There Is No Year cover

There Is No Year

Buy Here

10 songs:
There Is No Year
Hour of the Furnaces
Losing Is Ours
Wait for the Sound
Repeating Night
We Can’t Be Found
Nothing Bloomed


Flashing back and forth
Through the time before
This alone
And inevitable dying

We’ll be ok through the darkness

In the still Parisian night at the Hôpital Saint-Joseph
In the whole world you saved absorbed in the shape and sound for Swann
In a childhood garden in Fujio’s arms
In the sickness and health that we couldn’t give life to
In the negative recesses of self where interpellation can’t reach you
In those Mid City memories; past, present and future
In the love that you wear on your arm to remember
In the tune that the Boss left for you to decipher
In the peace that he’ll find from the spirits that followed from Saigon to Seattle
In your daughter’s eyes where your father’s remembered
In the last time you held his that one day in September
In the Hell and confusion of five under his hand
In the Icelandic wilderness where you found how to forgive him
In the ghosts of Bergen Street that interfered in love and confidence
In This Galaxy
In the kingdom of transformation, that unbroken curve

In that still point at the center of the turning world

In this self-consuming contradiction
Once more around the sun
The more it turns the more we just deform While we spiral out singing
Of the things are ours
And the things we can claim
Humbly and in good faith

We’re together where it finds you
Guests left in waiting for a host
We don’t have to turn away
Remember that

We’ll be ok through the darkness

But in this distance

Everything starts to fade
Under the weight of silence…

There’s a man made of skin and hair and nightmare designs
His spleen stains the papers
His sex splits the headlines
He only lives through infection
Strapped ‘cross a waterbed
Kept alive by ad men and the alchemists
Up in the hills overhead

Where they force-feed him compliments within inches of death
And bring him back every time to repeat the process
Broadcast his resuscitation on the nightly news express
He only ever comes down for Columbus and Easter Sunday
To stash semi-automatics for Civil War reenactments
And be seen in his new robes for the passion plays
He reeks of everything
Fit for an uncrowned king
His pale, undead hand is hungry and crumbling,
Fingers it’s way into everything

But the cultural ratings agency has tuned out
For the halftime show at the title bout
They flip the underworld over
From the inside out
It’s the same minstrel show that premiers every night
To give Amos and Andy a break from the fight
Where they post the big numbers to multiply and divide
And subtract what remains of the ghost of white flight
To give self-justification to the flickering spotlight
And Page 3 in the Sun just a little more light
And grant Dahmer and McConnell equal opportunity rights

And the former Champ, he’s dropped-out again
Beat into submission as a 10%er
Overplayed and exhausted
Now he’s been over-fed
Stuffed with the same front pages they fed the Skin Man
He gave up the fight
He lost all conviction
He spends his days shouting at mistaken reflections:
Still frames of cracked silhouettes
With a trail of yes men: 900 million in hand
A factory—they flatter, faun and inflate
And congratulate the mess he leaves in his wake.
And he goes drifting at night
Recording gear in his pants
Hypnotized and entranced
Through the counterfeited soul of Manhattan
And Brooklyn’s corpse silhouette
Dancing to the sampled sound of his own voice,
Looped and half-lifed away
Saying, “next time you see me , you’ll all know my name is______.”
“Next time you see me , you’ll all know my name is______.”

“Next time you see me , you’ll all know my name is______…”

The Jacks and the Queens of simulated experience induced his trance
Disgusted by his hind-legged, upright audacity
They blind him with knowledge then brand him with misery
Brief the ministry of sound to have him tried and committed
For treason and anti-intersectional tendencies

Then they send him out to the briar patch

At the trial for his voice,
Mercenary ratings agents from the the cancel culture gawk on—
Bloodstones hot in their hands
Calling for the Consequence
Get Back to where you once belonged, they sing
They give him Drank and take away the water
Get Back to where you once belonged, they sing
They tattoo his face with quaint obscenities
Get Back to where you once belonged, they sing
They hack-off his tongue ceremoniously with all institutional pomp and circumstance
Get Back to where you once belonged, they sing
They tie him, to be quartered, to the four major pillars of validation
Get Back to where you once belonged, they sing
They decorate him in gold
Get Back to where you once belonged, they sing

