{"id":74,"date":"2017-05-01T07:57:44","date_gmt":"2017-05-01T14:57:44","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/tonymoreno.org\/wp\/?page_id=74"},"modified":"2017-05-01T21:48:04","modified_gmt":"2017-05-02T04:48:04","slug":"lyrics-and-other-detritus","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/tonymoreno.org\/website\/music\/lyrics-and-other-detritus\/","title":{"rendered":"Lyrics and Other Detritus"},"content":{"rendered":"

An assorted collection of past writings from lyrics and what-have-yous. I have a rather large box filled of notebooks written in my 20’s that I have yet to review and edit; hopefully I may do that, and post these here. Probably would be a bad idea, actually.<\/p>\n

until the first star came out\/<\/b>
\n<\/b>when we were kings<\/b><\/h2>\n

and there was a time when we were kings<\/span><\/p>\n

when we had more pounds of gold than we had hair<\/span><\/p>\n

we weren\u2019t bothered by the holes in our shoes<\/span><\/p>\n

As water froze our toes<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

we would be stay out until<\/span><\/p>\n

we saw the first star came flying to our feet<\/span><\/p>\n

and you said that we should stay <\/span><\/p>\n

until the next hundred more<\/span><\/p>\n

And on nights like that who was i to disagree<\/span><\/p>\n

And on nights like that who was i to disagree<\/span><\/p>\n

saving mine<\/b><\/h2>\n

C\/Ami\/G (holds on G)<\/span><\/p>\n

And I\u2019m sitting here in a parked car <\/span><\/p>\n

leaving room in the margins of this notebook <\/span><\/p>\n

for liner note memories<\/span><\/p>\n

and watching the rain paint<\/span><\/p>\n

the streets glossy vertical black lines<\/span><\/p>\n

and leaving out every third word <\/span><\/p>\n

in an attempt to keep up <\/span><\/p>\n

with the racing mind<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

And this light from the radio <\/span><\/p>\n

is hardly enough <\/span><\/p>\n

to reflect the white <\/span><\/p>\n

from the paper <\/span><\/p>\n

to discern the shapes <\/span><\/p>\n

of the characters <\/span><\/p>\n

that form the outlines <\/span><\/p>\n

to these words<\/span><\/p>\n

sometimes the light \/ not all together<\/strong><\/p>\n

sometimes the light finds you in the night<\/span><\/p>\n

doesn\u2019t let you go until (the next) twilight<\/span><\/p>\n

and you sit there listening to the rain<\/span><\/p>\n

washing out the dirt into the rivers again<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

sometimes we find ourselves not all together<\/span><\/p>\n

and wanting to be taken apart<\/span><\/p>\n

sometimes we find ourselves not all together<\/span><\/p>\n

and wanting to be taken apart<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

sometimes we want to be together<\/span><\/p>\n

but we know this is not the time<\/span><\/p>\n

even as we write these letters to each other<\/span><\/p>\n

and when we close our eyes <\/span><\/p>\n

we are together <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

of faded memories of resin and grenadine<\/b><\/p>\n

give me back my friends<\/span><\/p>\n

the ones who i’ve lost or somehow forgotten<\/span><\/p>\n

leave me the frame with faded green paint<\/span><\/p>\n

and the canoe with a left-handed paddle<\/span><\/p>\n

draw the curtains<\/span><\/p>\n

to drown the light<\/span><\/p>\n

there are times<\/span><\/p>\n

when i need to shut down<\/span><\/p>\n

and hide inside<\/span><\/p>\n

and pretend<\/span><\/p>\n

we’re living life in wartime<\/span><\/p>\n

when in fact<\/span><\/p>\n

there’s just too much light<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/h2>\n

take the covers<\/span><\/p>\n

pull them over my head<\/span><\/p>\n

turn the stereo on a little louder than what you can stand<\/span><\/p>\n

and the words they’re singing<\/span><\/p>\n

will paint little portraits inside your head<\/span><\/p>\n

[and the words that you\u2019re saying\/sighing<\/span><\/p>\n

will paint little portraits inside my head]<\/span><\/p>\n

turn the radio on<\/span><\/p>\n

to a station that’s between the numbers<\/span><\/p>\n

and listen to the white noise as it crashes over us<\/span><\/p>\n

and you can’t hear anything moving outside<\/span><\/p>\n

the plastic faded memories of resin and grenadine<\/span><\/p>\n

of lone star states <\/span><\/p>\n

<\/h2>\n

unreleased<\/h2>\n

a holiday<\/h3>\n

i\u2019m
\ngoing for a holiday
\ndon\u2019t know when i\u2019ll be coming home
\ni\u2019ll be gone for a little while
\nbe sure to close those shutters when it\u2018s cold
\ni\u2019m going for a holiday
\nwhen the snow comes i should be home
\ni’ll be coming home
\nsome day i will come home<\/p>\n

