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Foxes Have Holes
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Two Strips and a Gram
well I could tell by your reaction,
you never saw it coming.
you've gotta keep your eyes open,
and keep looking on.
somewhere between your intuition,
and subtle misdirection,
you lost some sense of purpose,
you wrote on your own.
breaker, breaker, am I coming in?
can you hear me clearly?
these conversations never end
the way we want it too
and there's still so much to say
there are sirens so loud,
on a loop throughout the town.
and it's strong, and it's wrong,
and it plays all season long.
It's alive, and it's well,
and sometimes it's hard to tell,
if the rope, it'll hold,
with every year we go.
It's a rut, and a crutch,
that we have been through too much.
It's a lie, and a night,
we've seen through a thousand times.
there's a light outside my window,
there's a candle burning by my bed,
but I can't see, for the life of me,
anything up ahead.
and in this state when the lights turn red,
you can always still go right.
so keep your head up, keep your eyes down,
maybe you'll find where you went wrong along the way
I find myself going futher up the shelf,
hoping word gets out when it hits the ground.
and our race seems perfectly okay,
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with the way that it all breaks up and down.
you've gotta keep on going through the motions,
until you get the rhythm,
pace your steps with syncopation,
and keep marching on.
using your discretion,
when looking for an answer,
you'll find it's what you couldn't admit,
all along.
from the shine of the light, channeled down from the moon,
to the haze of the fog as the day was renewed,
I got off at the post, on the field, by the well,
each time I return, it gets easier to tell;
that I spent so much time trying to gather my thoughts,
I kept boxing and boxing, so much I forgot,
that the legends and prophets we all loved so well,
we were, even if to noone but ourselves.
there's a little black hole at the center of the earth,
and a treasure map of eden hidden under the dirt;
fermented fruit at the tree by the fountain of youth,
and we clung to our glass like a saint to the truth.
but our fathers tied our hands to this sinking ship,
we broke our teeth and our fingers trying to break out of the grips;
and we stumbled and tumbled along for all these years,
breaking rocks just to see the light.
I could stay and get wasted, and probably still hate this.
back porches and basements; gravel and pavement; life-threatening statements;
surplus of coffee, kids, and persuadance; shortage of money, direction and patience;
I'm not convinved that there's anyone waiting to give us an owed explanation,
one day out of nowhere from the dark.
breaker, breaker, am I coming in?
can you hear me clearly?
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