetic tape swirling slowly on his lap,
sitting back in his listening chair with a long cord wrapped in his fingers
the unencumbered mind of a pre-internet being
intoxicated by the music..... just the music.
Smoke curling around the player's fingers, a stogie burns in his right hand resting on the chair
Two fingers harbor the dart while the thumb and subsequents a miller lite
Hi-fi muffs pressing long hair over his ears.
It is 1978, and this hypothetical has more than I'll ever know.
I sit beyond a line in the sands of time.
Criss cross apple-sauce.
The world wide web, being the line.
and I the ever aging glass eye.
Rock and roll, i am unfamiliar with.
A most unusual feeling it is.
When I hear the buzzing of strings ripped across 50 years prior.
I long for a time that breathes fewer breaths each day, in only the memory of the dying.
An albatross, carried around seaside mountains uncarved by railroads or highways.
Sailing hardships through broken harbours, out on the waves in the night.
A time where the magnetic tapes keep me in ignorance to that prism of consciousnes years beyond
In some other reality, i walk barefoot while my chest vibrates to the volume of a festival.
Where the colored lights aid the wisdom of the sage behind the analog microphone.
Where Neil rips across a distorted signal, and communicates a timeless philosophy.
Where Denver was a place and a person.
Where Jerry whisps a swan song.
Where the band slow-jams in a pulsing guitar solo
My brain bending so hard on acid that the music alone fastens me to the earth.
I find myself imagining this place of constant sunset in my mind.
Where music is religion.
Where drums make us dance.
Where synthesizers breathe.
Where soloists are prophets.
Where someone else is the cursed one...
who must partake of this music, in a one and zero digital mimicry of art...
rather than I.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7mnZYv1NQ7Tuj2IY290YUy?si=wLJ_M5luRzW2-tVRN07bGQ
Dark wood grain and the soft hum of strung flourescent lights
An odd colored rug and a dimly lit garage
The dance beyond his limits
Blues for Allah
Free your mind, your ass will follow
Adventure holds fragrant memories
Bathing in smoke above a cedar-fire
Crude burning engines that barrelled across the old west for a campout
Lining a future cask with memories, sounds, and cascading quantum frequencies
Stopping at a motel and levy for three minutes of an uninterrupted smoke break
Neon signs buzz under the residual beating heart of a cancelled day
These sounds, these sonic ribbons of light.
The present time fleets this far past the breathing man.
Generations.
Though far dead now, remains a succor to a digital prisoner
The central scrutinizer
Eyes aren't meant for computer screens
Computers once worked with pencils, and would go home at night and eat dinner
Their tireless work carried meatbags to the moon
now replaced with copper wires and motherboards
Chipping white face paint
Gaunt eyes rounded in an egyptian curtain of charcoal
Slobbering poetry through meshed metal into the electrical signal
Transcribed into magnetic current, wound into a tape
Fractal gradients of color and sonic throbbing
It fills his ears, the magnetic tape swirling slowly on his lap,
sitting back in his listening chair with a long cord wrapped in his fingers
the unencumbered mind of a pre-internet being
intoxicated by the music..... just the music.
Smoke curling around the player's fingers, a stogie burns in his right hand resting on the chair
Two fingers harbor the dart while the thumb and subsequents a miller lite
Hi-fi muffs pressing long hair over his ears.
It is 1978, and this hypothetical has more than I'll ever know.
I sit beyond a line in the sands of time.
Criss cross apple-sauce.
The world wide web, being the line.
and I the ever aging glass eye.
Rock and roll, i am unfamiliar with.
A most unusual feeling it is.
When I hear the buzzing of strings ripped across 50 years prior.
I long for a time that breathes fewer breaths each day, in only the memory of the dying.
An albatross, carried around seaside mountains uncarved by railroads or highways.
Sailing hardships through broken harbours, out on the waves in the night.
A time where the magnetic tapes keep me in ignorance to that prism of consciousnes years beyond
In some other reality, i walk barefoot while my chest vibrates to the volume of a festival.
Where the colored lights aid the wisdom of the sage behind the analog microphone.
Where Neil rips across a distorted signal, and communicates a timeless philosophy.
Where Denver was a place and a person.
Where Jerry whisps a swan song.
Where the band slow-jams in a pulsing guitar solo
My brain bending so hard on acid that the music alone fastens me to the earth.
I find myself imagining this place of constant sunset in my mind.
Where music is religion.
Where drums make us dance.
Where synthesizers breathe.
Where soloists are prophets.
Where someone else is the cursed one...
who must partake of this music, in a one and zero digital mimicry of art...
rather than I.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7mnZYv1NQ7Tuj2IY290YUy?si=wLJ_M5luRzW2-tVRN07bGQ
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