had me a whiskey summer
\nwishing I was somewhere closer to you
\nthan my worn pictures\/memories
\nand now the fall leaves\u2019ve been whispering to themselves
\ntheir plans to all rush to the ground\/give in to gravity
\nand soon the rain
\nwill stop falling
\ngiving way to the snow
\nthey all must say goodbye
\nmust say goodbye
\nbecause they will always
\nleave you wanting more
\nleave you wanting more
\nsuppose that\u2019s life and that;s good
\nleaves you always
\nwanting more<\/p>\n

from grand & failing<\/em><\/h2>\n

longest day<\/h3>\n

the longest day is over
\nand all the cubans have found their way home
\nthe longest day is over
\nand december will always be weighing on your mind<\/p>\n

all your friends are over
\nand they have taken all your drinks
\nand are laughing at you
\nagain<\/p>\n

and you\u2019re hoping for a breakdown
\nto get you out of this tin shed
\nand start walking
\nthis land with your thumb<\/p>\n

and too often memory gathers its shards and stands waiting outside a greyhound bus stop
\nin wichita
\nand the faces that you pass by
\nthey
\nstay with you
\nthrough the next twenty miles
\nand when you died did you feel
\nyour body getting lighter
\nas you hovered above that operating
\ntable
\ncould you feel a smile on your face
\nand did you see my grandfather
\nis he still drawing history
\neven now<\/p>\n

the longest day is over
\nand if i could be my own country
\nif i could be my own country
\nthen this will do for now<\/p>\n

grand & failing (not quite right)<\/h3>\n

thought i heard your voice this morning
\nlong after you had left and gone
\nyou were was calling for our little one to come home
\nfrom where he had gone
\nthought maybe you had turned
\ninto a ghost on me once again<\/p>\n

thought there was something not quite right yesterday
\nwhen i saw a man kicking another when he was done
\na group of others stood and watched the fray
\nand more than a few added to the blows
\nabove our door the birds kept up with their flirting
\nwhile half a block away the blood began to flow<\/p>\n

thought of things as i sat and watched
\nand like the tide the crowd finally ebbed away
\nand i thought that day was a beautiful one
\nit was when your son was born that day<\/p>\n

catalog<\/h3>\n

(your) promises are like leaves in the fall
\nby winter they\u2019re gone
\nred rimmed eyes
\nsmoke-filled lies
\nlike the barnyard sparrow
\nhow you know (when) to fly south
\nfor the winter
\nand i\u2019ve kept a catalogue of all your dirty little thoughts
\nof how many lies
\nyou\u2019ve tried to smile away
\nof how many other\u2019s recycled thoughts
\nyou\u2019ve tried to pass away as your own
\neveryone has a cancer burning inside of them
\nyour lies are like a cancer
\nburning you inside
\none needs to stay for a winter
\nfor the rain to wash them away<\/p>\n

on my mind<\/h3>\n

and the day i went blind
\ni could still see your smile
\nthe teeth that shone like
\nstars in the night<\/p>\n

and you still carry that
\nmoonlight smile
\nthat melts my inside every time<\/p>\n

tell them they\u2019re high, that they\u2019re on my mind (2x)<\/p>\n

it was late
\nsummer time
\nand the sun had turned the roses
\nthe color of dust
\nthe color of dust
\nlast night i had fireworks
\nlight off in my head\/mind,
\nand they flared and sparkled and burned
\nuntil there was nothing left inside<\/p>\n

driving by moonlight<\/h3>\n

driving by moonlight,
\nreaching past 70 to cut a few minutes short,
\npinch the arm am i still awake
\nthe night holds the light tightly in its grasp
\nnot letting a sliver sliver out cold so what, rains so much
\nthe fireplace will warm at least with the
\nlight
\nlight<\/p>\n

dust so high
\nfeels like walking through thigh-high sand
\nthree legged couch makes for a
\npoor shoulder to sleep on
\nand there\u2019s holes in the floors
\ncan\u2019t walk around after dark
\nthrow the curtains into the fire<\/p>\n

