1. |
Burial Details
02:34
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On a cool morning of false rain,
cruel and complicit
when the low and shameless gray sky
refuses to shed tears,
our rusting spades bite chunks from the hard red clay.
We make slow but steady progress,
as if the iron earth will refuse him too.
’Bout halfway down to the Promised Land,
having buried our lifeless criticisms of incarceration,
the four of us’ve said nothing,
beyond weary sighs and shifty eyes
at the shoddy fit of the box of yellow pine
featuring only an ancient prisoner ID# in flat-black paint.
Of a sudden, clouds rend for a paternal sun,
peering down to impart a gentle wisdom:
at the four corners where meet
Ignorance and Knowledge, Brutality and Culture,
we will find the merciful dignity
with which to treat our honored dead.
Noses rebelling against musts of labor and mortality
upon lowering him into the cold ground,
our spades direct an onomatopoeia of dirt pattering onto the box,
lending this prisoner, this man his final voice—
ha-rumpf ... ha-rumpf ... ha-rumpf—
to continue in death the path he chose in life;
he who would refuse all who would refuse him.
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2. |
In My Cell
04:19
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Forty books, mostly poetry,
religion, or politics. Four times
the number I’m allowed.
A Smith Corona Wordsmith 250
that will sometimes, while printing,
go inexplicably berserk.
Appellate briefs, legal work
from my own little war of attrition:
The State vs. Michael Owens.
Old letters from loved ones,
some who left to join the ancestors,
some who just left.
And of course, my guilt,
always in the periphery of my vision,
weighing down the air.
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3. |
Old Songs
04:26
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Old songs carry suitcases.
And decades.
Visit from a time
Where life
Didn’t matter much.
A time with no foresight
Or appreciation for the little things.
I was there
On the underside
Of an overcast
Gray sky
Walking Nowhere
Hands in pockets
My eyes
In the dirt.
A younger guy
And it hurt.
Because I never saw this far
Ahead.
Never saw myself
So behind.
Was I closing my eyes
Or just stupid?
I was there
In my ex-girlfriend’s room
The sound of clothes
Going into a duffle bag
Playing through the speakers.
I was headed Nowhere
And those bags found me here.
Too bad songs can’t
Change the past.
Change direction.
If they could I would
Point my feet toward
Resurrection.
I wouldn’t be typing this today.
At least not in this way.
I wouldn’t have forgotten
what it’s like to get up
And walk
Wherever I want.
Be able to eat
With nobody
Watching me.
Did I notice it then:
The freedom I had
To be
Or do anything?
I just hope
The next suitcase
Will find me Somewhere.
We’ll see—in ten years.
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4. |
Greed
03:16
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I would never have believed
that I’d awake one day
in a lonely cell, having stripped
myself of everything precious
that I’d always taken for granted
by shaking a fist at my creator
for ending the suffering of my beloved
in a way other than I’d imagined while
on my knees;
awaiting transport
to a place no one belongs, except
to the state, whose
main concern is the bottom line; bodies
for which they receive top dollar,
but never humans, never
souls, never mothers whose lives have been nothing
more than a series of tragic events,
and are now doomed to
walk this journey
through the wilderness with
no prophet to lead, no
cloud by day or
fire by night to prevent
the aimless wander
of the hopelessly exhausted, desperate
to be anywhere but here;
or destined—
and placed, precisely
on this map,
at this point—
a testament
that it doesn’t have to end
here, that life’s treasure
chest of grace, hope,
and redemption
can be uncovered if we
don’t
stop
digging.
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5. |
Poesy
03:02
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It’s the wail of the wounded; forsaken—
a burden, but for the breaks between
the lines. The blood shed, beautifully
inked onto the page, purged by the channel
of tears. It’s the battle between flesh
and spirit, victory claimed by the banner
of surrender.
It’s embracing the truth of the scar;
releasing the shame owned by the self
with whom you’re no longer acquainted.
It’s breaking the chains and shaking
that gorilla off your back, picking up the
pieces and patching the holes in your
heart. It’s the wonder of discovering
strength in the moments of weakness,
comfort in the unbearable truth.
It’s forbidding rage to dictate
anything more than the pressure
of the point on the page. It’s sharing the
secrets we can’t afford to keep,
displaying the profound irrationality of
our thought processes; giving the
madness a voice when we refuse to
listen to the silence.
