My whole life has been anticipation. I'm always waiting. Put all my eggs in one basket, count all my chickens before they're hatching. They fall and break when I'm not watching, but that's OK coz then I'm still waiting. My whole life has been anticipation. Nothing is as much as I think. My whole life still is imagination. I am not as much as I think I will be. None of that intriguing ennui for me - I know just what I want, I can never hold it still in my hand. I know I should do things as their own reward, but I've never found anything that I could not wait for. Do you know what you want? I know what I want. I never get what I want. Do you get what you want? Do you put all your presents from last year gathering dust in the cabinet for next year? I guess I got what I want, but I always just put it away. My whole life still is anticipation. I'm always waiting. Now when I wake up in the morning I don't get out of bed I just lie there to see wait and see if something's happening to me. When will anything happen to me?

So you want to be - I mean it's not too clear to me - do you want to be apart of an economy? Can you afford to be? Do you spend unavoidably? Can you afford to be? How much would you pay me? Do we live unavoidably? Do we live quite legitimately? Will we know unavoidably? Gotta make sure we get some money. Yeah, king customer, you know you can always be right. King customer - come take some guarantees. Buying a product’s not all bad, yeah, sit on my throne. Being a product’s not all bad. O please legitimate me. Do you love our logo? Are we embodied perfectly? Go draw our logo everywhere you see. Gimme customer loyalty everywhere I see. I wanna see your face on a dollar bill. Maybe I’ll see my face on some coins - just some coins. That can be some power, real powerful. We can control what we buy, yeah, come and buy. Guarantees, guarantees, oh don’t you love guarantees? No, I don’t know how my satisfaction can be guaranteed. Wait, money in itself is not anything, but without it I am so worthless, yeah, we’re pretty worthless. Ok, Ok, it’s just a symbol. So then what’s it stand for - is it love or something else? What do you stand for - is it love or something else? What do we stand for - is it love or something else? So you want to be - no one asked it of me, and aren’t we all already apart of economies? So, king customer are you fully satisfied? Yeah, king customer, you got your crown in a plastic bag. Attention and money - can we ask that of thee? Attention and money - are they scarce commodities? Do we play legitimately without a generous fee? It’s just a little funny how much we need your money.

O my heart called out across the canyon in hopes of a reply. But there was no reply. O that deep, wide space seemed so inviting I thought I'd hear a cry. O that big space is a little intimidating. I thought I'd hear a sigh at least. But there was no reply, no peace. O my heart looks left, my heart looks right - don't want anything out of my heart's sight. O my heart looks right, my heart looks left - still feeling quite bereft. Look a pretty brown gown coming towards me but only dust on the wind melts into the sky. O wait, I think I hear something real nice and low O quiet, I think I hear something sweet and low. It's worse than fake sugar - it's only my echo from days ago, no reply. O my heart grows tired of waiting here. It goes diving deep into the sand. My heart, like foolish hearts before it, went diving deep into the sand. But my cry could not be stifled - it only muffles any possible reply. O my heart back out stares down at the river. My heart has nothing else to do but sit there and quiver. That river still digs in the ground for millions of years never hears my sound. What's a heart to do? It doesn't get any rest. What's a heart to do? It just beats in your chest. If it stops it won't start again. Do you think that a heart has friends? The heart cries out with every beat a synecdoche that's cruelly neat. My heart gets closer to the edge, my heart looks the other cliff in the face, my heart is reaching over the ledge, my heart begins to race. O my heart cries out across the canyon in hopes of a reply. O my heart doesn't want to be satisfied anymore it doesn't want to die. It wants to give comfort, but there's nothing to accept it here in the desert. There's blood in sand still waiting for your outreached hand.