pull another book down in front of the light
\nwatch the words dance about the pages
\nand thinking about painting the ceiling a new shade of
\nwhite
\nwhite<\/p>\n

sold it all, kept on driving
\npulling away from nothing
\nsheets for curtains
\nyou can feel the air breathing
\nbetween the glass and the skin thin cotton
\nand the walls they have been breathing
\nand the books they have talking
\nto themselves at night<\/p>\n

from leftovers from a wake<\/em><\/h2>\n

leftovers from a wake<\/h3>\n

with
\nthe moon
\nweighing heavily on your shoulders
\nyou\u2019ll keep walking on til your shadow
\ndisappears
\ncold
\ncold is it
\ncold it was
\nand you will breathe in, breathe in the rain
\nlonely as god
\nand white as a winter moon
\nas we find ourselves
\namongst leftovers from a wake<\/p>\n

and there will be time
\nfor traveling on for more
\nsunset miles and miles and you
\nyou\u2019re lonely all the time
\nlovely all the time
\never since he left your side and tonite
\nyour sins are opened wide
\nand there\u2019s nothing
\nfor the rain to wash away and when
\nwhen
\nyou grow up
\nyou find the moon
\nthe moon is full of lies and roses
\nroses can leave
\nsaccharine scars
\nand how long can you wait
\nfor this water to turn (to wine)
\n(note: \u201clonely as god, and white as a winter moon\u201d taken
\nfrom a mt shasta description by poet joaquin miller, natl geographic oct 2001)<\/p>\n

blood meridian<\/h3>\n

i have come from a hell
\nseeking water for these lips
\ni have walked across deserts
\nwith scalded souls
\ni have followed a judge
\nwho had made gunpowder from coal and piss<\/p>\n

i have come for the gold
\npromised of every scalp
\ni have liberated
\nunjustly from its head
\nand one asks how far a man can travel
\nwithout water or blood on his hands
\nand lord i have wandered
\ni have wandered
\nbut never alone<\/p>\n

and the judge he says
\ndrink up
\ndrink up
\nfor this night
\nthy soul
\nmay be required
\nrequired of thee<\/p>\n

from the picturetime collection<\/em><\/h2>\n

picturetime sweetheart<\/h3>\n

got a wartime lover at the turn of a century
\nbut never can i hold her closer
\nthan the lipstick she leaves on each letter she writes
\nshe lives so many miles away
\nshe\u2019s a beautiful as first snow
\nand the air about her
\nalways smells like red wine
\nand she never leaves you like a bottle at closing time
\nforgetting her is as easy as losing
\nyour shadow<\/p>\n

got a picturetime sweetheart
\nwhose letters I leave unopened
\nfor fear of finding these words:dear tom I still love you
\nalways have and ever will
\nbut my dear the miles between are too far
\nso the time must come
\nto write these words to say to you
\nand I hope not to bring you down
\nbut every good love
\nevery pure love
\nevery good love must come
\nto an end<\/p>\n

so I turn off the lights
\nand close my eyes
\nand I can still see her pictured in the walls of my mind and I\u2019m a stray dog who
\nkeeps
\ncoming back
\nto the memories of when I held her last
\nit was a picture perfect postcard
\nof a paris in the rain
\nand oh how it\u2019s taped up in the walls of my mind<\/p>\n

so if you ever find a place dear
\nwhere the suns sleeps in summer
\nwhere love won\u2019t wither on the vine
\nbe sure to send a postcard
\nI\u2019ll be sure to tape it
\nTo the wallls of my room
\nIt\u2019ll still be there waiting
\nfor your return<\/p>\n

would if i could i would<\/h3>\n

would if i could
\ni would
\ncall you friend or lover
\nand to this world I add
\nthat i wish you were here
\ntonight on this ocean of roads
\nand that we were drifting
\nlying on our backs watching the sky move overhead
\nwith the moon nuzzling up to the clouds,
\nbecause sometimes my dear
\nthe night gets so beautifully
\nlovely
\nlonely<\/p>\n

yellow line<\/h3>\n

thought of you as I crossed that yellow line
\ntrying to find a river to bury this car
\nnow I find myself driving past widow\u2019s houses
\nthru an aging land divorced from still waters<\/p>\n

and I caught myself, I caught myself falling
\nagain
\nand I found myself, I found myself dreaming again<\/p>\n

