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?