February 24th, 2007 - Self Untitled

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only changing drugslittle white townpipe bomb guruuniverse communionsomeone else’s earsfeeding my egopearls into the dirtbillboardhouse of lightyou my child

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only changing drugs

I had my stomach pumped two times my senior year
which earned the approbation of all my plastered peers
Now I do my weekly bleeding at trendy AA meetings
I was a social monster, but now I serve my sponsor

I choke out cliche confessions, I suck down coffee black
I chain smoke cigarettes between handfuls of Prozac
Man, am I one sober stallion – I just got my first medallion
My higher power drugged me, I’m letting strangers hug me

Now I really crave a meeting, all those soothing empty greetings
The Big Book is omniscient and I’m not self-sufficient
Dependency’s still coursing through my blood, I’m only changing drugs

Self help study, twelve step program, which hollow slogan was it?
“We Found Serenity” in “Day by Day” or “Easy Does IT”?
Plant that affirmation seed, our license plates should read
“Ten thousand lakes and treatment centers,
Betty Ford’s our statewide mentor”

They say the devil’s in the details of this cunning, baffling habit
I poured out all my Nyquil, I flushed my Sine-Aid tablets
‘Don’t take others inventory’, ‘Thanks for sharing’ your sick story
If I bluff I know they’ll call it, cause ‘I’m Stuart, I’m an alcoholic’

Dysfunction builds the strangest sages, quoting pointless daily phrases
The Big Book is omniscient, and I’m not self-sufficient
Dependency’s still coursing through my blood, I’m only changing drugs

It’s self perpetuating business, you can’t cure a lifelong sickness
Hazeldon cleaned out my parents, but my stay was fourteen carat
Inner peace is what we seek at fifteen hundred bucks a week

Treatment’s just a new psychosis, need and weakness through hypnosis
The Big Book is omniscient, and I’m not self-sufficient
Dependency’s still coursing through my blood, I’m only changing drugs

To hear a sample, click the ear (must have RealPlayer).

Afterword…
I have spent a great deal of time in the treatment facilities of Minnesota, and attended plenty of AA meetings throughout that process. I’ll be the first person to admit that those programs have saved innumerable lives since their inception, but they are not beyond reproach. A whole new realm of dependency exists inside that world, and I could never shake the feeling that I wasn’t liberated from my addictions, I was just trading devices.

little white town

At the baseball park on Pigment street
me and all my friends would meet
Some were fat, and some were thin
but all of them had creamy skin

And I never saw an Asian, I never met a black
you really never notice when you’re living in a vacuum
My what a coincidence that every kid that’s moved in
since we did is just like me
How can that be?

In my little white town, I never had a black friend
everybody was an Anglo-Saxon
But we all earned diversity is grace
out of all those vanilla faces
I never saw a single one acting racist

I got an education unsurpassed
in my private school for the upper middle class
I learned like each good Christian does
how evil segregation was

But there as absence of variety in no uncertain terms
in my cordoned off society with zero meloderms
On Martin Luther King day, school was off and we would play
by our identical homes in teams of monochrome

Chorus

I used to pray at bedtime, “Hey could you rig it?”
bring me a little black friend so I can prove I’m no bigot

But my rich neighbors will tell you
mixed blood lowers property value
They fear someday perhaps they’ll
pierce this suburban capsule

There weren’t racial slurs or a Klu Klux Klan
cause we defend the right of every man
to prosper and improve as long as they don’t move
To my little white town where I never had a black friend

To hear a sample, click the ear (must have RealPlayer).

Afterword…
Sitting in church one Sunday I took a look around and started to assess my hometown; Lakeville, MN. There is no doubt we live in a segregated society and nowhere is this more evident than in the suburbs. So this is about growing up white, middle class and separated.

pipe bomb guru

I know that I’ll be famous when I kill the president
There’s gonna be blood on the white house lawn
Nuts and bolts and dynamite
in a six inch steel tube packed so tight
It’s gonna be disguised as a chocolate cake
and sweets will be the President’s last mistake

I’ve been brooding, self-imploding
my leash just snapped,
it feels so good to be unloading

It’s not an idle threat, I’m gonna do it
I’m gonna build a pipe bomb,
I’m gonna follow through with
the death threat plans, a social coup
and you won’t laugh when the dead guy is you,
will you Mr. President?
It’s gonna come true – pipe bomb guru

I used to be a postman till I took some bad acid
and burned a horse’s head on the boss’ desk
They put me in a mental ward, five year sentence
Workin’ in a bakery I plotted vengeance
I pulled a Betty Crocker on the nation’s chief
and this is one desert that’s gonna
wreck more than his teeth

I’ve been fuming — rage is boiling
The tether’s broke, man its great to be uncoiling

Chorus

I’m gonna hit this country’s voters where they live
I’m gonna turn the president into a human sieve
Pennsylvania Avenue is really gonna shake
There’s an awful lot of bang
in my German Chocolate cake

I’ll give history a sucker punch
Then write a book about it and get paid to speak at brunches

Chorus

A personal apocalypse – pipe bomb guru

To hear a sample, click the ear (must have RealPlayer.)