sold it all kept on driving
\nlooking for a place where the snow meets the sand
\na place where the bridges have melted in the heat
\nbut nothing, kept on driving<\/p>\n

driving thru places where the pictures are bolted to the walls
\nand the walls they have been breathing
\nand the books they have been reading themselves to sleep at night
\nplaces where gideon\u2019s and cable can always be found<\/p>\n

met a stranger took a gamble and lost everything
\nnow I find myself building stone walls for nothing
\nand waiting and wondering
\nif you\u2019re still counting stars until I come home<\/p>\n

and I caught myself
\nI caught myself falling again
\nand I found myself
\nI found myself dreaming again
\nand I found myself
\nI found myself high again
\nand I caught myself
\nI caught myself crossing that yellow line once again<\/p>\n

more fingers than teeth<\/h3>\n

welcome
\nmy son
\nto this land of four seasons
\nof present tense here and now
\nthere\u2019s such a rush to get outdoors
\nfor the sun hasn\u2019t gone yet south to sleep
\nit\u2019s been so long since I heard your
\nsmile on the phone
\ni\u2019ve been swimming near the bottom for too long
\nwaiting for the hunters to leave
\nwaiting for the leaves to turn to rust
\nthen lord will I give in to settling down
\nof planting seeds and waiting for the trees to rise
\nthat\u2019ll be the time when cars stop breathing
\na time when i\u2019ll have more fingers than teeth<\/p>\n

leaving las vegas\/waiting for the water<\/h3>\n

and
\ni\u2019ll be leaving in the morning from las vegas
\nin a pine box that\u2019s built for two<\/p>\n

and lord it\u2019s been a long one full of moonlight smiles
\nand warm summer hands but lately i\u2019ve only been feeling
\nocean water with its rise
\nand eventual fall<\/p>\n

and lord have i been drinking
\njust to stop the thinking
\nand lord have i been drinking
\njust to stop the thinking
\nof the lovely one
\nthat you\u2019ve taken, taken from me
\nand lord this easy life\u2019s not so easy
\nwhen you\u2019re living it with nothing to fill
\nthe emptiness inside
\nand lord it\u2019s a long one to wait
\nfor the water to turn back to wine
\nand sometimes water so sweet
\nand sometimes water so bittersweet<\/p>\n

and lord have i been drinking
\nthis water from the wine
\nand lord have i come to believe that when you took her
\nyou left a part of her in me
\nthat\u2019s kicking and screaming to be let out
\nthat\u2019s slowly dying inside of me
\nand lord have i been drinking
\njust to stop the
\nthinking
\nand lord have i been drinking
\nyes i have been drinking
\nand lord have i been sinking
\nhave i been sinking<\/p>\n

the marathon runner<\/h3>\n

i
\ncan fly but i have a fear of coming down
\nat 25 i learned to craw
\nin two years i’ll be running away from here
\nand last night i ran a marathon
\nand i waited for the stars to burn themselves out
\nbecause the stars, they blind more than the sun<\/p>\n

bromaldehyde
\nbromaldehyde<\/p>\n

and somedays the nights are too long to wait
\nfor the mornings to come
\nand somedays i’d swear the mornings
\nhave disappeared
\nand last night i ran a marathon
\nwith my feet nailed firmly to the floor
\nand i won’t stop running
\ntil the morning if it ever comes<\/p>\n

bromaldehyde
\nbromaldehyde<\/p>\n

mind spinning
\nfilled with thoughts of what i can’t do with you
\nand tonight i’ll hold this candle til i burn
\nand i wonder if i can make it through the last call
\nwithout a not so nervous breakdown
\nbecause i can fly but i have a fear of coming down
\ni can fly but i have a fear of coming down<\/p>\n

in the eye<\/h3>\n

thought by now
\nI would have
\nforgotten your smile
\nspent a year last week
\ntrying to forget
\nwasn\u2019t sure
\nif I was supposed
\nto drink what was given to me,
\nsmells like
\nsomething
\nyou put on your skin after you cut it
\nthe moon has come
\nand gone
\nthe birds
\nare starting to look for the worms
\nand you\u2019re as
\nbeautiful
\nas first snow<\/p>\n

from other collections<\/h2>\n

turning right, motioning left (broken turn signal)<\/h3>\n

been driving like i’m in a movie
\nnever really see what’s going round
\ncan’t remember the last time that my feet
\nhave touched the ground<\/p>\n