Until exhausted
He sighs
A resigned contortion
They seize it at birth and bottle it for voyeuristic observation and
Anthropological Instruction
Then put it in a glass case
In natural history museums, pornographic textbooks,
Conspiracy websites and designer drag window displays

Dance like a monkey
Chatter like an Ape
Put on the jacket
And the full face
Everyone will applaud

Come cleanse your guilt here
They all seem to say
They clangor on this way
Until he hits the ground
Then they finally give the thumbs down

The Champ’s fading voice
Falls with a faint dying sound

But we gon’ be alright
…through the darkness

At the Network they hanged the new American flag
The heads on sticks debate and then rate its degree of patriotism
They fattened and flattered him
Flattered and fattened Napoleon
But they neglected the slaughter, caught-up in their frenzy
And now he claims king of the the air and all the beasts of the Earth
And the fishes of the seas

Mr. Jones, his right hand sits alone with his fortune
Selling skyfall insurance handbook instructions
To the double-talking, alternating idols
On how to panhandle the gold-plated streets of Heaven
And all his grotesque confessions
For all his incestuous daughters, his sons and their wives
To get his undead hands onto everything
He laid it all in plain sight
Made it sweet like a song
Too sweet not to hear but to listen
And to heed all the cyanide-laced lullabying suggestion

But we all just sing along
Family reunions and weddings
And in the choir on Sunday morning

He split into thirds for the hush money to he paid
He tried to hide away
And move on to the next woman
Tried to hide away
And move on to the next boy
For all the times he’d beaten and abused
For the Stepford syndromes he conspired and aspired to
And the chambers, closets and doors that the hallways all previewed
And hid them in plain sight
Since that first Earth age molestation
And that first fallen angel who’s now gone missing

That impressionable bride he seduced away
Unconcerned with the consequence
That touches past the grave
You unheard him say in a sing-along verse
How he’s going to make her a milk carton model
She kept her life savings in a little orange bottle
In a high, unbroken gaze
She watched as all of the world
Redefined itself in flames

And now she’s gone from the world
Without a word
Without a trace


Black tile mascara smears
Tears try to change her face

Trace a map of a human heart
With the words that can’t retain their shape

Angel Eyes; she deliver you up
But you’re born a little premature

Say the shape of a human heart
With the words that never seem to form

Five hours of exile cried
Through a crack in the bathroom door

Angel Eyes that deliver you up
But you’re born a little premature

Change her eyes in the blink of an eye
Don’t raise your voice again no more

Corner diner that we named our own
Her name is just as good as a song

Say my name when she’s walking to me
Her voice is just as good as a song

In the booth in the backend laughing,
So hard we’re both standing out

Share a plate but you’re two hungover
And lovers to the world around


She’s gone from the world
Without a word
Without a trace

There sits another man
Like the man made of skin
Split into two on a fence
One side, Al-Baghdadi
The other, Richard Spencer

And he’s dangerously more naked and much less romantic
Than the rooms and saloons of the legends would lend
He’s laced in white silver to select and to fashion;
Rehearsing salutes to 4D fornication
Grafting his own skin to pervert conversation
Of the sex and the sin and the softness of love
Of the news of the world that’s below and above:
Of unspeakable joy and the pain that it floods
Of the unnamed hatred that poisons the blood

And he breeds it together and calls it creation
With foam from the mouth
Unsanctioned indignation.

And from an altar
A throne of hot plastic and cum
He remaps the world as Accuser
In frenzy of eschatological rage and delight
Simulated revenge
Lighthearted violence
Sexual retribution
Divine assault
Pornographic sanctity
Casual blasphemes
Sacred offense
Unearned irreverence
He siphons it off to prep for assassination

Cause if they try to stop his next murder/suicide
He’s survived by the pods of his Incel tribes
Multiplied by zero innumerable times
The faceless million in a fractured heaven: chained, bound and gagged
Scattered in the winds

They bought the minds of the fateful
Then they led them all away
Where he lies there and waits
Where they all stay in hiding
Just outside the gate
At a Mosque in Melbourne
A Baptist church in Charleston
Sunrise in Sri Lanka
A Synagogue in San Diego
A Magic Kingdom nightclub
A Caliphate in Aleppo
Or a summer camp Norway

He said I started a dance I’m bound to lose
But if I get burned, you’re coming with me too
They said no one knows which way to go now
Split into thirds and let the sky explode
Then they all lay waste to the shape and shade of everything
They re-arranged their faces but go by the same name
And now they’re your judge and jury in the daily news
And sing so much sweeter than the sirens who seduce

