Lot’s Wife

In the beginning, indigenas called it mystic,
an instinct the instant they saw ships in the distance.
A glimpse in the storm’s pigment
when Indians crossed pilgrims…
Predicted the gift horse lip sync
would turn course’n switch swords mid-swing
before swindling Christians swiveled long pistols,
insisting they bought Plymouth with trinkets and malt liquor.
Pawned resource for sickness,
syphilis brought and forced women.
Idiot wind minions twisting lost wisdom to false scripture,
a million moths caught in the maw of a king fisher.
Drawn to village torches’ flicker;
how quickly the fickle applaud n’ witness
ritualistic displays of public discipline,
oblivious to all difference in crucifixion n’ lawn picnics.
Gory cinema for a pittance;
glory, grizzly sinister law’s attrition.
The city of lost children is a chrysalis born stilted
with umbilical thorns twisting round the trinity’s lost sibling,
inequipped to fill his bosses’ slippers
in a pinch, now wished he missed the audition.
Gone limp too late to rescind and abort mission.
Ligaments ripped and torn sinew,
glistening whips, cords, and thistle;
the friction of raw tissue
till it splits n’ pours crimson –
a dead carpenter’s cloth skin stripped;
pity
the cross
killed him…
…King Fisher, KING FISHER!
your scream stones lifted,
but didn’t skip the walls of this building…

Listen! They still in the floor chillin’;
frost beneath boards,
spirit forced to watch the fall of the living…
Live water tortured; rise above these halls of mirror!
Through tar pits, up darkened cliffs
to hidden tip of old ark’s conquered mission;
the miracle secret of a single fish
with which to feed a million.
Wishes like whispers to kindred sisters,
kindled seeds swim up stream in winter –
offspring minnow. Water lilies filter mist in the distance.
The river’s source is a prison,
a pillar of salt
where mythic doves wash sin off the wingless.
They bathe in basins of brimming blood
with silver tears, but still continue singing.
Innocents pinned to cage’s limit
swing from bars where guardian archer
ring finger tickle whistling quivers.
Bow and arrow, stoned rows of sparrow,
clay pigeons, bones, and marrow.
Jar of creation, focused trigger,
jealous god’s broken mirror,
and the shards of an Apocalypse.
Every earthly heart bleeds on its sleeve;
child of roses, our dark hour speeds!
Vacant lot – a tower on its knees.
Plot to plow – forgotten flowers scream.
Life for your crop! Come reap this scarlet yield
of bodies rotting in the breeze.
A throne crimson, sewing steel through harvest of skin,
arched at the seams. Jawbone in sand,
painted hands, and a clap of thunder charging from the east.
A dry stone; our childe Roland marches to the feast.
No sound of water or cricket dancing in mud –
son of man! Come under these leaves branching through the rust,
and I will show you your shadow
extending each mourning’s rose
through your back like a lantern of blood,
then razing to meat you
each evening with a hammer at dusk.
Beneath wasteland gallows, your shadow handles its gun.
Son of man, open wide your careless palm,
and I will show you a cancer
branching to cancel the sun.
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Posted on Categories PFA EP

Rows of Steel

It’s been 3 years, and scraping the breath
to shape these words into air
is like collecting severed fingers tips with the other hand.
I don’t understand; trust me –
never thought winning you back could feel this ugly.
I died – tried for over a year.
Called, wrote poems, left you alone,
sent letters and went to your home.
Anything I could think of…

Rows of Steele – Rose of Steel,
Tell me how the fuck am I supposed to feel?
Spanish Boots wrecked on the open sea –
Unclaimed! Left lost and found too long.
Now on the other side of the ocean free.
Yes, I remember how this was supposed to be.
Rose of Steel; Rows of Steele,
Never thought you’d ever drift home to me.

It was your choice to get free; you wrote it in stone,
then broke the mold over one knee.
I laid my nervous breakdown bare at your feet,
but Rose of Steele stood oak to the sound of its plea.
Now here you are back at my temple gate.
It was all I wanted once, but now I can’t reciprocate.
Maybe letting go was your best move.
I know I wasn’t perfect, but I would’ve never left you.

