I can't tell my friends apart.
I can't tell if they're my friends,
or if they're just too polite.
These failures I create don't count as art.
They're a means, but not an end,
and I'm too ashamed to write
my sins.
It's way too late to count my sins,
but here:
I vanished, both from you and from the South.
The years afterward, they flew,
and without a word from me.
One letter (sounds so easy, said out loud)
would have helped to stitch the wound
that won't close until I see
the gates,
or clay, or nothingness,
that you're behind,
below, within.
credits
from Cementing EP,
released February 14, 2016
INGREDIENTS:
guitars
fake bass
a trumpet recorded from far away
cheap wooden chopsticks on a wooden table
a little baby tambourine
the clapping of some nerd's hands