by Energetic Action

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released June 1, 2013

Recorded September 2011 at Westudios, engineered by Wes Sontag, produced by Energetic Action and Wes Sontag.



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Energetic Action Edmonton, Alberta

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Track Name: Becoming

) Speak plainly: try again to
speak the line you’re thinking. Thoughts:
inflections off the tongue of the mind –
tinge of blue within a gossamer sky –
hand of Christ on one’s head –
arms pulling nets in –
( Believing not in Christ,
but in his serious hands,
transparent and empty
having no bones or blood,
whose implication held my shoulders tightly –
if I could not feel Jesus gently.
And I believe not in coercion,
but in its serious hands
of which I am – but I am
as the body of Christ
meditating on high peaking suns:
I am head of sunflower;
the vision of John, a prosody:
an articulation of soul and destination;
the first seeing eye, the stiff arms unfolded;
the distance between bridges, flooded and joining;
the star within the sunrise, shining bare into existence –
can be as everything, trees now are trees becoming.
I am the red monk and the gray one; I set fires and put them out.
I am create dust from nothing. I am from dust to mountains raise.
) Thoughts:
Spring from silent corners of winter
Track Name: Yellow

I thought I saw two meadowlarks among the grasses in our yard
their song was only breeze, a plastic bag their yellow bellies

That’s not to say that’s not sacred

There are the boxcars on the day of the eclipse
not one looks up; they all just sit

As there were the anemone by yellow lady’s slippered feet
so to her sheet she will recede, that yellow lady in the leaves

The world of dew, the world of dew, and yet…
The world of dew, the world of dew, and yet the summer dress

That’s not to say that’s not sacred
That’s not to say anything
Track Name: Laura Riding on the Bus
Laura Riding on the Bus

Laura Riding on the bus, she wants to talk with us,
she asks the driver to stop with the shutting of the back door
and all along the way ladies take two seats.
How come nobody wants to sit with me?
There’s your purse, but it has no pulse!
Everybody’s got a phone.
Who are you talking to? You’re always alone.
Who do you think you’re escaping inside of?
Laura Riding on the bus, she wants to talk with us,
she invites you to take a seat at the front
but in time your attention slides.
Laura Riding took your clothes,
she took your newspaper notes, she took your headphones.
Now how will you abide?
We stop at every light. We stop at every sign.
We stop to watch the ducks begin their flight;
and there’s a man on my side, he is reading a book.
I say, Can I take a look? but he just laughs
and then he hides.
Track Name: Nightwood

“Watchman, what of the night?”

What’s the night but scrambling in the darkness for the light as silhouettes scratching at a wall to dig a shape? Don’t threads grow wild nearing the fringes? Have you seen the earth eclipse the sun? Isn’t that death long? Morning comes, but late, anew against revelers of the night who’ve pissed again upon day’s short flowers; and as spring must always be the painful stitch over winter wounds, so day comes in: chagrined, between daylight fed cyprian trees who with sultry ghosts conspire to shade the moistened nightwood floor. But withhold the moon that drives us dogs from out our kennels to tear the heart out of a man, or tear the throat out of a bitch, and see that in a windowless room confined we become a mirror unto ourselves – and there we talk of what we know, and commonalities combine to say that, yes, it would be fun to go and rage into the night. Oh, but to you who sleep: where do you say you go in dreams? What little precious secrets do your lips keep? Is it not black where your heart resides? Is it not dark under the lid of your eye? I’ll tell you, it is in mine.

“…all the windows, great and small, from which love and fear have peered, shining and in tears. Put those windows from end to end and it would be a casement that would reach around the world; and put those thousand eyes into one eye and you would have the night combed with the great blind searchlight of the heart.”
Djuna Barnes, Nightwood
Track Name: In the Hour Before I Sleep
In the Hour Before I Sleep

In the hour before I sleep I can hear my body breathe –
Up, you body! I nearly shout, but shouting with a tight-closed mouth
The bright old door is closing now as I think myself to dreaming

In the shade before the night I warm my hands in final breaths
Holding fingers soft with blood I hold as best as soft flesh can –
In the hour before I sleep I feel my body breathing!

Shadows wax across the land that I have tilled all of my life
I watch as fences, houses, sand, all wash into a common black
The bright old door is closing in upon myself as I dream

Pulling up the grass that’s gone I wonder where it could have went
When my feet have been here so long. Now I walk on a faceless wind
In this the hour before I sleep. The shoreline’s steady breathing

Blows trees that line my memory, each lungless, waterless and gray
Adorned with cups that are too small, they drink themselves to wash away
The bright old door is closing now upon me.
(And I dream
the night that is for want
of day
plucks tiniest flower
Track Name: Wounds

I lock the door and windows when I’m alone
I watch the door and windows when no one’s around
I look before I answer the door so you know
I see you before you see me
I keep a gun in the closet by the door
I keep a bullet in the chamber of the gun
I don’t put my hands in my pockets so you know
I am ready when you come for me
I have a freezer filled with eyes that I’ve plucked from my skull
I keep them in darkness so they can’t say what they’ve seen so I’ll tell you
I know my body better than you know
Track Name: The Lapping Sea
The Lapping Sea

To say goodbye again beneath the window, resonant:
as with the day, so too the bed: steeped to fullness in your dress.
Into the wind I wave a hand to all that’s blowing by –
I have yesterday on these palms. I have yesterday imprinted on these palms.
There is a life of lingering, prolonged and stuttering between
the lapping sea and two wanting feet, two wanting feet in leaving.
But what can stay on this sinking beach?
Will these each not be made sleek then missing sediments – sentiments?:

Your unswept hair… a tidy bed… my buttoned shirt… your summer dress… moments alone:
our unturned stones…

There is an indelible mascara mark upon my sheet.
You were so beautiful that night so soft beneath me.
And I won’t wash it. I won’t try. Everything that comes will leave, does come to leave.
The seasons change: I’ll go – I’ll come their way. The seasons change.
But there is a life of lingering, prolonged and stuttering between
the lapping sea and two wanting feet, two wanting feet remembering.

There is an indelible mascara mark upon my sheet.
You were so beautiful that night so soft beneath me.
And every hour I have leaned over, so stretching for your cheek,
toward that morning of our hearts opening.
Track Name: In the Morning
In the Morning

in the morning there’ll be snow patiently melting and today I breathe as
snow patiently melts not caring much that it is leaving –
in June there will be girls I’ve never met and on some future date
from that one I will still never have met them
far from now is not the same as far from here where every room is
but one empty room in eternity but every inch cut thinly
to fill up the little seconds as they come undone
the bows in hair on feet with shoelace tied just once and then
in the morning there’ll be snow patiently melting and last night I dreamt of
waking just to watch it in its leaving –
packing bags I had unpacked yet unpacking all I had not
tomorrow I will still move objects laying
but tomorrow is not the same as yesterday’s tomorrow where I
pulsate blood between me draw my breath and feel some fingers
write the last word then the last word and some things are never done –
the goodbye –
so long