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EEG 02:20
Someone I once knew died just the other night, and now I hold the key to his soul. I tried to get out of the blizzard, but now all I can see is snow. A friend of mine once told me 'bout a man who was made of gold. This was around the time all your EEG equipment got sold. Funny how after 30 minutes, everything can seem so old. I read a newspaper once, in which everything was written bold. People used to tell me I would reap what I had sewn. This was around the first time I started a fire of my own.
Homecoming 04:08
On our way home, we had to cross a border. On our way home, we drove the old car. On our way home, we met people who we had met before. I'm trying to get back home, and when I get there, the first thing I wanna do is take your gun, load it with ammunition, and die, because you couldn't do it for me. This is just the way it goes from here, we know the procedure. We have to talk. We never talk. And you're getting older, and you're getting faster with your gun. And you're getting faster as you run, and you're getting older. And we're having too much fun. We never talk. I walk too fast. I walk too fast. I run too slow. I know you're bored. And you're getting older, and you're getting faster with your gun. And you're getting faster as you run, and you're getting older. A man on the subway was saying this into my face. A man on the subway was saying this into my face, and I couldn't control myself. Something had to go down that day. And we're getting too much sun. And we're getting too much sun. And we're getting colder, and we've become infested. Someone is trying to contact me, and if he is able to contact me, that would be the end of this walk.
What he really loved about this neighborhood on the West side of Brooklyn was the small hour between night and day. When dawn faded in through the brownstones, the streets slowly crowded with people, and the Interdimensional Diplomat came in, through sky.
Pastel 06:51
Help. I can't find the keys to my car. But I'm leaving. It's Winter. It stopped snowing after the holidays, now it's just cold, and dry, and barbed wire fence. I stare down the roads, I walk on both ends of the street. I bring my guitar to the woods, and say one last goodbye, because all these random people are invading my life. I need them to take me to the city. Because I can't find the keys to my car, and they're all waiting for me out in the blue air, and the empty trees. Driving down the evening road. The night road. Mountains. Buildings. Places I've never been pass right through, pass right by. Driving down the midnight road. The dawn road, mourning. Thinking about what I've left behind. Not thinking about anything. Talking. Listening. The radio stations don't play here. Just static. Thunder. Lightning. Another night. Where? Why? Stadiums filled with people glowing in the dark, green and blue. Hitchhikers. They don't look like us. They wear the same clothes, like half police officers half detectives. Sleeping waiting why? Why. We reach the city. It's always nighttime there we stay in a hotel. The city seems small. The TV only gets one channel, it has no name. The content always relates to something that was lost. A lost fawn, a lost child, a lost dog, a lost celebrity, a lost wallet, a lost mind. They interview the owners, and that's all we see, because there are no fawns, there are no children, dogs, celebrities, wallets, minds. Not in this city. But we stay because the apartment building is tall and modern, filled with images of amazement. I bought a notebook yesterday, and drew inside of it the storyboard of my life. And when I finished, there were all these blank pages. I got a call from an old friend today. She moved to a house, where she sits out on the porch in a rocking chair, surveying the garden. She would like to see me. She would like me to meet my daughter, and take her home, where she belongs. She's 7, going on 8, but time moves slowly here. I have time to get her before she loses my trust. I didn't have time to ask if there was another person who would also like to come with me. I picture the three of us forgetting everything, finding the keys to my car in the attic of my old house, driving away under the cold winter sun, asking questions about what happened, with no need for answers. Just the thought of seeing each other wherever, whenever. Finding cold spaces in the outdoors, returning the warm fireplace. Wherever, whenever. Driving under the night sky into dawn, into day, into evening, into night. But that picture isn't in my notebook. I forgot to draw it in. The blank pages are simply blank, and it's up to me this time, because I have control. But I don't have control, even though no one else does. I keep getting calls from an old friend these days. Sometimes I can hear a young girl's voice. Sometimes I can hear a bird's song. And sometimes I can hear a faint whisper telling the girl how great she's been doing, how great everything will be. But she's not talking about me, she's talking to her daughter. That's all it is. A way to make conversation, a way to help her grow. And when she's old enough to drive, she'll keep the keys in her pocket all the time, just in case something unexpected happens. Just in case she does something she might regret.