been driving like i’m i a movie
\nwhere nothing works on the dashboard
\nbecause it’s all made of cardboard
\nand there’s no back seat but a backlot
\nand wherever i go it feels like someone’s watching me
\nand wherever we go and whatever we do
\nthe water’s still coming in at my feet.<\/p>\n

but nothing ever felt so real
\nas this driving
\nnothing ever felt so real<\/p>\n

salsipuedes<\/h3>\n

been driving for days
\nmust\u2019ve fallen asleep at the wheel
\nwoke up in a town called salsipuedes<\/p>\n

the air here tastes just like whiskey
\nand i stand here waiting for my memory to return
\nthen i\u2019ll drop my glass and split in two<\/p>\n

at the cock\u2019s crow it was 106 degrees
\nin the shade of my shadow
\nmy car was a black oven on wheels
\nso i got out and walked the street
\npast gardens of steel rust
\nand fences with barbed fangs
\ncouldn\u2019t find my reflection much less a stray thought
\nto call my own<\/p>\n

this town\u2019s more like a prison where everyone wants to get out
\nthe houses stand here til the last nail rusts then they all fall in a silent heap of
\ntermites and dried blood
\nyou can smell the poison in the air<\/p>\n

out here even the devil shovels his own coal
\nand out here you take those wings off your shoulders
\nout here you take those wings off your shoulders<\/p>\n

hole in the head<\/h3>\n

and these words that come to your hands
\nthey come from a hole
\nthat hole is in my head<\/p>\n

my head it feels so heavy
\nit feels like falling to the ground
\nand the ground is very damp
\nso very very damp
\nfrom this hole in my head<\/p>\n

and more words come to your hands
\nmore words that you can hold
\nthese words you put in a box
\na box that lies by your bed
\na box that overflows
\nwith these words from my head<\/p>\n

and these words might make you sigh
\nand these words might make you cry
\nand these words might make you laugh
\nand these words might make you go to a 3-story window
\noverlooking the sky
\nthe sheltering sky overhead<\/p>\n

kingsbury<\/h3>\n

black painted on white, falling to the green
\nanother roll with another’s life
\nkingsbury pale, where have you gone
\nwhere have you taken my life<\/p>\n

with my head full of plaster and lungs made of smoke and clothes filled with soot and
\nashes
\nlet the first blow fall softly on the nail<\/p>\n

just let me down easy
\nlet me down slow<\/p>\n

i can dance upon the tip of a needle without breaking skin
\ni should\u2019ve been a mountain not a leaf
\nto be blown about carelessly<\/p>\n

sullen october eyes<\/h3>\n

tennessee\u2019s not the place to be when you\u2019re sitting on a park bench and writing
\na letter to keep yourself company<\/p>\n

you say you find it\u2019s easier
\nto let the liquid down before the words come stumbling
\nout
\nif at all<\/p>\n

sullen october eyes
\nclosing towards the winter
\nsullen october eyes
\nhave done their best<\/p>\n

waking to a new face in the mirror every morning
\nwhat i want to know is have you found yourself
\nand you wonder if people remember you wrapped in cracked leather and laugh, lala la la<\/p>\n

sullen october eyes closing towards the winter
\nsullen october eyes have done their best<\/p>\n

north, smoking<\/h3>\n

and isn\u2019t it funny how you wish for more fires to burn
\nwith the thought that the burning
\nwill bring you closer to her<\/p>\n

a thousand acres of flame
\nthat wave but do not drown
\nas they reach for the sky
\nand bring
\neverything down<\/p>\n

thought i\u2019d start on my way
\nnorth smoking
\nlight a match every hundred miles
\nthought i\u2019d start on my way
\nnorth smoking
\nlight a match for a friend
\nbut i lost faith in fires<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

An assorted collection of past writings from lyrics and what-have-yous. I have a rather large box filled of notebooks written in my 20’s that I have yet to review and edit; hopefully I may do that, and post these here. Probably would be a bad idea, actually. until the first star came out\/ when we […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"parent":50,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-74","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/tonymoreno.org\/website\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/74","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/tonymoreno.org\/website\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/tonymoreno.org\/website\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tonymoreno.org\/website\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tonymoreno.org\/website\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=74"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/tonymoreno.org\/website\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/74\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":213,"href":"https:\/\/tonymoreno.org\/website\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/74\/revisions\/213"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tonymoreno.org\/website\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/50"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/tonymoreno.org\/website\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=74"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tonymoreno.org\/website\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=74"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tonymoreno.org\/website\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=74"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}