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Dreams of Field Recordings

Goodness

by The Hotelier

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1.
We sit and we talk, not of much but of little. I see the moon, the moon sees me. I would smile but it would be meaningless. I wouldn't want it to be. But in the landscape of tilted heads while the sky sheds skin on my body I feel my voice quiet to a halt, and This is where I am. You in this light feels new/woken Woven deep until the roots touch dryness against the fallen limb of oaken. This place speaks. It says many things of Nothing, makes no demands, and offers no salvation. Only repeats what you say in a way you've never heard it. An echo off the far wall. A reflection of your face. I see the moon. The moon sees me. That's enough.
2.
3.
Piano Player 05:34
Inside your room there’s 40 few 
 remaining figures of new moons 
 to curve around your axle heart 
 in hopes that something new will start. 
They’re winding down they’re closing ranks 
to rest another 30 days. 
 You lay and watch them wax and glow. 
 You hold them in your hand and let them... A kid half my age, baby’s breath and meadow sage clutched in her hands like trophy game, just like the wild world was tame, was granted home and tender care into an awkward piece of ware three-quarters full or quarter-drained and both adversely sure how long they will sustain. My eyes greet hers and hers do mine and then the room becomes her shrine. An older ma'am sets herself straight and then she smiles with 88 remembered loves and morning suns until her woven was sung. Her fingers dropped like falling rain. The entire room awash with the sustain. You always said that you don’t dance but then a heel turn to a shadow stance. I’m rung like sodden cloth. And the autumn leaves turn over across your floor, into the hall and I’ve declined into a crawl and you decompress and fall away but this floor is raised on beams of trust and there’s room enough for both of us so stay. Sustain. Inside your room there’s 40 few 
remaining figures of new moons 
 to curve around your axle heart 
 in hopes that something new will start. The things you grow are set to die. 
You cling to them with knuckles white. 
 So wind me up, damper to floor 
 and I don’t know if I know love no more.
4.
5.
The icons cluttering your bureau are eyeing me as I walk in. Your guardians are present in here and I trust that they have always been hiding somewhere in your closet, collecting moisture from your face. Your secret world speaks without words and I feel clumsy and cumbersome in this place. But if I want them too will they speak to me soon in a language ripe for my listening? When the harsh sun breaks in your stained glass eyes the refracted light keeps glistening. A drapery of clashing fabrics in every corner of your room. They hung like lace on the whitewashed face of the walls that are begging you to move and leave the things that hold a history as if they're present in your will. A brand new place a few miles away but I just wasn't sure I was staying still. But if you choose too it's a honest move and I guess that it makes for no deferences. There's a gleam of blue from a cold night's moon. Just a touch too soon, Two Deliverances. On an empty panel floor I lie here for communion just waiting for one more but in the quiet empty hours of my afternoon what am I supposed to do? But if I want them too will they come to me soon? Will they fluctuate between midnight and past noon? Was kind of banking on a future that'd be involving you but I couldn't ask this of you. In this young night's sky there are pinhole lights. Find the shape of a harp and an arrowhead. Do I hear your tunes or acknowledge wounds that I got from rubbing elbows with a sharpened edge? But if I choose this too does it count as my move? I can't drop my history just to become new. Now swimming through the nothingness and the absolute but I couldn't ask this of you.
6.
Dizzy drunk and throwing up, I finally stopped my spinning. I guess I figured you'd show up with all my old belongings saying "there you go my friend I'm sure you've saved another" Collapsing walls around me. I need some brick and mortar. Took a swing at shortened cuts made a wrong turn somewhere. Unprepared for fucking up should remind me I'm still there. and I am feeling sharpened splinters cutting through my center to hear you as you're coming around again. You've taken pages from a book you couldn't see your face in. Claimed the author was a crook in need of illustration. and You were begging me for more. Did you get what you wanted? The feeling in your fingers, right back from where you started? You made a map of how you loved and drew a perfect circle. I scribbled a Venn diagram. I guess I lost my stable hand. and I am feeling long cold winters. I'm lost and can't remember the ways to keep myself as warm as then. I owned your name, your body shape. It's sits like family; A grateful offering reflected on the lake. New slight of hand will trick my memory, a veil on everything. The paths that you could take. You said you see life in exploding color like the flash of stars or New England autumn. I should've asked if you could stay. I should've found a way around it because now all I see is grey all trapped in memories that surround it. And in your father's summer home he squared and framed a question. A collage of news print on the wall makes me feel cut in sections. and I am shaking off my chagrin, flaking snow, and dead skin that buried me in all my past mistakes.
7.
Your grip on my forearm, insert the wrong name, holds me at your nightstand just inches away with letters from faces we'll ask if you knew who send out another yearly review. I'm coming for you. We're making attendance. We're following through. So "start the next post card, share with me the news." Your highness has spoken. I'm coming for you. From Gingie in San Fran, "the grandkids are dear." The nurse from at St. beth's was widowed this year but their making arrangements. You jest and allude and nod at Sai Baba. You laughingly rude, "I'm coming for you". Entirely brazen while coming unto your sunrise apartment and incredible view of birds that keep chirping "I'm coming for you." I'm coming for you. Your beautiful brightness, perpetually new. So old in your body, the youth's in your mood. They're keeping your space there they're dying for you. We'll sing your good graces when they come for you but until that day's here I'm coming for you.
