I took a slow trip from the heart of the Earth to a place that doesn't exist;
I moved through a million seasons and songs, burning oceans,
and cold streets decorated with puddles of broken glass
and the disintegrating men who stand on street corners, shouting,
"graveyard, graveyard, this here's the graveyard!
Get your fresh graveyards here, only $15.99, that's right!
Everybody needs a graveyard, 'cause everybody dies!
Tomorrow morning, it could be you."
I always wanted to be on the run, or on the road,
depending on how the story is heard.
I wanted to be completely alone, except for the people I cared about,
who I might've seen passing through, in a small cafe, a pizza shop,
or the side of the road, next to the bus station;
it's a cold Christmas Eve, here on the westernmost edge of Manhattan,
the sun buried under the Hudson River till morning,
which feels like forever.
But it's warm over here, in the skylight diner;
we eat corned beef hash, drink black coffee,
and stare into each others' eyes.
The peculiar electrical charge that often lies dormant in your heart
invites me to know its true nature,
before scurrying from my sight in shock
as a disintegrating man bursts through the door, screaming
"love! Love! Love! Love! What is it really?
Every last one of yous is a product of love,
that's amore, the moon hit your eye but it felt like a kiss,
the sperm hit the egg, while the other guy missed;
that's what it's all about.
Did you know millions of Americans die every year,
due to chronic love deficiency?
And you, my dear listener, have got to be
one of the loneliest motherfuckers on the planet
tuning in at this hour, on Christmas Eve of all nights.
So call right now, you filthy degenerate,
or tomorrow morning, it could be you."
I'm so happy you found me;
I just got laid off at the black paint factory,
and OMG,
do you see what I see?
All my degenerate friends and I want to do is be
in the light of love, infinitely.
And the smiling old men without room service
to bring them to their knees,
they can no longer tie their own nooses;
what a tragedy this all is.
But this is not my song;
this is not my world.
And we all scream "na na na na. Hey!
I've got no time for this shit when it hits the fan.
This is not my song;
this is not my world."
You're dreaming;
looking into windows from the train, and wondering,
because everyone surrounds you,
like parasites, or mutual friends,
depending on how the story is heard,
and Ace spends his last night on Earth
with the people he cares about,
in small cafes, in pizza shops, in diners.
Yes, even in diners.
Ace wished the night would never end,
just sitting there, talking.
He knew that land was just a prison;
a prison with no guard, but gravity.
Through a twist of fate, he found a way out;
they found him there.
...but we all scream "na na na na. Hey!
We’ve got no time for this shit when it hits the fan.
This is not our song;
this is not our world."
In line at the grocery store,
in the middle of a forever war;
I don't wanna be at war no more.
I don't wanna be at war no more,
I don't wanna be at war no more;
I don't wanna be at war no more.
I want to die by the ocean, at dawn;
to be stabbed and mutilated by a trio of smiling men.
I don't want the ocean to swallow my remains
like some clever Hollywood bullshit;
I want to vanish into the air,
and the men to follow to who-knows-where,
almost as if we were never there,
in that old harbor city by the ocean, at dawn.
I don't wanna die on the street in Manhattan;
not London, Vienna, Trnava, or Toulouse.
I don't wanna die in assisted living.
I don't wanna die in a hospital bed in Cologne.
I don’t wanna die in an aeroplane or a ship.
I don't wanna die at night on the highway, alone.
I don't wanna die with dignity or with grace.
I want to die by the ocean, at dawn.
I love the sound of the ocean at dawn.
I love the taste of honey on a man's thumb,
the smell of chocolate factories from the street,
and all the secret melodies in a song.
I love to cry watching soap operas on repeat,
I love the promise of arsenic and a gun,
I love the great sidewalk mosaics of used bubble gum,
and I want to die by the ocean, at dawn.
5 NYC antifolk luminaries, and 1 Cannonball, all did a couple live recordings for William Blake's birthday in 2014. I got a concussion jumping off a chair during my first song. It was tons of fun. Cannonball Statman
Live EP recorded in Berlin during my 2017-'19 world tour, a few hours after Cannonball (the Labrador retriever I was named after) passed on to the next dream. Cannonball Statman