Rows of Steele – Rose of Steel,
Tell me how the fuck am I supposed to feel?
Spanish Boots wrecked on the open sea –
Unclaimed! Left lost and found too long.
Now on the other side of the ocean free.
Yes, I remember how this was supposed to be.
Rose of Steel; Rows of Steele,
Never thought you’d ever drift home to me.
Home to… Me…

I would’ve never left you;
and it feels unfair to say, but there’s nothing left to give.
I hope California treats you to more light than Providence ever did.
I still have faith and believe in you,
but I’m not overthinking it this time.
And my gut’s got a firm handle on the facts –
I made it out alive, and I’m not going back.

Rows of Steele – Rose of Steel,
Tell me how the fuck am I supposed to feel?
Spanish Boots wrecked on the open sea –
Unclaimed! Left lost and found too long.
Now on the other side of the ocean free.
Yes, I remember how this was supposed to be.
Rose of Steel; Rows of Steele,
Never thought you’d ever drift home to me.
Home to me.

Lyrics to “Rows Of Steel” written by Jared Paul, for Prayers For Atheists, originally released on Strange Famous Records.

Posted on Categories PFA EP

Bike Song

I give this bike to breathe- no thought where I’m goin’.
Cut cord, no cell phone to hold me.
Patches on my shirt, dirty black jeans,
duct-taped shoes, break neck speed,
patches in my back pack just in case,
padlock fat, chained to my waist,
Snaked in bike tube, safe from the rust,
steady like a Gunslinger belt in the sun.
Steel in my kick, piston in my knee,
lane packed wit’ traffic, and I’m weavin’ in between.
Walls close in, gotta find a seam –
Horse n’ His Boy, My War in the street.
Legs pump till pedals blaze.
Suits on the corner stare like I’m crazy,
but it’s safe in my sights and clear up ahead.
Through a needle’s eye, now I’m shootin’ like a thread.

Gap disappears, mack truck screams.
Yellow turnin’ red, but I still got the lead.
We know this race is not to the swift,
but to those who keep pedaling through the shit.
Night time, summer breeze, shadows on the ground.
Bike kids – dark wings – sail through the sound,
kick like a drum pound, rise through the field.
Sky’s the only limit, and this bike is how I breathe,
this bike is how I breathe,
this bike is how I breathe!

Wild free horses in the sun, smile in our eyes,
live for the day, race to the light.
Right now, leave the house with a need for eyes to see
anything but computer screens, PUSH!
Face to the blue, petals in the breeze,
any piece of sky, any scrap of green.
One tight break and one gear speed
with a frame that fit and a chest high seat.
Dress for the war: rain, snow, sleet.
This is my horse, and I don’t need
gas that costs, cars that kill,
or no gears to make that hill.
My body, my fuel, my sweat steam,
my still electric, my exhaust clean.
Sleep, school, work/work, school, sleep?
I’d rather ride my bike than watch TV!

Gap disappears, mack truck screams.
Yellow turnin’ red, but I still got the lead.
We know this race is not to the swift,
but to those who keep pedaling through the shit.
Night time, summer breeze, shadows on the ground.
Bike kids – dark wings – sail through the sound,
kick like a drum pound, rise through the field.
Sky’s the only limit, and this bike is how I breathe,
this bike is how I breathe,
this bike is how I breathe!

Cars kill,
my still.
I don’t
need no
gears or
gas filled
to make
that hill.

Wild free
horses
in the
sunshine:
live for
the day,
race to
the light!
LIVE FOR THE DAY!
RACE TO THE LIGHT!

Night time, summer breeze, shadows on the ground.
Bike kids – dark wings – sail through the sound,
kick like a drum pound, rise through the field.
Sky’s the only limit, and this bike is how I breathe.
Face to the blue, petals in the breeze,
any piece of sky, any scrap of green.
Horses in the sun, smile in our eyes.
Live for the day, race to the light!
Live for the day – race to the, race to the light!

Lyrics to "Bike Song" written by Jared Paul, for Prayers For Atheists, originally released on Strange Famous Records.

Posted on Categories PFA EP

Wrong Horse

Sometimes, I feel like we at MIT;
you and me set to disagree,
chorus of supporters up under your feet,
backed by awards and more prestigious degrees.
“The Fields Medal!” they shout and they scream,
thirsty little birds chirpin’ worms in they beak.
Balloon circus whistles burst when they speak
perfect circles from pedestal perches that squeal
how success coulda been real
if only I’d done more than counsel vets in the field.
In a world of those who endlessly need,
there ain’t no vested register for my type of expertise.
No measure of wealth, no measure of self;
but if every moment I gave was dragged out the shadows
and lashed upon these gallows in plain day,
I’d still be honored by my weight & tally of space.