Your Facebook page knows more about you than you do. Than you do, in your dreams. In your dreams, there's a man they call "The Masked Disturbance" from the uncharted corridors of known existence. The lady sits at the table, and everyone stares at her. They think she's kind of crazy. They call her "The Lady in Blue". Yesterday, you rode the train with a man in a vampire suit. You thought he was real, and maybe he was. It's a strange world. And when gold becomes a useless cover, I trust you'll know where to go from here. I've had stranger dreams. I've had stranger dreams. I've had stranger dreams, between you and me. A man came by from the government, and he wants to know your name. He's checked into the motel in the center of town. An expert from the top of his field, come to track down a "Masked Disturbance" from the uncharted corridors of known existence, and his sights are set on you. It's a strange world. It's a strange world, and your friends just wanna laugh at strange dreams about things they've done before. But not quite that way! Not quite that way. It's a strange world. It's a strange world, and your friends are too involved in other things. And your friends just wanna play around with strange girls, and leave them for dead when they find out there is something wrong with their heads. It's a strange world. It's a strange world. It's a strange world. It's a strange world, and I've had stranger dreams. It's a strange world. It's a strange world. It's a strange world, and I've had stranger dreams.
"Next up is Jesse... ...or, as he likes to call himself... ...or as we like to call him... CANNONBALL!" "My name is Jesse Statman, and this poem is called Facebook Poem With Me In It." I wish I weren't the subject of a poem, but I am the subject of several poems, written on your cell phone, and posted on Facebook. You wrote to me; you said I was really cool. I introduced you to my friends, digitally; you told me you were lonely. You told me I should be your boyfriend; I said yes! We were really happy. We almost threw a party, but we ran out of virtual balloons. I introduced you to my best friend, digitally, and you, digitally, told me that you didn't want to talk to my best friend, but you wanted to talk to me, but you didn't want to call me, and you didn't want to hear my voice, and the only picture I can find of you is of your feet! I introduced you to a poet named Hane, digitally, and you, digitally, asked her weird questions that freaked her out! You started gossip about me in the underbelly of the New York City Transit System, and how we were bf and gf and sitting in a tree, T-X-T-I-N-G, but I broke your heart; and you were just being really thoughtful and insightful about all areas of life, and you made my friend, who is really unusual, really scared of you, and we hid from you in the boy's bathroom at our highschool, and sometimes it felt gross to be hiding from you in the boy's bathroom at our highschool, but sometimes it felt good, knowing that wherever you were, you definitely weren't in the boy's bathroom at our highschool, because that would be tantamount to death, and later on, you called me, and asked me why we weren't friends on Facebook, but I wasn't on Facebook, and never will be on Facebook ever again in my entire life, thanks to people like you, and how dare you put poems about me on Facebook? Were they even good? Were they even poems? Were they even real? Are you even real? Am I even real? Your Facebook profile picture was of the lead singer from Green Day; is he real? I don't think anything is real! I used to think even people I had never met were real! I feel disillusioned, like the new as it becomes old.
Talk to Rosanna. Rosanna had a vision of me singing on stage with one hand; and nothing lasts except for the holes in our heads, 'cause tonight, singin' on stage without hands. I am you, but you know me; I sit between the others, apple flavored bus stop bench, and when you find out that I'm not going with you on the bus. Talk to Rosanna. Rosanna had a vision of me; she's coming in from Boulder City, Nevada, and she doesn't like it here. Says she wants to go.
Midnight, after the snow; tree branches, thick and white, hung low. I walk about our blocks; tracks in the snow from a fox. After the snow, streets light with moon flow. These are the streets I grew up on; days of a small lilac bike are gone. But tonight, I am wearing my rubber boots, so I jump and slide in the snow slush for hoots. Midnight, after the snow; streets light with moon flow. The quiet of a suburban night; front yard trampled from a snowball fight. I know the secret to where the children slept; homes where the lonely snowmen wept. After the snow, streets light with moon flow.
Driving at night on the highway, eyes fixed on the road; someone told me just that night it was hard to let things go. I've been avoiding this feeling that nothing much was real; we dance around in circles, then decide what really mattered. And it's getting colder. I don't remember why; someone told me just that night there was something after you died.
You won't last long in the shadow of your shadow; you won't last long in the shadow, and I'll miss you. You won't last long.


released January 3, 2013

Jesse made this, in the USA. 2008-2012.
Beth Heuer wrote the lyrics for “Walk After the Snow” a long, long time ago, but sometimes it seems like it was only yesterday.


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Cannonball Statman Antarctica

Cannonball Statman is a musician from New York City. He has been described by LiveTrigger Magazine as "the king of modern anti-folk", and has often been noted for his unique sound and stage presence, described by German Shepherd Records as "pure genius". His soulful, articulate songs often tell stories in nonlinear, surreal ways, with intricate, poignant guitarwork. ... more

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