Were you a young man when the war came?
Were you an old man, did they all talk the same?
Were you nervous about that old flame
Burning again?

Do all the trees these days say the same exact thing?
Is that shitty bar down the street only place?
The only place where they don't look away?
Where you can hide away?
The only place where they ask your name?

And when you answer...
And when you answer...
And when you answer, do they listen?

We drove so far in that eighty-two caprice.
A boat of a car to hold our fears and our dreams.
We tucked and rolled for what feels like no reason.
Just to get far from the changing.
The changing of seasons.

Seasons

I try to be a man of the kind that I was made to
but something's always coming up to pull me down.
And now I'm in the cold always shaking like a coward
Listening for danger, never hearing the sound.
So make yourself some tea and keep it on the burner
Something warm to fill the hole and keep me out of the ground.

I remember hearing something 'bout a light and a tunnel
Makes me sick to think it all depends on time.
If grace is without age it's got a premonition
That I'll jump off a cliff so it can raise me back to life.
Something bloody, something perfect, something unmerited
Something bottomless that cuts you open like a knife.

Something Perfect (wip)

We're told that the glare in our eyes is
not a spark, it's not fit to cry
It's not the glow of a future that's bright
But we're young....

And we'll grow out of it it but we still
check for monsters under our beds.
It just seems the older we get
the more that they seem real.

But there is something good
in the sky, they say.
Near the sundogs that speak of grace.
But right now heaven 
seems a cold, cold place.

Better get your boots on
better cover your face.

And I'm slow to relate when I see the
things that I've never set out to be.
But you can keep your thoughts about me
and how I spend my time.

And I guess I'm unable to keep all of the
demands that are placed onto me.
But grace ain't always quite what it seems.
We hid it with the games we play.

And there is something good
in your eyes, they say,
Near the lies, near the stories, near the rain.
And so right now, I guess,
I'll just do what you say...

I better get my boots on,
better cover my face.

Something Good

I ate a book out of context.
The setting was a small room.
The setting was an allusion.
The culture would be changing soon.

The moon is a destination,
a garden in waiting.
So plant a fiction, and watch it grow.

And watch it all grow....
But you didn't know,
what you couldn't have known.

The car broke down on the way to the valley.
The dog pissed on the kitchen floor.
The family has been tapping their toes,
I guess domestic tastes just don't cut it anymore.

The moon is a destination,
a garden in waiting.
So plant a fiction
and watch it grow.

And watch it all grow...
But you didn't know
What you couldn't have known.

We didn't speak the language.
We didn't know our geography.
But we laid down on foreign soil,
and made a country just for you and me.

The moon is a destination.
A garden in waiting.
So plant a fiction,
and watch it grow.

And watch it all grow...
But you didn't know,
What you couldn't have known.

Plant A Fiction

Only For The Day

We are all suspicious as we plot our way
The path took a turn, we just went on straight.
And no matter the game, I wish you well the same
But the prairie wind does not know my name.

So we broke our bread in a house of salt
The light poured in, but we just wanted out.
Took our view from the bridge just like we always did
Drinks in our heads, cigarettes in our mouths.

————

Oh…the setting sun
Oh…another day come and gone

Like an old man in a garden our backs hurt and we started to grow,
But there’s so much we don’t know.

I’m always afraid that I’ve shown up too late
The world favors a man who is on time.
There is always something to sit and contemplate
A baby boy, a big idea, a word to rhyme

We lighten our heads, lift our hearts, question death
Our glasses empty, but I’ve got more at home.
Work our fingers, work our minds to the bone every time
To make some difference, a salt house to call our own.

————

Oh…the setting sun
Oh…another chance come and gone
Like choir we will sing, and like a drifter we will pray:
“Dear God, what the fuck? Amen.”

The Setting Sun (scratch sample)

O Come O Come Emmanuel

Some modest recordings as I am learning and re-learning songwriting, recording, and various instruments and sound makers.  

Matthew Hom

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