Statues stand as still as me, moss covered into eternity, but who knows, who knows how?

Thinking out aggressively, and then acting out so passively, but who knows, who knows how?

Race to the ideal screeching halt, pretend it's fine or not my fault. Conceal the things that make it so, and spin around until I go....

Moving only purposely, and then paralyzed by antiquity, but who knows, who knows how?

Writing my own recipe, the concoction that keeps stopping me, but who knows? who knows how?

(Crosstalk of two verses)

Who knows?

The Cycle

Buried in the thoughts of what is, and what never was. One thing that was never there until it becomes, the thing that was always there, and was there because, it had always been the thing it always was.

First note rings, upon these aching strings, tensed and pulsed, out from the voice it sings. Bored eyes lull in cemetery dreams, red beads glow in the dull and dusted scene.

Setting sun, scram or stun, hold your breath, it's strum or run.

Pitchforks and torches, knives held in belt lines, all pointed to the one that just stands there, wordless and sweating, echoes sit frozen, melting away on the tip of the tongue.

Now it is, the thing that was never supposed to be, one flash was all there really ever was to need, the look, that has always been the end to the means, what no cash or gleam can swing.

Stranger things are all that the song can bring. Unique calls to the thoughts that spring, all move through the lone point of view, masked and marked until the words ring true.

Setting sun, scram or stun, hold your breath, it's strum or run.

Strum or Run

Ahh! Not too long from now, (it may have happened already, who really knows?) Everyone, in every town, in every city, in every state or province. They will be asked, no they will be told to drop everything, save for the clothes on their back, and report to a checkpoint. A single point on the map. Every man, woman, child, able or disabled. Map reference 31.374 Degrees North, 88.4744 Degrees West. Everyone, no questions asked. Map reference 31.374 Degrees North, 88.4744 Degrees West. No questions asked.

So the exodus will begin, every man, woman, and child will leave their homes, their homes! and walk in four single file lines, one north, one south, one east, and one west. George the teamster with the broken arm, Elise the young pregnant girl who is expecting at any moment, and Nikolas, the actor. And more, and more! The military will be asked to police the effort, with the expectation being that they will police themselves upon arriving at the destination. No one will know what awaits them, and everyone will merely follow the simple electronic signs which direct them.

The first to arrive, Javier and Henrietta, an old married couple who live nearby, will come to where all the arrows point, and find a white chalked line drawn on the unpaved road. They will look behind them and find the masses angrily urging them forward. After passing over the white chalked line, an electronic sign will thank them for their participation and invite them to leave the premises.

Two weeks later, a letter will arrive in the mailbox of every one of the millions of people who passed over the white line. The letter will read:

To whom it may concern, at the date and time specified below, you were officially acknowledged to be in existence. No reply is necessary.

From the Bullhorn

I've walked along the pantheons, made strangers fear my name. Up a ladder, through rings of fire, I've achieved all my aims. But still an ache inside persists, I'm still a mortal man...

Not like you, hero of history, falling upon my knees, the years were better to you than they'd ever been to me. But I know one day for sure that everyone will know my name....Statues of me will keep yours in the shade.

Accolades and long parades are small compared to this, you've painted your name across the map and signed it with your fist, but will you ever change the world like my peers all predict?

Down they go, oh eons ago, statues fall to dust, away the minds, the memories, the climes, from my hand will spring modern--Down they go, oh eons ago, still you're left with this, away the minds, the memories, the climes, from my hand will spring modern times.

Caesar and the Statue Alexander

Well I'm a fact in the books of history, I as well make this exist, but I can't compete with the loudening parade, who are content to discuss their personal bliss.

We've survived "them" against "us", but the public demands a buzz.

Oh Alright!

A system of concentric circles that embolden and erase my name. Just as quick as flick of the switch, they create the winds of change.

Oh but the public demands a buzz.

The Public Demands a Buzz

Fleet of foot, without excuse, examined lines and crooked looks ahhh. Concrete clues, all while amused, searched high and low, predicted truths ahhh.

Slipped between these machines, their buttons and their wires, extracted all the data before they become expired.

Line by line, string, code or grid, the language speaks to highest bids ahhhh.

Steadied hands on shrinking keyboards, clustered digits fall, over driven by this existence, stutter, stumble, stall. What you get when you've got the information all, falls to you, frozen modules, at your beck and call.

What to do, which hands to use, with no ideas, but all the tools ahhh. Wait for cues, and skies of blue, the perfect time just passed on through ahhh.

Slipped between these machines, their buttons and their wires, extracted all the data before they become expired.Under lock and key they sit, their bursting boards on fire, and still the human touch remains the once thing it requires.

What You Get When You've Got (The Information)

We both started up from nothing, and we wore our amulets, all our silly superstitions makes me feel so second guessed. Pencil on a piece of paper, mattress hung from balls of twine. See you at our next chance meeting, tricked myself a second time.

It's your choice, you do what you want, remember here it's all speculation now.

And here you talk about it, all things you'll never know. They tell me he's no fortune teller, he tells you every time you go.

You'll get your money back, slipped under the door, rules and revelations, make you feel so sore. But tell me what you think right? What's so close at hand? Go invest in light bulbs, I'll help you pretend.

And here you talk about it, all things you already know. They tell me he's no fortune teller, he tells you every time you go.

Fortune Teller

Tunnel digging, gripping hand by hand. Empty pockets grow full with sand. We used to need help to pull us over, from the place where we built our land.

The shocking truth discovered, tripped, held, and bound. Through and against!

From the floor, with shadows on the wall, in secret rooms where they screen our calls, and all our echoes were just now spilling over, repeating words like they were our own.

Stubborn meanings trap and smother all the nonsense, and in a world where interruptions make no difference, we always feel like starting over, or telling stories to ones who can.

Through and Against

Witchdoctor

Gone to the well too many times, for buckets full. Two years for me to find what was respectable. These episodes where damsels dream of certain woe, oh tons of snakes, what will it take to really know.

Charm me, charm me, out on the hot rocks looking for answers, charm me, charm me, out in the tall grass.

Slipped underfoot, go and take your turn, don't roll your eyes. Play hide and seek to stop and quit, your big surprise. Thrown down your skin, then soak and rinse, get up and go. Oh tons of snakes, what will it take to really know?

Mishima Strange