8.
9.
Soft Animal 04:04
We were cloaked in the awning of night or early morning. 
 Through the headboard there’s a flicker of light 
 and light warning. 
 Sophie’s on the bunk overhead reading Mary Oliver 
 while I lay still in my bed. 
 That’s when I see you there. 
 Fawn doe, light snow. 
 Make me feel alive, 
 make me believe that all my selves align. 
 Fawn, doe, light snow. 
Spots on brown of white 
 make me believe that it is all alright. 
 Your soft face pressed to the wilt, 
 first spring sunrise 
 standing low on quivering stilts. 
 In attempting to keep you to stay 
I am raising no alarm. 
 It is just us two alone. 
 Then I feel a sigh of wind, your raising eyes 
a rolling fog that lets you hide 
 and I can hear the rustling as you go. 
 Oh, go slow. 
 Fawn, doe, light snow. 
Make me feel alive. 
 Make me believe that I don’t have to die. 
 Fawn, doe, light snow. 
 Spots on brown of white 
 make me believe that there’s a God sometimes. 
 The ring around your mothers heart 
 grows saccharine then falls apart 
 and I can hear the rustling as you go. 
 You camouflaged or clearly seen 
and nameless in the in-between 
 and I can hear the rustling as you go. 
 The firing of rifles off 
 the echo hits you hard enough 
 and I can hear the rustling as you go. 
A soft and skittish self inside 
 shines golden, opal, chrysolite 
 and I can feel the rustling as you go. 
 Oh, go slow. 
 A mob a voices harmonize 
 and tell me that your not alive 
 but I can feel the rustling as you go.
10.
Sun 06:42
You and I'd escape the night and call it summering. I'd hold your rays and ride for days while you spin endlessly. You undone, I felt safely strung between all your nerve endings. So you made waves to congregate and finally ask of me, "Will you lay with me where the sun hits right? When the tired days can't remember how a blurring haze came across your eyes. Will you lay with me forever?" Sun. Focused state. Wide awake in the eye of everything. You and me twin-firing machines spending all our energy. I felt the shade cool and grey and glanced up suddenly. Aurora spray, a horizon away as I shout at the top of me, "Will you lay with me in the sun tonight? When the tired days can't remember how a blurring haze comes across my eyes. will you lay with me forever, Sun?" Carved your name across the sky in a fit of exiting. With the polar night just in sight, will you come and visit me? You and me twin-firing machines spending all our energy. If it's you undone, then I can't sit with you. And it's you undone and I can't sit in your sun.
11.
Feeling erodes moving like wash against the limestone leaving you cold when I'm leaving you all alone. Hugging the walls finding the switch to turn the light on to find you in a ball wrapped in the bedding. But You in this light feels like a thing I can't remember. You in this light feels like a thing I can't remember. Feeling disarmed, a little raw, and decentered. You in this light feels like a thing I can't remember. What if we don't? What if we never know? You in this light feels like a thing I can't remember. Clutching you close your body felt like December shook awake early from the rock of your tremors. Tracing my thumb over the miles of your memory. Now a bit brighter with a smile and a laughter. One in the same and what am I to be after, dancing in private with the concept of never? You in this light feels like a thing I can't remember. Coming around again, making some space to mend, gaining the strength to stand, feeling the love again.
12.
Fear Of Good 01:42
Skin, caked with sap of pine, can't catch against my roaring mind. The coat slips off my etched spine. It's a weight no longer carried and I'm freezing. A message to my brother sky, I long to hold your hand tonight but when up against this summit's height I'm tense, I'm small, I'm speechless and I'm freezing.
13.
End Of Reel 06:16
First breath following wakes of the palms pressed, brushed on my arm and then wave stretched sending me off to descend, leading me into the bend. Keep pulsing my hand to the beat of you. Shapeless hiss hanging over the mixes of midnight and twilight. It passes, dims to make space and suspend while she's singing her swan song again. It got stuck in my head as the sound of you. In the night, we will celebrate cyclical spin as we ritually send off the fire at both ends yet I'm blanketed, wet with the thought in my head: I don't know what I want what I want's where I've been The kind of thing that hangs inside a moment. A kiss of good that's temperate and golden that permeates the surface of the woven and seeps into the piece of you inside of my head. Goodness, present and hallowed is thanking walls of the shallow embankments for flowing in over the ranks of soldiering messes of dayglow blades scorched by hovering halos. Washing away until I don't even cringe at the thought of you. In the light of the day, stabilize and reset and then burn in the image until I can't forget and end ceaselessly speaking until Nothing is unsaid. I don't know what I want what I want is where I've been. In the night will rest you head into my hands will you disrupt this pattern from starting again? If I ask you for Nothing will Nothing there stand? I don't know what I want what I wants where I've been. and Oh, the resonant calm comes hard and hums off the walls of the block uncarved. It's new, but I don't know what to do with sight of you brimming.

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released May 27, 2016

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The Hotelier Worcester, Massachusetts

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