Afterword…
While playing an outdoor concert one afternoon I was accosted by a very disturbing man who expressed a seemingly genuine desire to see me dead. His death threats and that visit have stayed with me, and this piece is a profile of his personality – one that I imagine fits the mold of a presidential assassin.

universe communion

There was a star that was hidden in space – an undiscovered gem
until it’s denizens decided they had chosen
the Dagon to give the gift to them
So with the shocking revelations,
of a primitive people, our knowledge was redefined
Enlightened and wise, the simple African tribe
has educated the modern minds

Our potential was choked under the scientific yoke
Afraid that if we open our eyes, we’ll have to realize

If the message from a distant sun can reach us
There is a magic that is waiting and is willing to teach us
how to suture every soul into one concentric whole
Earth can find the perfect union
in the universe communion

In this area of Western thought, the spirit is in a vise
we are driven to seek in a futile pursuit
with a means that won’t suffice

It is a science with a limited scope
where the heart and head collide
resigned to the laws of only tangible proof
to which the truth does not abide

We stifle and smother the mystic wonder
Is our arrogance a deafening fear of what we’ll have to hear?

Chorus

We have a tendency think that it’s our practical senses
that get these questions solved
but those are tenuous tools and the more we employ them, the slower
we evolve

Denied by suppression the deeper lessons

To hear a sample, click the ear (must have RealPlayer).

Afterword…
This was inspired by John E. Mack’s wonderful book “Abduction”, which I recommend to anyone open to new possibilities of what we perceive as reality. For me, the rewards lie beyond the conventional, constraining boundaries of western thought. I also suggest reading “The Universe Story” by Swimme and Berry, and “The Coming of the Cosmic Christ”.

someone else’s ears

For three months in ’92 when I was such a wreck
I spent endless evenings with my face draped against your neck
It hurt when I was empty and friends just turned away
It was you who chose to stay

And help me heal, pieced me back into a whole
Now it’s you who is aching and needs to be consoled
But can’t you see I’m happy now?
I don’t want to sit and watch you cry
I wish you’d keep it all inside

Yes you’re anguish, do you think that you’re the first?
Since when am I indentured to be your private nurse?
Maybe this callousness is a form of love that I extend
Because I know if you face the hurt alone you’ll be stronger in the end
So don’t play off my concience like I should wipe away your tears
Just let your burdens fall on someone else’s ears

I don’t know how long I can sit with you this time
The sufferings in your life shrouds the joy in mine
So maybe you should just call me when this sadness finally ends
and you’re ready to laugh again

Spare me the drama, do you think that you’re the first
Since when am I indentured to be your private nurse?
Sometimes detachment is the thing we need most
And if you’d consider me you’d veil this pain you host
So don’t play off my concience like
I should help you through your fears
Just let your burdens fall on someone else’s ears

Because tonight a hundred pretty people were waiting in line to wash
away the guilt you gave me, they said the concert was sublime
While you were shaking in some corner
with your spirit ripped in half
I was backstage fielding praise and signing autographs

So if you want my attention, you’d better join the crowd and cheer
And let your burdens fall on someone else’s ears
For three months in ’92 when I was such a wreck
I spent endless evenings with my face draped against your neck

To hear a sample, click the ear (must have RealPlayer).

Afterword…
This is a very personal apology to someone who helped me through an immensely difficult time in my life. Later, when this person reached out to me for support I didn’t want any part of their suffering because I was too consumed with the superficial gratifications of my career. I consider this a felicitous precursor to “Feeding My Ego”.

feeding my ego

I’m falling under insatiable forces
for naked attention, a sick metamorphose
Pushing my victims to flatter and fawn me
Obeying the dictum of all eyes upon me
My ego’s a castle and I am the sentry
Granting the spineless the easiest entry

My simple subjects are eager to bow
So fire up the spit and wheel in the cow
I’m in my element now

They’re toasting my virtue, the goblet is passed
Fifty four jesters are kissing my ass
I may be fat, but my belt has to bust before this bingeing can end
We’re feeding my ego again

I’ve summoned the pixies to whisper their praises
They’re nursing me now with their sweet empty phrases
The critics are cleaved from my feast with a mallet
No spoils are received by the king’s fragile palate
Stuffing myself on the blind adulation
Fed full of self, it’s intense mastication

The simpleton’s choir has taken it’s place
Accolades spewing from each vacant face
Now, let’s say grace

Chorus

I’m gonna help
Cause I’m too full to belch
too elated to care if I foul up the air

Chorus

To hear a sample, click the ear (must have RealPlayer).