White summer flowers look like snow, though they never feel the frost. All of the flowers blooming bright probably have some exact cost. All of the flowers and everything else seem to have some definite cause. I had some bad dreams late last night then wide awake I felt quite lost. I saw some same sights in my waking life that I thought I saw first with eyes closed. For all of my sights and all of my dreams must there be some definite cause? There are some bugs and some plants that grew to look like each other. Some people in love seem to grow seem to grow to resemble one another. Whether it's simple, whether it's clear, there always might be some definite cause. What's sure to occur I haven't heard but if I do only time will tell. Correlate some coincidence and you may cause some grand fake cause. What causes success is not definite, and I'm still looking for the key to failure.

Did I play it all wrong? Did I make the wrong moves? Was I moving all wrong? Did I make the wrong plays? Did I say the wrong thing or was it said all wrong? Was I speaking all wrong? Was it one wrong word? Was it one wrong word or was it just misheard? Misheard or unobserved, was the sentence sentenced? Was the whole thing wrong or just one little part? Was it wrong in its heart or did it just look wrong? Ain't always obvious when you make a mistake. Not so necessary that you learn at all. You're only sure to wonder, wonder, wonder, and wonder some more. It may be better when it's glaring. Now none of this matters and we know that well. Still we're so bothered, under a spell. It hurts to regret, hurts more not to know. Did we play it all wrong? Did we make the wrong moves? Were we moving all wrong? Did we make the wrong play? Was it wrong off the bat or in the long run? Was it wrong in the run or wrong right away? Were we given a chance or ignored at first glance? By chance, ignored or judged and abhorred? Is there someone at fault or is it just circumstance? Are we victims of chance or is the fault all our own? Criticizing seems fun when you're so sure. It goes on and on and on then things get obscured. You can't criticize when you're mystified. You only wonder how long can everything seem so wrong.

