“Blackout” Scratching itches with the broken bottles of the elixir we so lovingly coddled. Rich or poor, we’re out the door , eating dirt on the pavement floor. 3 a.m.’s the only time anyone can ever unwind. Forsook humankind, outta my mind, looking for nothing ’cause there’s nothing to find. Tonight. Tonight, I'm on my own ’cause I ain’t got a thing to show. Gonna topple it all down for reasons you'll never know. The lights are getting thin, and in this life, no one wins. Count your loves, count your sins— the blackout’s here, my vision dims. Yeah, that girl’s got a pretty face, and to her, you’re just wasting space. All your friends might as well let go ’cause in the end, they’re just like you. The lone wolf will lurk the dark, the church, the school, the stores, the park. No life to get, just streets to roam. Never there yet, yeah—no real home. Tonight Tonight, I'm on my own ’cause I ain’t got a thing to show. Gonna topple it all down for reasons you'll never know. The lights are getting thin, and in this life, no one wins. Count your loves, count your sins— the blackout’s here, my vision dims. Mom never wanted us to be this way, so vagrantly latchkey. Decomposing morale: It’s so sick. My thoughts hold the wick. Each way you turn, it’s a dead end; nothing but bad energy to spend. A dud from the start, tear it apart. All I know now is a nuclear heart. Tonight And tomorrow it will be all drowned out—a mystery. The truth I know is always fake with no reminder but a headache. Tonight we’re on our own Tonight, we’re on our own ’cause we ain’t got a thing to show. Count your loves, count your sins— the blackout's here, our vision dims. The lights are getting thin, and in this life, no one wins. Count your loves, count your sins— the blackout's here, my vision dims.

“Retirement Plan” Put in your brain and hands for that wage. Penny after penny, hear the clinks n’ clanks. “Mr. Jones, once you put in the time, we have you covered from dollars to dimes.” You can work forever, but there’s no point when you can’t hold a job with achy bones and joints. Said they’d cover you—broken promises abound. They’ve hit the handle to flush your vigor down. It made more sense way back when, when the reds were such a threat. Had it made, full pension paid, they said. “You and the Missus will coast with us ’til you’re dead. You’ve borne the burden for our revenue. Docs and meds are the least that we can do.” So you lived the life that they decreed you earned, ’cause their cushion, in the end, is well-deserved. This American race promises a golden finish, and your old boss decides if you were ever in it. It made more sense way back when, when the reds were such a threat. Your wife got cancer along the way. It’s a tough ordeal, but you fight it day by day. The letter comes. You’re coverage is done, they say. “Look at these bills … How will I ever pay?”

“Keep on Snarlin’” Walking these streets, I talk to myself. Short on sleep, I’ve got no one else. In a city beleaguered, you see Number One, and it’s like that anywhere, so I’ll make my own fun. I’ll keep snarling. It keeps me going. No more crying—I’m making it happen. No more denying it’s my page to blacken. No more espying forlorn futures. No more open sutures. It’s a tug of war around these parts, in a place so far from anywhere else. My hands are calloused; I’m empowered. My roar’s my ballast, and all shall cower. I’ll keep snarling. It keeps me going. No more crying—I’m making it happen. No more denying it’s my page to blacken. No more espying forlorn futures. No more open sutures. I’ve had a taste of flesh of the napes of necks of the sheep who bleat with dead grass to eat. Their round, black eyes just made to cry—it’s a shearing meal. Oh, it’s such a steal! And I’m fucking starving. Transformative, I gnash my teeth. Performative: Glory be to me. My soundscape, my land, my free bastion. My axe in my hands. My realm everlasting. I’ll keep snarling. It keeps me going. No more crying—I’m making it happen. No more denying it’s my page to blacken. No more espying forlorn futures. No more open sutures. No more forlorn futures. No more open sutures.

“Ghost Teachings” Took our tired and poor, huddled masses, damned. Imbibed in desert shores, bastards of the land. Victims of language and industrial chains. The Cosmic Race, divided, plays the Anglo game. Manifest destiny breaches borders and coasts. White walls close in on me in the left v. right hoax. Sequestered, pervaded, mis grampos envejecen. Culturally castrated … y, ¿cómo se dice? Ghost teachings … Bleaching … Reaping rhythm from me. Espousing … Lousing … Arousing el fuego en mí. Globalization and capital gains—the upper-class haven forsakes running away. Yo soy chicano. American raised. “Conforming to tradition”—? My story’s nary praised. Ghost teachings … Bleaching … Reaping rhythm from me. Espousing … Lousing … Arousing el fuego en mí.

