Song 8 of 10 of The Mechanism's Tales To Be Told Volume 2 album

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08 Lost In The Cosmos - The Mechanisms

gray after gray 
prey after prey 
morning to morning 
day after day 

let's let 
bygones be bygones 
blackening the skies 
in the bygone style 
of soon-to-be-gone monarch butterflies— 
climb up the butte 
stare at the sun-drenched river 
clench your lids 
hurry 
carry the sight 
to the boardwalk 
lift your chin up 
open your eyes 
see a shadow 
watch as it lightens and dies. 
see a shadow 
watch as it lightens and dies. 
see a shadow 
watch as it lightens and dies. 

how can I love someone I've 
only seen in a painting? 
how can I love a voice I've 
only heard described? 
how, on the other hand, can 
you kill somebody who's right in front of 
you seem to have no trouble at all doing it 
you seem to have no trouble at all 

straw after straw 
back after back 
mourning to mourning 
caulking the cracks 

let's let 
bygones be tattooed 
upon our eyes 
let's let 
the truths 
be louder than the lies 
I feel so ashamed to think 
I used to say 
it wasn't your land 
and I didn't take it away 
it wasn't your land 
and I didn't take it away 
it wasn't your land 
and I didn't take it away 

white appetites 
killed the passenger pigeon 
white fashion 
killed the Carolina parakeet 
white silence 
kills people of color 
white power 
will kill the very current it ignited 
my own white power 
will kill a current too 
if I'm not prepared to fight it 

see a pipeline 
run along the oil-drenched river 
see us promise 
changes that we don't deliver 
see a sacred place 
watch us colonize 
the boardwalk 
see a fallen cup 
someone carried that cup 
when it was full 
it must have taken every ounce of strength 
to pour the liquid 
down their gullet 
yet a cis hetero white man 
emptying his gun 
seems to have no trouble at all 
carrying it for a future bullet 
seems to have no trouble at all
credits
from Incredible Distance [EP], releases February 9, 2018 
Stephan Nance - vocals, piano 
Jon Caponetto - trombone 
Adam Caswell - programming 
Sarah Evins - viola 
Alexis Garnica - trumpet 
Dylan Myers - bassoon 
Sarah Rosier - cello 
Arrangement - Adam Caswell

White Appetites

Someday, 
Maybe ten, maybe twenty years from now, 
There will be a knock at your door. 
There will be a man standing there with a clipboard. 
And you will sign your name on the dotted line. 
The man will hand over 
A parcel bundled up in wool. 
You will look down to consider it; 
You will look up to say thanks, 
And the man will be gone... 

But a plaintive cry will draw your eyes 
To a baby pelican 
Sitting on your welcome mat, 
And the pelican’s eyes will dilate, 
And the eyes of the trees will dilate, 
And you will be a sea anemone: 
You will contract upon this contact. 

Will you feel small? 
And will you feel scared? 
And will you gasp for air 
And find there’s nothing there 
But a fatal mistake? 
Will you finally weigh what you have given 
Against what 
You take and you take and you take and you take. 

Somehow, 
You will think once again of the package in your hands 
You will begin to tug at the wool. 
It will come off easily in pieces, 
But it will cut right through the prints upon your fingers and 
It will pile up around you in a mountain of gauze 
In a car on a hospital train, 
Where the surgeons lack credentials 
And the scalpels are just saws. 

But a plaintive cry will draw your eyes 
To a baby pelican 
Sitting on your welcome mat, 
And the pelican’s eyes will dilate, 
And the eyes of the trees will dilate, 
And you will be a sea anemone: 
You will contract upon this contact. 

Will you open your arms 
To the birds? 
Will you open your arms 
To the trees? 
Will you repast them 
With your own blood? 
Will you finally give back 
The breath that you take? 
(and you take and you take and you take. 
You take and you take and you take and you take.) 

Somewhere, 
Underneath the many years of stinging fibers, 
You will find your gift. 
Will you ever understand what it means?

credits
from A Troubled Piece of Fruit, released 23 July 2012 

Stephan Nance, piano/vocals
Merlin Showalter, drums 
Tim McLaughlin, bass/guitar 
Angelica Sather Hodgetts, cello

Stephan Nance — Paid By Weight

Trouble is, 
Nowadays, 
We go walking in the rain 
Protected by our plastic parasols. 

From the mists 
To the waves, 
We don't think we ever will implode again, 
The mighty leaden rollers rushing in to kill us all. 

But the ships are swiftly sinking, 
And the submarine in which I am 
Sequestering myself 
Is failing to produce a proper answer. 
I'm thinking to myself, 
I'm telling me that deftly I'll be 
Giving my advice to all the world, that 
The cells we're in are splitting 
So it's looking like 
It's likely that it's cancer. 