Among the chaff, you still sift, everyone sifts. There is a bar or a café. A microphone is on display. Some people sing some of the time. They say their name then it’s out of mind. You can tell what’s good so, so fast. But you’re never sure where you saw it first. There’s winnowing all around. Striving must be its own reward - that never happens around here, no golden opportunities. One tough guy Jim says to Lou "don’t like the look of you so if I push you just what’re you gonna do?” From skinny Bob and Lou there’s only silence as an answer. Even as a cheap shot artist Jim’s quite a failure. They say he hits on Lisa more in front of her mother. Lisa says he must just want his face doused in water. He thinks I’m cool everyone really needs a punch in the gut. Pacing around Elle here he’s stuck in such a peaceful rut. Among the chaff, everyone is quite suspicious, but who can know what’s truly hopeless, unless the threshing floor is where they are. You know the faces, but not the names. Bob’s sure they know what he thinks of himself. Some people hate the sound of their voice, but they think that’s better than loving it. Tom’s terrified his beautiful face does not distinguish him at all. No one admits the terror of embarrassment still scared they’re un-unique and disliked. For a moment everyone has their eyes screwed up towards the light. They want the fire that gets attention not the one that destroys. They’ll clap and cheer here just like at football games. Jim says “Hey! the tallest guys used to become kings now look at them all they ever do is get in my way.” Sylvia and Elle argue over whether there’s amoral action. Johanna in the corner wonders if there’s any good reason to write new songs at all since there’s so many already and what’s the difference anyway. Among the chaff, there’s merely glimmers of glamour here, and they're all doubted later on. All without armor, no one’s that strong. Everyone's a hunter here, and they’re all looking to be hunted here. Still no one agrees on what’s a big deal, but then no one here knows the time. The eyes of all Elle’s fresh young suitors catch her light, glimmer and shine while she thinks “O aren't I loved?  O really tell me aren't I fine?” A few of them looking at her think they've got the full dope. According to Jim they really don’t, but she’ll never care to know. In bed at night they think she doesn't know what she's missing. Tom and Lou looking on don’t realize people rarely do. On the street they run into future stars every day that just haven't quite yet caught any flame. But not here where fame’s bright fire's out from everyone looking to ignite, brilliantly burn all the rest. Among the chaff, some tropes abound, they jump around. All singers say something's like wine - some stupid similes seem so sublime. It seems that all of those around hate to have an audience of only other supposed artists. Now they don’t want to look in the mirror. All are unsung, especially singers. They look around for some applause, then they look for some good reasons to resent all those resenting them. For a second, Sylvia thinks Bob’s so, so, so strange like he doesn’t have any wicked desire for fame. While he’s singing she’s impure and he is so true. She thinks she cannot ever truly understand him. Then he says come buy my t-shirts and some tapes and be sure to look me up on youtube. Yeah everyone here wants that same simple thing. You want it too, why is it so embarrassing? For three quarters of a minute the lights go out all around. Only passing cars obliquely illuminate the bar. Everyone feels freer to be themselves, whatever those are. The darkness lifts a large weight, it’s strange all the chaff’s still so flammable yet none inflames. Maybe there’s both holy fire and hellfire - either way you can burn up or safely carry the flame. The difference is ceasing to matter here, though, where everything’s left cold and dry, failing to ignite. A few probably dance in the dark but no one’s sure. Some dancing might ignite - it doesn’t cast any visible light. You say you look for the best.                      You never settle for any less.                       You never settled, you never stopped,        and so the best is never caught. We want to find what’s beautiful that’s what we say, but is that true? We want no part in any chaff some think the greatest will always last. The oldest man around has tattoos for every James Bond. Connery on his forearm and an octopus on his shoulder. Name’s Leonard, Lou’s jealous he found something he’s sure is great. Oh well you’ve heard that history is gonna decide what’s art and what’s not in the long, long run. But Leonard’s now convinced everything once said to be great is later said to be awful and everything once said to be awful is one day then said to be great. Among the chaff, under big shadows, they don’t see right . Everyone’s got great people’s names. When sentimental they feel a burden. Everyone wants the leverage. They wanna lord it over the others. They look for whom to look down on while everyone else is looking down too. Some say they all are still silly children refusing to grow up responsibly. But wouldn't they be considered adults if they got famous enough to succeed? Still some punks don’t want that vulgar mass audience. They only wanna be big in the noble underground. They say they stand for social justice, equality. They hate careerists with bar tours and big interviews and elitists and corporate hypocrisy. In their dreams they’re on the cover of some zine with a circulation of nearly seventeen, which can’t be read by just anyone on the street. Among the chaff, there’s still a strong fear of ridicule. But few admit it, since they're afraid among the chaff they will remain. People only love all strangers in the abstract, not in person. They won’t speak, when they’re surrounded then alone outside they think they’re strange.  No desire for winning drives them. It's fear of losing motivating now - not success's bright unseen heaven, only failure's familiar dark flame. Bob thinks “aren’t I handsome? aren’t I kind?” Candy says “who's too pretentious? who’s gonna justify yr hairstyle?”  Lou thinks “we don't care about social status only relevance.” Leonard’s fine with failure, doesn’t want to stay in a world so insular. While everyone thinks “What’ll people think of this when I’m so famous?” They’d debut again when they think they've got a bigger crowd, when they learn to spell their names strange. Yeah the third first time will really be the charm. Among the chaff,  you sure can't tell what is wheat. It seems that everything always repeats, and it no longer makes sense to me. Lou and Elle apart from the crowd squint back at the others thinking   I'm so glad I'm different. They’re still looking for categories, but aimlessly, isn't it? Everything seems so simple when you only make mistakes. We can’t escape opinions here. O where is any fire with nothing to say?

