1. |
Introduction
01:04
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2. |
The Dinner
01:34
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you want me to hear songbirds-
you want me to echo them back to you.
and, instead.
i hear crickets.
and I tell you i'm not ready.
It's not that i'm not ready to love you
or that I'm not ready to be loved by you
...It's just that.
i wonder what loving me, says about you.
i'm afraid that you've mistaken the unfurling of bodies and the entanglement of sheets for something far bigger than us.
i'm afraid that you are unprepared for the storm our love may bring.
i myself haven't manned my sails.
i'm sure we can sort this out.
This isn't The Tower of Babel.
...not right here.
Not right now.
please.
it's kind of like the birthday dessert we weren't expecting.
we're grateful.
we take it in.
and yet it sits unfinished.
much like this conversation.
Unfinished.
the waiter's not going to clean up this mess. It's not his job to do so anyway.
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3. |
Rather Stupid
00:25
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i keep looking for bodies in a basement that I do not have.
remnants of crimes I have not committed.
which could, in the heat of an honest argument, explain why when I wrote my name into The Book of Life the ink didn’t take. i forgot how to spell my name without yours attached.
this is all a rather poetic way to let you know that falling in love with you has made me rather stupid.
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4. |
Hard Woman
01:00
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if i should grow to be a soft woman
let there first be tales of mangled teeth and flesh
of swallowing every hurtful wave that dare to try and drag me to shore
let me feast on my anger. gnawing on the flesh of insults from those who dare tell me i am not enough
let me spit into the eyes of media that mockingly calls itself my reflection
let me be monster. bleeding, hairy, unapologetic monster.
may this metastasize into something bigger than myself
if i should grow to be a soft woman
let me be soft in coming to you
in opening my door
with the words i choose to feel comfortable with
in the way i raise my children
let me grow to be a soft woman as loves evolves me to be
soft woman
pretty quiet
pink
you can’t make me
not because the dolls on shelves long put away, told me to be
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5. |
Anger Lives Here
00:34
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you say i shouldn’t be angry.
instead, grateful to G-D for the lessons held by the hands of man who taught me nothing but that we can be hateful
i’m not the wounds of your mother-thick with salt. heavy breathing. misplaced.
bitter. coffee stained papers.
voices beneath the floorboards rising toward the ceiling but anger lives here.
in the screams that you dared to silence.
anger lives here and i choose to grant her a home.
in the heart of the artist.
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6. |
Interlude
01:04
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7. |
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i wonder if you can see the skeleton behind these eyes or if my self-doubt somehow flared your lens
i crawl back in the caskets nailed with times before and after us.
my grandmother knows no number or name. they left before she was presented with one,
and we made generational leaps-or rather, setbacks, when you wanted to call me yours
The underbelly of woeful song keeps calling to me-hesitate of you
And though i am afraid
i will SING.
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The Hatbox Collective Minneapolis, Minnesota
Adina is a self-proclaimed crippled punk poet living and working MPLS. She likes to think she writes pretty okay.
Evan is a local musician and composer forever jamming in the TC.
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