“The Sleep Eater” You say, you say goodnight. You say, you say goodbye. Do you say anything at all? You say, you say goodnight. You say, you say goodbye. Do you say anything at all? You close, you close your eyes. You close, you close them tight. Do you see anything at all? Forsake, forsaken prayers don’t work for naysayers. Can you stop anything at all? ~ THE SLEEP EATER SWALLOWS, SWALLOWS YOUR DREAMS. THE NIGHT IS NOW HIS, YOUR THROAT AND YOUR CHEST. The apocalypse will come in your wildest dreams, when it feels like you can’t even breathe. Shadows knock in corners and pull sheets and weigh their elbows on your feet. Foreboding pressures press on your ears, and, through the dark, you feel their sneers, like anesthesia that won’t leave your head, as the dead ones take turns at the post on your chest. THE SLEEP EATER SWALLOWS, SWALLOWS YOUR DREAMS. THE NIGHT IS NOW HIS, YOUR THROAT AND YOUR CHEST. THE SLEEP EATER FOLLOWS, FOLLOWS THE SEAMS OF THE THREADS IN YOUR SHEETS, AND JUST FUCKING EATS. THE SLEEP EATER SWALLOWS, SWALLOWS YOUR DREAMS. THE NIGHT IS NOW HIS. THE SLEEP EATER FOLLOWS, FOLLOWS THE SEAMS. YOUR THROAT AND YOUR CHEST. THE SLEEP EATER SWALLOWS, SWALLOWS YOUR DREAMS. THE NIGHT IS NOW HIS, YOUR THROAT AND YOUR CHEST. Dirty, callous voices bounce wall to wall. You try to shout back, but no one hears your call. Pathetic, useless—like a cripple abed, the shadows grope away grope away like they’ve never fed. Awake at this hour? Not your eyes, but your mind, aware of your body in a state so unking. Paralyzed yet feeling with your brain a’buzz, you ask, “Why?” and the answer is “Because.” THE SLEEP EATER SWALLOWS, SWALLOWS YOUR DREAMS. THE NIGHT IS NOW HIS, YOUR THROAT AND YOUR CHEST. THE SLEEP EATER FOLLOWS, FOLLOWS THE SEAMS OF THE THREADS IN YOUR SHEETS, AND JUST FUCKING EATS. THE SLEEP EATER SWALLOWS, SWALLOWS YOUR DREAMS. THE NIGHT IS NOW HIS. THE SLEEP EATER FOLLOWS, FOLLOWS THE SEAMS. YOUR THROAT AND YOUR CHEST. THE SLEEP EATER SWALLOWS, SWALLOWS YOUR DREAMS. THE NIGHT IS NOW HIS, YOUR THROAT AND YOUR CHEST. Feet press down hard upon your trachea, force-feeding you some awake apnea. you must have awaken some portal to hell, ’cause you don’t deserve what befell. These demons, malicious, devour your rest, and your daytime strength is what they divest. Counting minutes and hours—the time that they slurp—’til you have to get up at the birds’ chirp. THE SLEEP EATER SWALLOWS, SWALLOWS YOUR DREAMS. THE NIGHT IS NOW HIS, YOUR THROAT AND YOUR CHEST. THE SLEEP EATER FOLLOWS, FOLLOWS THE SEAMS OF THE THREADS IN YOUR SHEETS, AND JUST FUCKING EATS. THE SLEEP EATER SWALLOWS, SWALLOWS YOUR DREAMS. THE NIGHT IS NOW HIS. THE SLEEP EATER FOLLOWS, FOLLOWS THE SEAMS. YOUR THROAT AND YOUR CHEST. THE NIGHT IS NOW HIS. THE NIGHT IS NOW HIS. HIS.

“Summer Nights” I remember, back in the day, waiting for the show to start at Kilby. Looking tough and acting cool, but being amazed ’cause it was all new—a world I’d never seen, yet still familiar, like a dream. I wish it was as simple as it seemed through my eyes when I was fifteen. All the years, the summer nights, the crushes, the friends, the bands, the fights; it made me feel so alive, I didn’t even have to try. All the years, the summer nights, the crushes, the friends, the bands, the fights didn’t feel important then. Now I know: It made me who I am. Getting older, but I’m not jaded yet. Even though I’m bitter, there’s magic in seeing new kids singing along to all of these old songs. And I’m comforted by the fact that my scene is still intact to provide a safe haven for fucked up kids like I was then. All the years, the summer nights, the crushes, the friends, the bands, the fights; it made me feel so alive, I didn’t even have to try. All the years, the summer nights, the crushes, the friends, the bands, the fights didn’t feel important then. Now I know: It made me who I am. All the years, the summer nights, the crushes, the friends, the bands, the fights; it made me feel so alive, I didn’t even have to try. They never said there was hope for us. Said we’d grow up and progress, lose the drive and lose the steam; live a normal life of complacency, and disappear amongst the “in” crowd. If that’s so, why am I here now? All the years, the summer nights, the crushes, the friends, the bands, the fights; it made me feel so alive, I didn’t even have to try. All the years, the summer nights, the crushes, the friends, the bands, the fights didn’t feel important then. Now I know: It made me who I am.

“Vapid” I’m not a genius, but I know what a dolt is. Never paid much credence to what eleanor said … but your constant “who did whats” has got me so frustrated; discourse abated. Vapid— apathetic— it’s not that abstract. Vapid— apathetic— who cares how many drinks it took? Fucking read a book. Don't wanna be elitist, but i wanna talk ideas. Let’s discuss their oblong shapes, obfuscate the window panes— but your talk of the creeps n’ sluts has got me so frustrated; discourse abated. Vapid— apathetic— it’s not that abstract. Vapid— apathetic— who cares how many drinks it took? Fucking read a book. Your constant “who did whats” has got me so frustrated; discourse abated.