i digress into the city where the evil eagle soars
into a past progression where a distant rumble roars
i know myself and yet i am a mystery to me
no matter where it’s shining
it’s still all but one sea

formerly forgiven
and i’m fast escaping you
i am but a sailor
with no ship to carry crews
this is but a winter
of my discontent, it’s true
but otherwise, i’m always me
but otherwise, i’m new

pick me up a challis so i can find myself
a wilderness of knowing what the other wants in hell
this heaven is a heaven from no other harbor
i am not a captain
i’m asleep

there is a feeling in the air
there is a left-longing
there is a right-hand turn
there is the staircase
there is a watch better wound
there is a look-alike scene
there is a watcher of reality
there is the windowless screen
there is a puddle of decaying leaves
there is a wandering around
there a penchant for a sort of greed
there is reiteration
there is a problem i perceive
there is the night
there is high noon
there is an historic duel
there is a hand with nothing in it
there is the gunman
there is a why
there is a why not
there is a where in hell
there is a heavenly breeze on a summer day
there is a night in october
there is a holiday
there is a hunched back
there is an ancient way
there is a statue
there is the sway
there is a problem put off
there are bills to pay
there is a credit report
there’s me ignoring it
there is an identity stolen
or given away, accidentally-on-purpose
there is a regret
there is a regret

with a drop into the bucket, i’m worn thin of serenades. and it seems lightly on the ridge of cold winters and warm julys looked forward to. ah, and but where will they be spent, you wonder. and in wondering, the affidavits drift and your life is torn from spiritual to legal and the loving sways with the winds of april. may will bring flowers for your pilgrimage, i hope. and in hoping, i regret to inform you that i know not what i do. and i keep forgetting people know what i’m doing and i keep forgetting no one really knows who i am and i keep forgetting i’m always myself and i keep forgetting to say remember and not don’t forget.

but please don’t forget.
but maybe you don’t know who you are.
and maybe you don’t know that i am certain of who i am.
which is nobody.
nobody but the work i produce.
which might be exactly how it should be.

and so it goes.
(stolen)

it seems like a good time
it seems like the right time
when it seems like the wrong time
it’s the perfect time
to smile

disparaging dilapidated distances do little to put a self like me at ease. and yet, as i write i imagine no will to the wisp. i even know little of certain meanings of certain words i use regularly. thus, my subconscious knows it makes some kind of sense and yet my conscious self knows nothing or little or maybe everything all at once.
and i am not unconscious, it is true. for, how could i be typing?

even so, it isn’t madness.
even so, it is happiness deranged.
and just as it should be…for the certain things that should be not.

with a posture so unimproved, i sit.
with a name so overused, i stutter.
with a manufactured stare, i wonder.
with a language of the body, i explain.
with a subconscious i can control, i lose.
with a loss, i overact and bundle.
with a dressed-up version of myself, i huddle and bind.
with a wild call out to the woods, i am scared.
with a whistle back at a screech owl, i converse.
and
with a tongue sat firmly to the roof of my mouth, i do not speak freely.
for if i were to and if i do, i am sat in an idle cask of laid iron
and
with a hum into my own ears, my heart flutters.

when you get up in the morning, you get dressed, i imagine. or perhaps you get undressed from your nightgown and then shower and so forth. either way, at some point during the morning, you’re undressed. and, thus, you get redressed again. this is a certainty.

as certainties go, being dressed while writing isn’t one of them. but i’m dressed. and for the weather. the weather, i’d say, is just about perfect. or – at least – perfect for how i am dressed. isn’t that the dream? the lyrics to the song in my head almost every day of my life?

“i’m going where the weather suits my clothes”

and i am, i suppose. i certainly was. and now, considering i have more hats than shirts, i just hope it doesn’t rain on me. for, i am currently without a raincoat.

i hope whomever has my things somewhere is somewhere where my things aught to be. and i hope you’re handling my guitar with the touch of a gentle giant. and i hope my clothes fit you or someone you know. or i hope it was all donated to a worthy cause.

at the very least, that coin should be in your pocket. it was always in mine.

as i sit and i type i am remembering when i couldn’t be sitting and typing; when i was seated and sitting with pen in hand to paper – any paper i could get my hands on…and now since i can be typing, i am typing and typing so fast i’m barely thinking about the words i am typing. i prefer it this way, i do. and i prefer it this way because this is the way i prefer to be writing. when i am merely sitting with pen to paper – any paper i can get my hands on – it comes out drearily too often and most often in limericks. i do, however, usually write songs in that fashion but because i’ve written so much in that fashion – pen to paper (any paper i could get my hands on) – i am now in the midst of typing and typing as fast as i can and not really thinking about what i’m writing.

and so, i’m telling you…i have more songwritings to drift through for the next ten years of my life, it seems, and thus am holding true to the outlook. all lost emotion shall be lain, rightly. i have my album names planned. i have themes in mind for all of them. these are all subject to change. the future, as it’s been said, is still unwritten.

i just happen to have devised a line of progress in my work. this is no genius. this is me working on my first album for four years and subsequently producing a number of releases in quick succession.

they are all online at thesupposedso.bandcamp.com and why wouldn’t they be? you can stream them all for free. and my freedom depends on the knowledge that anyone is actually listening.

s/teps is done. i have to find it. or record it again. and again in one take with no breaks in the recording. because that’s how rocka bye babies happened. and, technically speaking, s/teps is “rocka bye babies II” but don’t tell anyone.

the will and the won’t is still linked below to read for free. its release will have s/teps on tape attached to the cover. it’s all planned. but at this point, the plan may be beyond my literal control.

all the better.

love in the christopher spirit,

mick

(transcribed)

depict no beautude of benevolence. my brand of insanity but beckons a last grasp of gasping through thin air. and when a society shudders, my skin crawls and i am freezing cold. i shiver and shrink from the sun. i love and i live into the darkness of closed shades and draped windows. and as the sun begins to fall through the afternoon sky, my heart flutters with the thought of a lost love and a beauty too american to resolve: that first sight.

play and mold and build yourselves up with pure water and red clay.

step with no shoes on and walk by my side

which could exact a revenge when it’s true that they say the only one served is a dish whose steem drifts up the flue, attracting mice. and what if your retort is the sort which demands an unbridaled version of hands holding hands.

i am a closet full of debris. you are a canyon where waters run freely. and so if you catch a ray on the lawn be sure of the nightinggale…she knows how it’s done.