<sub>ANDREW BIRD ~ A NERVOUS TIC MOTION

Over prescribed
under the mister
we had survived to
turn on the history channel
and ask our esteemed panel
why are we alive
and here's how they replied
you're what happens when two substances collide
and by all accounts you really should've diedstretched out on the tarmac
six miles south of North Platte
he can't stand to look back
at sixteen tons of HAZMAT
and it's what goes
undelivered undelivered
and it's a nervous tic motion of the head to the leftit's a nervous tic motion of the head to the left
exorcise your cells till you're bereft
'cause it's a nervous tic motion of the head to the left
splayed out on a bathmat
six miles north of South Platte
and he just wants his life back
what's in that paper knapsack
it's what goes undeliveredover imbibed
under the mister
barely alive wecover the blisters in flannelthough the words we speak
are banalnot one of them's a lie
not one of them's a lie
you're what happens when two substances collide
and by all accounts you really should've
died...

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ ✭【ツ】✭ Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ
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Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ ✭【ツ】✭ Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.

ANDREW BIRD ~ THE TREES WERE MISTAKEN

This is a story, some kind of a story
this is a story about a boy and girl,
a girl and a boy, a boy.

only flighting.
that some boy in the dark
joan of arc
inverted crystal mountain kind of a story.

this is a story.
man, about the
sheriffs in cyprus?
something else.
translations of sanskrit.
just as my handwritten story.

this is a story where the singers begin to appear
in the spaces between all the dashes and braces
in the mothbitten story - of getting left behind.

this is a story, some kind of a story.

with the pages distressed since you held to your chest,
they were mangled and dog eared, while the rest were just
mangy in
glory.

this is a story about the memory of water
translating the sound of the traffic.
remember the traffic?
it's making you carsick all along southfield freeway.

and translating mistakes and the trees and the stake
and the trees for the woods and the sound of the trash
for the sound of the blowing leaves along the southfield freeway.

my name isn't blackbird, two tone.
feathers are warm in molasses,
twisting the words from the silence to gases.
now i don't have worry
of making it
it's so unclear.

am i dead or am i dying
or am i simply tired of crying?

my name is a blackbird, two tone.
feathers are warm in molasses,
twisting the words from the silence to gases.
now i don't have worry
of making it
it's so unclear.

am i dead or am i dying
or am i simply tired of crying?

my name is a blackbird.

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ ✭【ツ】✭ Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ
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Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ ✭【ツ】✭ Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ</sub>