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arriving @ destination unleft

from Post No Dreams by Brad Hamers

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about

poem written - 2010
keyboard parts written - 2006
recorded - 2010

lyrics

there’s more buffalo on nickel than grass
there’s more plain on today’s fancy than fancy
more buttons on our emotions than shirt (more headdress on our private(s) thoughts) than scalp (scalped in a hat for the cameras)
more feathers in our hat than in bird (left to take them from)
more make up than late more cover up on our eyes than uncomfortable
trying to fit into this shirt
the city was short sleeves and ring around the collar
was one button and a hundred hands
there’s more fingerprint (of mine) on money than my own thumb (and money that’s not mine)
there’s more identification with value in pictures than having yours taken
more tender than there’s actual arm to give it
there’s more good in doing it without giving
there’s more gold in the teeth of those without money
what our gold used to be
(literally they used it as receipt for gold)
i change in my teeth for a way to say the next moment
to stay in the next moment
i was always in my place like a drink on tab
on the bar reaching my way for another rung
for my way around the next moment
there’s more shirt on me than skin
more cover up on my eyes than sleeping with them open
more eyes on my back than the heads that use them
there’s more wallpapering on my tongue than i can lick
there’s more lick in this pop than i can take
(Washington’s last thought is this)
capitalism licks itself down like an alley cat that just got out the garbage
we all take from each other equally
throwing the same amount of interest and junk mail on each other’s lawns
lied down like a hair piece in our throats (i cough my neighbor’s best combed hair - my coworker’s most politically correct hair day) had my sentences braided words in corn rows head amaized needle in the hayride (tire) the driver in the truck i crash face first into what i have to say my eyes were crash test dummies bored and dashing back and forth were right up against all they could see
there’s more sponsored vision in donation plates than in telescopes
more stars in my eyes when i’m asleep than when they’re open (or the opposite) (anytime but 9 to 5) everything comes in looking for a bargain - a sail to get the most out of their wind
we could hear those with motors coming a mile a away
pockets with propellers
can’t remember my dreams
can’t remember my dreams
i didn’t just say the same thing
think hard from your wallet
which cab will bring you home
i hopped the closest white picket fence following a sheep to sleep like it was drink
every glass had a crack
we look for shelter in the missing parts of her as she falls asleep
it was somewhat easy because she was always sleeping
putting paid workers in her place for a(nother) dream
we all outsourced our emotions
chain reactions on boats
paid for the extra packaging
it was soundproofing and headphones
english is Esperanto (ride the bullshit to heaven)
(every stereophonic way to say it)
my feelings multitask
with one hand taping its own mouth shut
with the other working the paper mill
(shaking every bills’ hand)
(saluting each duck as it goes down)
we hid under the closest machine
under our own hatched eggs
we still hang from
too many yokes
in one too many pans
cut the nervous break down for money
the nearest gold tree down for its rings
every planet was a finger
everything pointing at the sun
the myth of profit
she lays eggs without mating
we pull each other from the bone
(i started at her grace note)
how many instruments inside one human
how many insights into one view
the closest we come to interaction is change back on gum
(sugar pills and) bullets back on what it is i have to speak)
blowing up whatever’s stuck in our head
(the explosives sounded like drums)
let our tallest structures be the measuring stick for beating each other with
be the flash to the camera we remember each other with
(smiles as big as the deficit)
is this a complicated joke we laugh at more than think about
which chicken crossed the street
which walk sign do i fall over to
which store do i buy the prescription
she can’t hear her own desperation
it’s in the wood that was cut to be rebuilt around her
none of us hear our ancestors
hear the (dinosaur computer) eggs we were cracked from