Doubt what I say, but see what I do.
See what I mean; this ain’t about you.
This is my life right now, not just a verse.
Stand by my lines, action for every word.
This is my light house now, made my own course,
fought waves past the breaks and the moors,
braved the depths, legs kickin’, wit my face to the floor.
I’ve taken the bait, I’m racin’ the storm.
Won’t say what I traded to make it across;
I ain’t savin’ nothin’ for the swim back to shore.
Put chips on other dogs if you want.
It’s your choice, pick a lot, take your loss.
But the race ain’t over brother;
I see you bettin’ on the wrong horse.

A buck 60 to 200 somethin’ shows?
I’m still dead center- front fuckin’ row;
and you know that I love every second except
when 10 minutes into your set,
road fam’s fast breaking to gas face back stage.
Talkin’ through acapellas like a slap to my face.
Half-assed on stage, backin’ you up,
then first to jet when we packin’ the truck.
Forget “Get In The Van” – they whine and complain at the booth,
when the truth is – we should all be payin’ you
for lift off the ground, exposure to clouds,
a chance at a shot, a crack at the crowd.
Who would they die for?
Not you, let alone what they even believe in.
Who the fuck would they die for?!
My Ani DiFrancis shaped hat’s a boost.
Cats claim craft and struggles they whole Life,
but if they ain’t live what they sing, the reflection will FIGHT!

Doubt what I say, but see what I do.
See what I mean; this ain’t about you.
This is my life right now, not just a verse.
Stand by my lines, action for every word.
This is my light house now, made my own course,
fought waves past the breaks and the moors,
braved the depths, legs kickin’, wit my face to the floor.
I’ve taken the bait, I’m racin’ the storm.
Won’t say what I traded to make it across;
I ain’t savin’ nothin’ for the swim back to shore.
Put chips on other dogs if you want.
It’s your choice, pick a lot, take your loss.
But the race ain’t over brother;
I see you bettin’ on the wrong horse.

Brother, you’re the best I’ve heard –
ain’t scared of nuthin’.  But if I play a bit coy,
I’d say nothing ‘cept for not making a Big Noise.
But you are whatever you say you are, man.
No matter what – connections you cut,
the sum of your funds, or acquisition of fans –
no question you were destined to surprise the world.
Hell-bent for leather.  My lot needed time to learn.
Studied whether men weather, grew a fire to burn,
tasted its ash lined inside the urn,
then ingested its death, live to berth,
from protest to DCYF violence church.
Charon at the ferry, certified to guide the word
to the other side, survive the herd.
Clinging to your coat quotin’ lines of  verse;
I still don’t think I’m better, but I don’t believe I’m worse.

This takes more than talent and practice.
That’s why you stress value on capital.
Finally, I see it’s necessary and practical,
but I can’t help obsess on excess packaging,
toxic dye, and material from foreign factories.
4,000 miles unnecessary travel.
If there’s a hundred percent recycled in affordable access,
then why the fuck use a virgin paper napkin?
It’s preach and it’s practice.  You seek craft in an album?
I ain’t cocky, but if there’s a jocky more hell bent for the finish,
I’ll eat the whole horse – every swollen morsel.
Till then, this bitter meal for dinner – Relentless.
This lap is a record, this record is one lap – just the beginning.
You said we’d take it slow; I expected somethin’ different.
Others worked harder at music; I didn’t, and I admit it.
Just thought you wanted to be bigger in bringing the Great out of my Vicious.
So, here it is – finally finished and long overdue.
Congratulations – half the fucking album’s about you.

Doubt what I say, but see what I do.
See what I mean; this ain’t about you.
This is my life right now, not just a verse.
Stand by my lines, action for every word.
This is my light house now, made my own course,
fought waves past the breaks and the moors,
braved the depths, legs kickin’, wit my face to the floor.
I’ve taken the bait, I’m racin’ the storm.
Won’t say what I traded to make it across;
I ain’t savin’ nothin’ for the swim back to shore.
Put chips on other dogs if you want.
It’s your choice, pick a lot, take your loss.
But the race ain’t over brother;
I see you bettin’ on the wrong horse.

Posted on Categories PFA EP