You looked sweet 
Standing there, 
Smiling at me sleepily 
Suspiciously like someone who is dead. 

Shake the sheets, 
Let 'em air, 
We'll go down in history 
Conspicuously grinning like the cat who's in the story life we've led. 

And the ships are softly sighing 
As the sedimental seafloor says 
A prayer to bring them home 
And sings a sullen cradle song of death. 
I'm thinking to myself, 
I'm telling me that certainly we 
Haven't got the heart to tell the world that 
The tumors are malignant, 
So the time is coming 
When we'll breathe our last breath. 

From the start, 
Where was I? 
I was not the kind of guy 
To look a fading flower in the eye. 

Cross your heart, 
Hope to die, 
Hope to soon be sailing smoothly heaven-high, 
Surrounded by the seabirds as they skim the starless sky.

credits
from A Troubled Piece of Fruit, released 23 July 2012 

Stephan Nance, piano/vocals
Angelica Sather Hodgetts, cello/melodica 
Tim McLaughlin, trumpet

Stephan Nance — Immunodeficiency

I can’t wrap my head around 
The notion that the present is a gift. 
You know me well enough by now 
To know I know that your devotion 
Has a tendency to shift. 

I can wait for you forever 
If that’s what you want. 
I can be a fountain for you 
Always filling, always spilling. 

I burnish every surface in the house 
But still I’m haunted by the dust. 
How much of it is your skin? 
How could I begin again? 

You know the words to all my songs 
And you prove it to me every night. 
But could you guess the lyrics 
To the song I didn’t write?

credits

from A Troubled Piece of Fruit, released 23 July 2012

Stephan Nance, piano/vocals

Stephan Nance — The Song I Didn't Write

[...] 

breaking through the ice, I 
scuttle down the riverbank till I 
espy the arboretum 
in your house… 
in your home… 

and covered in mud, I 
crawl into a carapace, 
and down the hallway 
you, the coniferous buoy 
bobbing on alpha waves, 
inspire a siren song, 
compose a nodding poem 
that will never see the light of day 
that will never see the light 

(but I) 
read in a dream 
Japanese garden 
head on the shoulder 
Japanese maple 
read in a dream 
Japanese garden 
head on the shoulder 
Japanese maple 
read in a dream… 
read in a dream… 

crossing crooked bridges, 
safe to knit you any garment now, but I 
cast off my crafty armaments, I 
cast you aside and I 
scoot away 

but didn’t we ditch those demons? 
are we not free to freeze and thaw as we please? 
to perch on branches 
whittled into benches 
built for human 
shivering 
un cœur en hiver 
un cœur qui ne verra jamais la lumière 

(mais je) 
lis dans un rêve 
jardin japonais 
tête sur épaule 
érable du Japon je 
lis dans un rêve 
jardin japonais 
tête sur épaule 
érable du Japon je 
lis dans un rêve… 
lis dans un rêve… 

everything will be 
simple someday soon 
everything will be 
simple, oh so simple 
everything will be 
simple someday soon… 

Простите мне, что я решился к вам писать. Перо в руке— 
вырезано имя на стволе. 
Меня кожа покраснела на свекольном красителе 
Вы меня поймали с поличным, читающего во сне; 
Ирландца, ходящего в шотландке, я люблю! 
Неразумно, но безмерно— я люблю! 
Относительно дополнительной сосновой шишки— 
Я не беру в голову, не беру в голову. 
Собственно я вырою уютную яму ему. 
Очевидно, язык мой — враг мой. 
А языка чужого я не опасаюсь; 
не боюсь укрепиться в густолиственном лесу! 
Тучи собираются над мной, а я пережду грозу— 
и как только вы дадите оценку 
я дам вам компенсацию, 
и секретно, в карман пальто, окаменелую незабудку... 

[...] 

I don’t want to be forgotten 
I don’t want to be forgotten 
I don’t want to be forgotten 
anymore 
anymore 

denuding adamant layers 
I peel past a period of interregnum and 
inherit the gilt cardboard crown from 
the downy-crested phoenix— 
my predecessor in this queue of 
panels in triptychs 
painted and pruned. 

the kingdom’s a sham; 
Hamlet without the Prince— 
and though a tree you may well be, 
I am not convinced. 

copper head on hickory shoulder, 
curled under covers, 
a fetal web of words… 

read in a dream 
Japanese garden 
copper head on hickory shoulder 
breaking through the ice— 
un cœur en hiver…

Stephan Nance — The Song I Didn't Write

Sparkbird

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