They all sing
We all dance into the fire

But we’ll be ok through the darkness

A live studio audience followed his call
A third of their tribes crossed the picket line
Protesting and moaning their Eradication rights
Over their identical twin nemesis
Forefathers and sworn enemies
They share the same language but feign misunderstanding
To carry-on combat
Dancing with the everywhere adversary
Always, already undead
Anonymous and anyone can subscribe
To the letters sent by the secret mail
And they’ve asked into the mirror but it refuses the tale

Because there
Through a supercollider
In the eye of an needle
In the dust of apotheosis
In an open election
In a ballistic warning in paradise
Or in plain, naked reflection
Like Kane enabled
The un-lying likeness they can’t bear
Hating the truth they know they can’t hide
Gnashing the impossible divide
Between You and I

So often they return
To the jack-in-the-box priest to pray
For reinforcement of conclusions foregone and denial
He’s a multi-headed fucker with no known face

Holding a forty-five or a scimitar for when the song is through
They sit around and turn
Turn, turn, turn the screw

Gnashing at the noise it spews
Until any given moment now, they’ll spring the news

We claim responsibility for the latest atrocity
In the name of the American Renaissance
in the name of Walter White
In the name of Joffery Lannister
No, In the name of Willy Loman
In the name of Ignatius J. Reilly
In the name of Norman Armitage
In the name of Hollywood Cole
in the name of Leland Palmer
In the name of Travis Bickle

They rearranged their faces
But you know all the names
They try to change all the words
But the song remains the same
Though the change and exchange is subliminal
It’s all the husbands and bridegrooms of privileged dispossession
Laboring within those electronic fences
The keepers of incurious imagination

But you know all the names

They’ll come for that ass too
Maybe not be with a noose
Or a hood
A teacup
Or a spoon
Behold though!
Shhhhh….they comin’ soon

Here they come back again from the shadows, painting red flags green.
Here they come from the pages of Infiniti, shaking what you believe.
Here they come from the ashes of ashes, so immune to defeat
Here they come with a technicolor antidote for your Hopes and your Dreams

Here they come with a velvet revolution for the same history
Here they come with an ivory stethoscope for the pulse of the street
Here they come with their friend the executioner, trying to walk in discretely.
Here they come with the horse of Caligula trying to find him a seat

Here they come fallen down from the towers of inflammable speech
Here they come with the steadfast malignancy of an ancient disease
Here they come in with Jan and Mary Dalton–they’re so anxious to meet you
Here they come with the bones of America that they lay at your feet

Here they come in the echoes of glory that they’re trying to repeat
Here they come a half-illumination of what’s never been seen
Here they come like a million imitations of all the secrets you keep
Here they come as a crass hallucination of what it means to be free

Here they come in disguise of the nameless, reinforcing their right.
Here they come with another solution for the thorn in their side
Here they come with another seduction for to steal away the bride
Here they come to the aid of the party with a favor in mind

Here they come with the souls of the black folk that they bought at a price
Here they come a fractured messiah for the deaf dumb and blind
Here they come with the rods under the eagle, it won’t spare you this time
Here they come with a cellophane erection for every damn thing in sight.

Drag along, drag along
Low-slung fruit in high-power
Run around
Run away from your America
While it burns in the streets
Their dreams are heavier than the slaughter Overstimiulated to over-produce
A milk so sickly sweet

Then lain to rest on the killing floor
(Ex)changing mind for mind
Bone for bone
Skin for Skin
Mortal for immortal
Corruptible for incorruption
A cellophane grave (wrapped) for mass consumption
They’re waiting for the evening sun
In those technicolor catacombs that spiral outwards from the downtowns
and away from the alleyways framed for the darkness they created.

