The Crowd’ Train Takes the Form by Ryan Doyle
Peter Blakely
So we’ll make do with what we got, an old photo of Peter in the back of a pickup truck. Got the signs, the tambourines, the rowdy lovers in the street who wish the rain on their cheeks were tears. Cause it’s true love, honey. If there were curtains they’d be blowing in the wind. Cause it’s true love, honey. If there was a window there’d be a place for us to sing. Well, if all’s not right then why’s it feel so good to watch you, babe, while you undress. Hun’s gone to the other side of the sky. It’s not coming back for anything, not even to describe your face once more. It’s so sad. So as often as lightning, as comforting as cars can be when they’re your only soft goodnight. And I understand the ways the mean guitars are played by the hardcore kids, all right. Cause the world don’t know what’s right for us, said it’s tearing at your skin. The world don’t know what’s right, it never knew you like I did. It’s a fine place to go when you’re not going to bed and it’s all in our heads anyway. So we count our loves and we count our hates. You’re in the mirror now, so in debt, stroking your fate once more. It’s so sad. I walked to the lake and back, I’m trying not to let it show. It’s a path that can take me from where I am to where I wanna go.
Traveling Song
I wrote a song called “The Traveling Song.” I played it for my teacher. She said it was a rip-off, a song she used to know. A song she loved in high school back when she was with Ainsley and she could make the flowers bloom with her Chopin Nocturnes she played on her mom’s black baby grand at night. “Play it one more time,” she said. “I miss her laugh the most.”
The Night that Inspired Your Thesis
The night that inspired your thesis was the night the church caught fire. And I should have told you my secrets. Unlocked the tabernacle, let you taste my wine. Burn, burn the missalettes, the whole town smelled of incense. The night that inspired your thesis was the night before I had to leave for camp. And if this is what it means to die on Fire Island let us stay hungry and naked in your parents’ bed. Dawn, Dawn, don’t leave me here. In this daytime I can’t face myself. Over hills and the nighttime good, smoke made its way into my window, still all I could smell was you, babe. The night that inspired your thesis was the night after the circus packed up its things and left. You and I stood there in the field in pieces, paper plates, wet ticket stubs no good. Gone, gone, the circus’ gone. By then it was on its way up to Freehold. Over hills and the nighttime good. The sound of a train came through my window, still I can hear the acrobats singing their travel songs.
Ladybug, Ladybug
We stopped telling time. We couldn’t stand to hear ourselves counting up to twelve. By the time you arrived we started making noise. We couldn’t stand to see ourselves sitting here so bored. We’re not just singing for the Lord. This song’s for the ladybug we found on the ground. Ladybug, ladybug. We used to walk through the park. We used to walk through most any place we wanted. We even slept on the roof when the rain let up. We’d wakeup on the beach. The wind would blow us off the roof but we would land on our feet and we’d praise the Lord and the ladybug we found on the ground. Ladybug, ladybug. Oh, don’t let them disintegrate me. Let the whitewater arms of the bells ring. Ladybug, ladybug.
Autopilot
The girl with cherries in her hair, feathered hats hung on her wall and songs I’d often sleep near when I’m feeling sad or alone. Seventy-eight, don’t you see the delicate light that hit you. Seventy-nine, everything, all the time, I couldn’t wait for your limbs to bend. Hey, I’m a wreck-it-all. Hey, hey, hey, I’m on the floor of your brother’s room. Please, don’t leave so completely. All I got is a voice I can hardly feel that sings songs so contrived and constructed ‘bout my sad, old heart that refuses to heal. Seventy-eight, don’t you know the colors we’ll see when we’re loving. Seventy-nine, haven’t felt this alive since I was a boy. Hey, I’m a wreck-it-all. Hey, hey, hey, I’m on the floor of your brother’s room. Hey, I’m a wreck-it-all. Hey, hey, hey, I’m on the floor of all of your rooms, babe.
But Ours Is To Love
We’re getting married. We’re getting married. Our country’s just a mirror of us all, it’s not perfect but very good. Still I can’t stand my reflection. They’ll conduct their annual staff meetings. Entarte, entarte kunst! Due to the lack of adequate worship this love is ours anymore. What would I say if all of my words were spoken? What would I do if all of my muscles were working? This love is ours anymore. I’m getting married, just like my mother did and my mother’s mother.
The Gate’s Open, We’re Going In (Written by Andrew Churchman)
I Should Have Known Better (Written by Paul McCartney and John Lennon)
Wrestling the Russells
Arise, Arise, wrestling the Russells leaves me bright. Your shoes are tracking mud in all directions, keep them coming. A year and a half spent studying the broken and defeated. You’re humming all your songs, don’t be ashamed to sing the words, we need them. So goodnight, goodnight, from the tops of trees and one day we’ll be sure again that we got every window open, every window open. So goodnight, goodnight, our record has been played and twice turned over. Calling out your name into this notebook’s empty pages. Shaken from the wheels and I want nothing to be nearer. Shaken from the wheels and I want nothing.
For D_____
If you come back later, friend, the fables will all rewrite themselves and our arms won’t be as vacant as the downtown is. You’ll give all my goodbyes back and I’ll give you your I love you’s and you can give them to anyone you choose. You and I met at The Dregs in December, you had tassels and forests and clementines. You cued the smiles and exited the guilt, a folly I felt all my life. “Hold on to your skull,” you said, but that’s all I had to offer. The smallest room ever rented out. Summer, then came autumn. And all I can say is, La la la la la la la, cause singing never let you down like I did.
Down Come the Goalposts
I play that old piano with the damper pedal busted that gestured to me not to worry so. But I can’t remember pieces I knew before. It’s all right. They sold my piano, they took it away yesterday and left me with this space in the living room. I’ve never seen something so beautiful be so gone. Tea and sympathy, can I rest my troubles here? Shiny, all shiny, don’t tie your fortunes to the power structure tonight, under stadium lights shining through my window. Thy kingdom un-comfort, wild are bees in the summer. “Dawn, I love you” was written on the overpass before she washed away all onto the cars. Speeding down 35 I still know who you are. It’s all right. Later that morning I filled up the living room with a wild love and all my leviathans. Have you ever known someone so beautiful could be so wrong? Now coke and sympathy, we all rest our troubles here on the jetties that are overflowing, where every line comes with its own avalanche. I miss you already. Your Caroline’s my Miss Roma-Scott. I’d scale these city walls if there were city walls. I’d jump this curb and I’d be shiny, all shiny. There was shit in the gutter of our honeymoon. Why did we bother? Cause wild are bees in the summer.
All songs written by Ryan Doyle © 2003 except where noted.