my ear was to the pan
listening for fire
and meat to cook it to
(Speed Levitch riding a bison on ground zero)
i die before i fall off
my saddle in my mouth
head in holster
our emotions were equipped with a thousand security cameras and barking dogs
with a workcrew of others to handle our own thoughts
they carry my food chain as i walk into the cafeteria
competition in the market was like feeling up a stuffed bra
hand in the meat cutter eyes on the milk udder
tissue stuffed into my(pre-cut)eyes i used my looking muscle well built scarecrow standing head first into the crop (our flag - a scalp on a stick)
(they cropped out my frown
(put a moon under my factory harvested cow (had over how to pay for dinner)
(crouched over
over my desk)

there is work in silence
we all thought best alone
so we left
out all the details when we would speak
gave back only saw dust no rings (except on the desk wood holding our drinks)
no buttonwood with its arms out holding money
they cut off my imagination and started counting my rings
we purchased miss liberty
from a cemetery (sold grave rubbings as art)
hawked our eagles for pigeons and crow bars
broke our selves out of broke
by buying in
george washington on wall street with his hand on the wall
the only thing to hold
i hold her throat
way down where she once said it
like a
chair under me
with a rope around my neck

there’s more get off in going
than there is in coming

unless going is going(coming) back

eyes breathing like olypmic swimmers
(heart racing)
head of would
drowning in my strings

i put on puppets like socks to fall asleep in the lights coming thru the blinds
put on myself in the lights coming up for the next act
eyes like intermission
like holes
like opportunity for new real-estate
i died in chapter eleven
bunny ears and
eyes hanging out
buffalo dead on fresh grass
(every fence - a new dream to think over and out)
(to realize before you hit the back cover)

sleeping on the maps we never used
the highways became markers
for the amount of space we each had
to sleep
in

i laid there -eyes puddled hoping to catch fire
hoping there was some oil left in me
a well counting its pennies
trying to cover its eyes

we hit the back cover

(buffalo committing suicide over niagra falls)

(more funerals for the paragraph ending)
the next sorrow starts the same
i made ink for the tears she wanted to cry
but didn’t
for the sake of the flood
we all knew was a mirage
but made summer boats and inner tubes for
the alarm clock on the bed was a gun was a three legged sand bag race we wanted to be a mirage but wasn’t like the flood of time and where the water must go
like the space i store my sorrow
(like a storm sewer or gut icicle)

we feast on free soup and beds sharing each other’s measuring spoons
comparing each other’s volume
i speak so hollow i hold mountains on every side
i mumble so low i hold suburban sprawl in my emaciated gut (as if a valley)
all my emotions were inverted fat
every organ made fun of the next
my brain sucked itself in
feet thrown up

sleeping on the maps we never used
the highways became markers
for the amount of space we each had
to sleep
in

i make of the day a pile of bones and skin only sleeping in the fat my dreams peel off like tired fruit full of flies rotting from the branch like money in a bank burning my rubber eyes right in the middle of the street - a beaten piano kicks down the door waving a grace-note i curled up in a knot a ball of cello string and had someone kick me down
into the morning


alive his grandmother wants to die no one knows how to say it lacks the language
ate it all for snack his eyes were crumbs at the bottom of a bag blind rope in the sky against the (window) screen doesn’t know where to put the apostrophe
the invasion wasn’t a sacrifice we liked it up our eyes they knew it and sold us more i hope to reincarnate as a misunderstood sentence

as
the house fire as it reaches the top of my head
i jump out my intestines
never stop rolling through the day


(dropped off at the morning like (still-playing) stolen tv on a doorstep)




(the morning will wake me newspaper and old logs barely lit afire
burning down the day)

credits

from Post No Dreams, released November 30, 2010
written, played, recorded & produced by Brad Hamers
lyrics & vocals by Brad Hamers
mixed & mastered by Big Pauper

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all rights reserved

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about

brad hamers Portland, Oregon

writer, music-maker, collage-maker,, performance-maker, loud dreamer, mental gymnast

(member of: Through Flames, Child Of No Nation, Cat Child, Dust On Snow, Two Ton Sloth, Phlegm and Al Límite Collective)

Artist at Shrine13

www.bradhamers.com
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