Just beyond Highway 285
You’ll find the College on the Hill
A train station in Katonah
The daemons of Cumming, GA
Bound in velvet handcuffs of Bloomington, Indiana
Universally, less honest than a camp in Damascus
Or Calais

Where faith is a festering grudge to be revisited
Remembered is romance on a bed of white lilies
Love, a vague and vengeful recollection
Here in the echo chamber, there is no relief
An old man dances
A dog in sunglasses sings
An infant speaks with adolescent swag
Selling insurance
Unattainable luxury
Poisonous and delectable delicacies
Accessories to outfit distraction
Broken bones thrown across a screen

Cue the laughing track accompany
See my skin glow like a smile
The wrong alarm bells going off
Then you salivate like the dog
What is there left here to understand?
Scandinavian sickness
No, It’s no country for the age or race of anyone

There’s a desperation in the face of the times
Too much bad make-up
Hopelessly applied
The strong man and the man of war
The judge and the prophet and the prudent
The visionless elder
The guileless influencer
The zero-sum celebrity hunger games
The anonymous audience of executioners, who cast their stones by popular demand
The cunning artificer and the eloquent orator.
The artless and ageless demagogue

All forgot the curve of the soul
Then pretend they forgot what they honestly know
There’s a hopeless glint in the eyes of their idols
Helplessly trying to hide and disguise that there’s nothing lying behind them

But the streets are raining fire
And we’ll be gone any day
And though everybody wants to breakdown under the weight
Ancient armies are reforming
Under true or false annihilation

But we will be ok
Through the darkness

I want to come back into the eyes where I was saved
Before the sky goes black in the morning
And this silence finally breaks

Where’s the unbroken curve that surrounds us in losing?
Where is that beam of light–the white city in the sky


Look at me any way she wants, man
Her scorn is underscored in love

Look at me any way she wants
It’s the voice of a woman who knows

Look at me when you’re talking to me.
Right now I don’t know who you are.

So broken can’t do this no more
It’s not supposed to be this hard

Turn your face with a touch of her hand
And she bring you back to who you are

Turn your heart with her hands in the night
When she pulls you back into her fire

Twenty-One Love Poems on her lips
She’ll sing you back into the dawn

Mispronouncing my name all the time boy
You know you better get it right

Green Chartreuse and a champagne bottle
Right here on the kitchen floor

Celebrate but the night ain’t over
Then we’re back to where we were before

Here was a time
So fast, so far away
When I was in you
I was safe
I was unafraid

I want to come back into the eyes where I was saved

(We lost the sun, Angel Eyes)

But it can’t be too late


Ain’t it funny when you’re just waiting for the clock to run down?
I still hear your voices but they’re all distorted now

Ain’t no use in running from the worm crawling ‘round in your head
Erodes all space and time and twists the shape of what’s been said
Now I’m holding two different fates but one is burning a hole in my hand

Listen for the sound

The serpent’s falling soon
Six silver strings are calling
Crying out to an orange moon
But I held your crown up higher
While they sang their tune

You held me through the fire
There’s not much else to do but

…watch it burn.

Here, where the pecking order trickles down
There are things we came with nakedly
And things we’ve been tricked into faking

Split the difference.

They’ll rearrange your name
They’ll change your color
They’ll build you a wall
They’ll lock your children in sunglasses and hold your hand while you
Look the other way
They’ll rattle you from the dead in the midnight hour
They’ll draw you pictograms of bottomless expectation and quenchless desire
They’ll hold you up to a ten year photograph and put you on trial for

But we’ll be ok through the darkness

Got to find a way to get out of it
It’s coming back around
There are options and opportunity
It’s there to find if you have eyes and ears
But it’s not with them to see and hear

And you won’t find it in the Real Book
You won’t find it at high tea with Eldridge Cleaver and Ronald Reagan
You won’t find it in a messianic waiting room at the Overlook Hotel
Sitting with Sam Beckett
Waiting for Ralph Nader, Bernie Sanders or AOC
Or in the purgatory holding cell across the hall
Where ol’ Vlado stares in excruciating boredom
At a wall that’s crying blood

It’s two minutes to midnight now
This is the breaking point
The reaping of the cold wind
And they’re still building houses of cards

But let the bow break
Let the cards all fall over
Let the thief come in the midnight hour
Let their kingdoms crumble
Let their tongues tie and lies entwine
Let their lusts multiply
Let them rumors ignite and their wars deflate
Let the sirens sing out their nightmare (song)

Let in the intruder
Let it spiral out until the day it all falls
And wait for the sound

It’s peace of mind

And among all the things appointed at the hour of death
Sweep it all under the rug
Under the bed or behind the desk
Or just plain out of sight for the arrival of the guests
And when the host comes back
You’ll have a friend in him to burn all the evidence.