civilian

Note: a version of this song first appeared on my 2009-ish EP, and I’ve been playing it ever since. I felt a version more in line with how I play it live was in order, so here it is and here, on this LP, it will remain.

Sometimes, I get a little winded, and I’m losing my head, picking up what’s left.

If summer is something of a rebirth, and fall’s a slow decay, then I fear the cold of winter.

I did my time I paid my debts, the endless stretch of chainlink fence and the masses crowding in …

Let’s run for it. Let’s get out while we still can. If you push then I’ll push too, we’ll get these wheels turning.

Where will we go? No one will know. Where will we go? No one will know.

I did my time I paid my dues, now I step in single file, filed under someday soon.

Let’s run for it. Let’s get out while we still can. If you’re in, then I’m in too, let’s keep this fire burning.

If we grow weary, we’ll shade beneath a daydream. Those boxcars of the Southern Tier come singing in my ears.

Ain’t young enough to matter, too old to make a move, I’m growing accustomed to that ordinary view. john doe in plain clothes. Civilian, civilian.

Those jitters you feel are your 20s being squeezed into a person you’d scarcely believe, then folded into the machine. Civilian, civilian.

Guess I ain’t the go-gettin’ type, conditioned to play it safe all the time, I head to bed with a million desires. Civilian, civilian.

Well, I feel my heart and mind giving out, think I might’ve fucked this up somehow. me, I’m always figuring shit out. Civilian, civilian.

That mask is cracked, another dream burned clean. Who I thought I was versus who stares back at me – just another nobody. Civilian, civilian.

Guess I ain’t the free-wheelin’ type. I ain’t the leaving, thieving kind. I think I’ll stick around for a few more miles. Civilian, civilian.

No, I ain’t the turn-and-running kind, though I’ve felt the urge more than a few times. I think I’ll stick around for a little while. Civilian.

There I am in the Book of James – I’m tossed like a wave. Got double-mind, got Thomas sight, I’m shook in all my ways.

You and I break bread again. We spill all the wine. The dark comes in with brightened strings, we sing into the night.

Now, now that I’ve arrived squarely in my 30s. Now, now that I’ve arrived, I toil in inertia.  I grit these rounded teeth. I’m stuck somewhere between who I was and who I should be. Honey, I’ll be right down as soon as I get this down. I’m feeling better now. Meditations on modern doubt.

There were sights that I wished I’d seen when my eyes were at their best.  But these vague forms and damn regrets, they’re as close as I will get.

Now, now that I’ve arrived squarely in my 30s. Now, now that I’ve arrived, I toil in inertia.  I grit these rounded teeth. I’m stuck somewhere between zero and infinity. Honey, I’ll be right down as soon as I get this down. I’m feeling better now. Meditations on modern doubt.

I don’t mean to upset you, or ruffle your tender feathers, but we’re owed an explanation, aren’t we?

Who did you become from who I knew back then? I think I would have understood those things we leave unsaid.

If you’re gonna be the one who tears our guts out, make it swift and clean. Life had all but laid waste to our insides anyway. oh, anyway.

So let’s talk compensation. Let’s iron out the works. These glinting, age-old memories are as elusive as these words.

So I’m staking out the thrift stores. I’m itching to get first dibs on your punk-rock t-shirts, all your old Strike Anywhere merch.

If you’re gonna be the one who tears our guts out, make it swift and clean. Life had all but laid waste to our insides anyway.

We’ll be nursing up at the Verona if you’re up to catch a song. Senneca’s got that fucker fed to play the classics all night long.

Here I come, here I stay, sun’s gonna color me night and day, I’m clawing out from shadow.

Dress me up in vivid hues, wreck a retina upon view, I’ve rendered out, out from shadow.

Pleasure to return to human form. I’m honored to reoccupy this frame. I slipped into apparition  – the well went dry and colors all bent gray.

Here I come, here I bleed, I’m gonna sing in every key. Struck mute for a season. Strung too sharp, fell face flat, the heart goes heavy when the soul goes black, but I’m back. I’m out from shadow.

God, this light is blessed. Don’t let despair say otherwise.

Ashen soldiers, pale nightingales, and I brooding and marooned in rooms 13 (1 and the 3), leveling concern upon our loved ones. It gets a little old.

Here I come, here I choose, I’ve arrived with my dancing shoes. Ghosts got no rhythm (only trauma). Static in the attic, voices at the door, finger snaps on the 2 and the 4, good lord, I’m out from shadow.

Good god, I’m out from shadow.

There’s too many fires, ain’t enough rain. I’ll take a glass a water or a tidal wave. Too much crazy, ain’t enough sane. Too many fires, ain’t enough rain.

Too many wolves in the storehouse, learning to talk both sides of their mouths, quoting Jesus and getting what you earned. Them thieves skipped town and the store house is burned.

There’s too many fires, ain’t enough rain. I’ll take a glass a water or a tidal wave. Too much crazy, ain’t enough sane. Too many fires, ain’t enough rain.

Too many prisons as factories – weed ’em through the system, collect the fees. Shutter the hospitals and reroute the line. Now patients are inmates, your illness the crime.

There’s too many fires, ain’t enough rain. I’ll take a glass a water or a tidal wave. Too much crazy, ain’t enough sane. Too many fires, ain’t enough rain.

Too many arsenals in civilian hands, lest you’re stripped of the freedom of killing a man. The pretense of mourning now a routine act. Hack them poles in half and keep the flags where they’re at.

There’s too many fires, ain’t enough rain. I’ll take a glass a water or a tidal wave. Too much crazy, ain’t enough sane. Too many fires, ain’t enough rain.

Sleep is more like an escape, and living’s about the same. Who tampered with the dosage? It’s pure entertainment, hollow fulfillment, where truth is but a matter of convenience. I’m checking out.

I’m going away for a while. If my body has upended, well wind me up and adjust my cuffs. Shove me toward my next meeting. I’m going away for a while.

I’ll wrap myself inside of the pages until all of my matter composes the glyphs and the serifs – Dickens’ guillotines, Jimmy’s nicotine, Kerouac and the merchant marine. I’m gone. I’m out to sea.

I’m going away for a while. If my posture ain’t how you’d like it, remove my hat and point me to the flag, so no one thinks I’m unpatriotic. I’m going away for a while.

If I go dark online, assume I’m having the time of my life in the roses in my mind. And if it seems my dreams are better than the real thing…

I’m going away for a while. If my eyes are looking hazy, gimme Nat King Cole and a top-coat. Leave me to my own Mayberry. I’m going away for a while.

Baby, I’m optimized. Leave me in my Mayberry life.

Birds on a line, city shine. Gridlock, the morning bell. Seize the day with dull blades, commuters in death gaze.

No one ever showed you this part. No one ever showed you the art of middle age, trailblaze funerals and birthdays.

No one ever showed you this part. No one ever pointed out the sharks.

I still seek meaning from new plans and old tendencies, these new schemes and my bachelor’s degree, Das Kapital and Marxist beliefs, these butter knives and needs.

Alt Ctrl Delete.