February 14th, 2017

Say hello to the right
Lost in the white house
Say hello to the right
Lost & incompetent

Say hello to the right
Lost in the white house
No one knows

We can’t wait
We can’t wait
No, when we
We see the right
In the white house
We must not hide
We must go higher
We don’t know what this madness means
Come the right
Closet bogies
Facts to fight
We know where it’s coming from
But we, we keep moving on
And we have to flex our wings
Yeah, Yeah

Say hello to the right
Lost Boys
Lost in the white house
Say hello to the right
Lost & incompetent

Say hello to the right
Lost in the white house
No one knows

The Lost Boys

Lost Boys
Lost Boys

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February 14th, 2017

Working So Hard

While Chris Penn learned to dance,
“Let’s Hear it for the Boy” inspired avalanches throughout the Rockies (you know there ain’t no mountains in Oklahoma); those sun-soaked, dance-deprived, small-town, god-fearing, tractor-chickening Rockies.

Sometime before or sometime after Chris Penn learned to dance
(Footloose timelines are anything but linear), in white, Wednesday, after-school shoes, Kevin Bacon danced a gymnast’s jig in what we dream was a poultry or hog or serial killer warehouse.

Before Chris Penn learned to dance,
Bomont was a dusty, Quiet-Riot-free environment filled with soda-loving Maries and Milos whose desperate shenanigans unfolded along infinitely-stretched, two-lane highways.

After Chris Penn learned to dance,
Bomont rebuilt itself as a Loggins-esque utopia dedicated to overcoming high rates of teen depression by prescribing herioc doses of The Carlton before it was so-branded and re-sold to the American public in 1990 by Bel-Air Danceaceuticals, Inc.

Though Chris Penn learned to dance, dance so hard, he danced so hard,
he couldn’t stop fighting even when the only thing he burned and yearned for was to dance into the heart of Sarah Jessica Parker and it was those fights, that fight, that drove her to marry Ferris Bueller (forever bound in hallucinatory matrimony deep within the crevasses of Cameron Frye’s anxious imaginations).

Still Chris Penn danced and danced and danced and danced
and so did John Lithgow and so did you and so did I and together we lost our blues in an Almost Paradise under a confetti-glitter moon, cut loose from every rule,
everybody cut,
everybody cut.

Working So Hard

Draw Me Like One of Your French Girls

until the iceberg comes,
we’ll spin tales about suicidal propellers
and we’ll lie naked for the lower classes
and we’ll make it count between cold crests.

until the iceberg comes,
we’ll taunt them rich sunsabitches
and we’ll dress like them, steal their jackets
and we’ll drag their women through the icy blues.

until the iceberg comes,
we’ll make new love in Model T Fords
and we’ll spin sick under electric orange lights
and we’ll run like pale rats through an iron-walled maze.

but when that iceberg comes, oh when that frozen chunk of humility comes, that tiny speck in an otherwise infinite ocean of circumstance comes, it comes hard, rips us a new one or two, fills our empty holes with a few precious hours of unexpected, impossible meaning, it comes when it comes so silent so deep in the dark, oh! when that iceberg comes, how it comes! how it comes! how it comes!

Draw Me Like One of Your French Girls