It’s the blueprints for our hopes and
dreams. It chronicles the attempts of
the adversary and the tales of courage.
It’s that what you see in the rearview is
the only hope for the future.
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6. |
Leroy Went North (1973)
03:31
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i
let da die
cast and lay its all bena gamble
i bet half my scramble
days tween earnin keep and lonely
nights
my last might
gon strum dis here riggidy guitar
gots no home gots no star
up dere in dat black canopy
nope
i laffs jokes
be good fo ones widda funnybone
saw george price’s woman one
come ovuh from missippi she
say
leroy play
me a song dis ol man wits be quick
like a match strike an if
george gon be unda henry work
truck
imma tuck
her in widda tune that make old lovers
wonna see if covers
still get warm afta all dat time
strange
i had range
dis episode take proly 3–4
hours drank lil nap ya know
aint ben in no bed so roomy
maw
on my paw
always say outta dey 13 kids
i da chile who cheese slid
of da cracka i makes her
moan
george come home
dat white woman scream get dis nigga
off me! his hands wenna
wrenchin now im in chicago
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7. |
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And photos. Photos of me and my
new wife. He’s asking for pictures
of the wedding. He’s very sorry
he couldn’t make it. He can’t wait
to meet her. My brother is asking
if I can call a warehouse office
in Albuquerque and tell them Ray
(his cellie) is fine, and that Ray
would like his old job back, one day,
if possible. My brother is asking
for paper, asking for postage stamps,
and for a few dollars on his JPay. It’s June,
it’s July. He says it’s not so bad in here,
says he’s not getting institutionalized,
won’t get institutionalized, not like
the others. He has TV. He reads. A lot.
My brother is asking for book 5, 6, or 12
of the Women’s Murder Club Series.
It’s May. It’s March. It’s May. It’s October.
Happy Halloween, Brother. He’s asking,
again, for postage stamps, telling me
he might be programmed, sure, but
who isn’t? We all need routine, he says
that one time, after chow, they let
the guys stay out a little longer
and the guys looked at each other like
why aren’t we being locked down yet?
My brother says he’s a confused mouse
sometimes. Sometimes he won’t go out
for rec, can’t stand the fact that it’s going
to end. It’s June. It’s July. Happy Birthday,
Brother. My brother is asking for stamps,
he’s ending every letter with a cartoon
of himself, all homeboyed out,
even though he wasn’t like that before.
It’s like he’s grown an extra life in there
and the Him I grew up knowing is closed
until not-this August. I know I shouldn’t
imagine him this way. But I will always be
younger and looking up. That’s my brother,
he’s asking for stamps.
Outside, the leaves
have turned without notice. It is the week
when every walnut seems to be falling
from the sky, and every time I drive home
I run as many over as possible. It’s June.
Happy Birthday. It’s November. My brother
says he’ll write when he can, he knows
I’m busy. Everyone’s busy. It’s August.
It’s August, and he’s looking for stamps.
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8. |
Forgotten Portraits
03:41
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Suddenly nobody knows where you are.
You’re just a memory,
an echo,
an idea thin as smoke.
Your last text, call, letter, Facebook post—
only footprints in the surf.
Your edges blur and you become
a friend’s story,
a lover’s history.
Initially, you beat against the panes in set-aside frames
begging to be taken out
and rolled into motion once more.
But after a second winter,
then a third, and fourth,
there comes something serene and warm
behind the haze that smokes the broken hourglass.
Something new
and just for you.
This world belongs to you and yours
and when you glance back and recall your life’s movement
with a sigh of days gone by,
you are irrevocably comforted
having become that final exhale
that hangs in the air after the passing.
You pose
and hold it.
We are all the dead.
I am not apart from you for long,
except for breath,
except for everything.
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9. |
Gambler's Remorse
02:19
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Whisper me a secret lyric
grind the melody with my bones
let the wind from the trumpet
scatter the ash for miles
winner’s prize in loser’s grip
empty me with tease o’ sleaze
bankrupt emotions in debt
there’s no play left
I dropped a tear in the coin slot
gambled it away on games
did you make then break the rule
we both played but you cashed out
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NadNavillus Chicago, Illinois
Equal parts guitar and vocal driven, sonically and structurally diverse, Nad Navillus is the music of Dan
Sullivan.
Two releases on Jagjaguwar "Show Your Face" (JAG037) and "Iron Night" (051) proceed the latest album "Forgotten Portraits".
... more
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