How can there be one little word for luck? How is it understood? Does it make sense to ask if it exists? Can one discover that? Is it an absence? Does it explain everything that cannot be explained? Is fate so much different? Is there a purpose behind luck? Is it unintentional? How can there be one little word for luck? How is it understood? When people say "by any chance,” “for whatever reason" they never think too much. Still under scrutiny events can seem beneficial and incalculable. And sometimes it’s humbling just to say, "that was not me, o that was only luck." How can there be one little word for luck? How is it understood? Bad luck makes people kill themselves, but good luck makes them want to live. People say, “we’re lucky to be alive.” Among the flowers and all the bee hives. And in the sunset, you’re sure they’re right. But if you’re stung, you may change your mind. Was it a lucky bee? An unlucky bee? How much control does it have over you and me? How can there be one little word for luck? How is it understood? Maybe it cannot be talked about - it’s only felt and can’t be analyzed. But that seems suspicious - it came from somewhere. Did it explain first the good or the bad? Does it take a charm to be charming? How much chance is out there in the world? I only know there’s one little word for luck and it seems understood.

I saw you walking through the snow, but there were no footprints in the snow. There's always human shapes and shadows in the night, but they never move like you do. Shadowed, at first, I thought you had no clothes, then I remembered the cold. All my breath covered you with frost, when I cleared the window I thought you'd be lost. Half out hanging low in the sky, the moon blended with the streetlight's shine. All the air gilded around you showed me you bright but obscure. You exhaled bleeding color in the air. In foggy focus I couldn't focus anywhere. There was no sound anywhere around. I don't think I could hear you if you called out. I know you can get lost only miles from your house. Wandering back and forth I wonder what you're looking for. Don't you want to be found? Sure rooms from outside windows look small and pitiful, then you remember you are strange and foreign too. Outside seems quite familiar. At night you might forget there's a town. Don't you want to be found? Without other people it would only be dark and cold all around. I saw you walking through the snow, but there were no footsteps anywhere in the snow. Next morning, there were deer prints on the ground. There were wolf tracks in my garden. They all start and stop at strange spots criss cross, criss cross without thought. Late at night there must've been some rabbits running around, but, again, you were nowhere to be found. In the night you never leave my sight. In the night it only seems you are alone coz I've got so many windows. My body gets real, real warm late at night when I'm real, real tired and don't think quite right. I see doors open, I see doors close with no one around, nobody close. How is it that you're outside haloed while I'm stuck inside, too hot, catching my eye in the window looking back at me hungrily? I can always see your breath I can see you are defying death. I saw you walking through the snow, I don't see my footprints anywhere in the snow.

Nothing’s hidden from those who wash the dishes. O that water gets purple and pernicious. If you think yr doorman doesn't know where it's at, you forget yr doorman is not a doormat. Think they think only the best succeed? They know life's just a lot of lotteries. There's no need for a meritocracy. They know life is rigged from the start. They know life's as crooked as a heart But who cares what the poor people know - Threats only come from those who got the dough. We live in an age of mass-manufacture. All the people are merely actors. Now there’s always a sea of strangers, but nobody drowning wants to be a re-arranger. People get to be commodities too. Seems like money decides what is true. Nowadays, forgetting is frightening. Meanwhile nearby the tensions are heightening. History’s gonna be a real good friend, Only if history ever feels it should end.

I licked the envelope closed, but the letter remains and the taste on my tongue - the glue reminds. I remember when I wished to be heard. I thought it would heal any possible wound. When I write it so simple and clear it never gets sent. It's more polite to conceal, less shameful to hide. O it's been decided - desire should be hidden. Letters never answered may sting more than those letters never sent, and it makes people timid. We think we're so safe in our silence and darkness.

We want to carry that torch. O can’t we carry that torch? We may get burned, still we'd carry that torch. There’s some kinks in our plan - we wanna get out of the underground, but it gets velvety and so, so soft. We can lie down in it all day long. We’ve heard too much exposure makes you fade. Sometimes we still want to be nice and bright. Do you need other people for that? Maybe we shouldn’t admit this if it’s wrong to want to be famous. We want some thin wild mercury sound, but whose eardrums will bounce around? I guess you're s’posed to climb the rungs and rise in the ranks - trust in time and luck - yeah, but flames burn out. We want to, can’t we carry that torch? Hand it us, please hand it to us, that bright and fiery torch. We’ll spread some light, we’ll spread some warmth if we carry that torch.