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Sure, I know that you are tired of hearing about it |
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But most repeat the same theme over and over again, |
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It's as if they were trying to refine what seems so strange |
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And off and important to them. |
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It's done by everybody |
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Because each must work out what is before them over and over again |
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Because that is their personal tiny miracle. |
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Like now as like before |
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And before I have been listening to symphony after symphony from this radio |
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It makes me realize that certain people now long dead |
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Were able to transgress graveyards and traps and cages and bones and limbs |
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In tiny rented rooms I was struck by miracles |
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The flesh covers the bone and they put a mind in there |
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And sometimes a soul and the women break vases against the walls |
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And the men they drink too much |
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And nobody ever finds the one |
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But keep looking crawling in and out of beds. |
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Flesh covers the bone and the flesh searches for more than flesh. |
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There is a loneliness in this world |
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So great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock |
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People so tired, mutilated, either by love or no love. |
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People just are not good to each other. |
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We are afraid. |
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Our educational system tells us that we can all be big winners |
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But it hasn't told us about the gutters or the suicides. |
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Or the terror of one person aching in one place |
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Alone, untouched, and unspoken to. |
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People are not good to each other. |
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People are not good to each other. |
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I suppose they never will be. |
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I don't ask them to be. |
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But sometimes I think about it. |
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There must be a way. |
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Surely, there must be a way |
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There's no chance at all: |
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We are all trapped by fate. |
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Nobody ever finds the one. |
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Nobody ever finds the one. |
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There's no chance at all: |
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We are all trapped by fate. |
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Who put this brain inside of me? |
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It says that there's a chance. |
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It's kept the rope from my throat |
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Maybe it will loosen yours. |
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The city dumps fill. |
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The junkyards fill. |
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The graveyards fill. |
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Nothing else fills. |
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Nothing else fills. |
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Nothing else fills. |