Afterword…
Upon returning to the stage to do an encore, someone in the back of the room held up their drink and shouted “Here’s to your ego, Stu!”. I replied, “You’re going to need a hell of a lot bigger glass than that,”. The result of that exchange is this portrait of me, the bloated man at the head of the table. It’s frightening how intoxicating applause and veneration are, and how easy it is to lose perspective.

pearls into the dirt

Jackson Pollack finally captured movement and chaotic rapture through
means divorced from all tradition
But the sweeping change was too abstruse
and the public spared him no abuse
the ridicule became a common mission

Time magazine said “Who could laud this feeble and pathetic fraud?”
no one comprehended what ‘Autumn Rhythm’ had transcended
Watch the gifted hands create motion in suspended state
with the sweet elation of true innovation
He harnessed the essence of life

But antiquated institutions always seem the hardest to subvert
so Jackson was condemned to spend a lifetime
throwing pearls into the dirt

John Cage’s young intrepid ears threw
the shackles of convention clear
to better target man’s potential
But the world assailed his pure device,
“Is that a symphony or a poltergeist?”
and called lunacy his sole credential

Can hunger and abandon be fused into synergy?
that’s where the genius lies, covert to the cautious eye
that brief and fragile unity, a taste of immortality
is the mind unbound, and that’s where John had found
that silence is married to sound
His departures were reviled,
but the ignorant aren’t easy to convert
John was still content to spend a lifetime
throwing pearls into the dirt

Like the architect unafraid to rupture static orthodox
with a brilliant structure
which the masses libel and refuse to sanction
for the abstract style it’s broken ranks in
and that master builder, who’s ideals were so unyielding
kept his self-respect and lost his shirt throwing pearls into the dirt

Progress is painful, and the vanguard feel the greatest of the hurt
let’s all prepare to make a new pariah, throwing pearls into the dirt

To hear a sample, click the ear (must have RealPlayer).

Afterword…
Examines the great advances in art, which were at best met with skepticism, and often confronted great animosity and scorn. This is, of course, a common scenario throughout history and applies to any field where someone is genuinely pushing the envelope and progressing to levels their contemporaries can’t fathom. It’s always much easier to dismiss and discredit that which challenges our accepted and established systems – even when a new approach offers expansion of conciousness.

billboard

Pro life, Pro choice, beauty queen
Liquid Clorox, feminine hygiene
Coca Cola, Tartar toothpaste
Dial this number, slap it on my face
Perfect placement, highway ditch
and useless products, that’s my niche

I, the billboard
Pitching God-knows-what
The billboard, cheap space I’m a freeway slut
Grand dad of the discount ad

I’ve sold indoor tanning, Campbell’s soup
funeral caskets, porno flicks and Fruit Loops
Garden Weasels, ceiling fans
fireworks and alcohol, fake hair for the balding man

On a billboard
Pitching God-knows-what
The billboard, cheap space I’m a freeway slut
Grand dad of the discount ad
Be wise, advertise

There’s ads for famous churches, topless bars
homeless shelters, missing kids and rock stars
fast food and three-two beer, next filling station
I see the culture, I see one nation

On a billboard
Pitching God-knows-what
The billboard, cheap space I’m a freeway slut
Grand dad of the discount ad
Be wise, advertise

To hear a sample, click the ear (must have RealPlayer).

Afterword…
“You can tell the ideals of a nation by its advertisements” – Norman Douglas, South Wind

house of light

There is geography inside you, the mystic ocean is pristine
It is the spirit realm, and you are at the helm
where all the hungry souls convene
Your instruments are gauged for motion
don’t tie the craft to keep it still
For is the captain’s idle, then the ship is bridled
And you have a voyage to fulfill

This vessel harbors no one meek, the timid never seek
But you watch the water rise, and you have anxious eyes

There is a compass in your chest – pressing toward the house of light
There is a purpose you posess – pressing toward the house of light
With every drop and every crest, I see your sails are full and tight
Pressing toward the house of light

Some may embrace their hesitation
with the passive anchors that they lay
But retrospect will prove that those who never move
become a pirate’s easy prey
This boat is the sum of all your actions,
it’s body is a product of your deeds
Crossing water fast, ambition is the mast
And you were christened with God’s speed
The frightened ones who wouldn’t board envy you from shore
For you’re in the rising tide and you are eager eyed

To hear a sample, click the ear (must have RealPlayer).

Afterword…
Through the old metaphor of a ship, this song is about returning to the source. The journey of one soul guided through life by the real beacon, undaunted and steady – truly focused. Each of us can access that spiritual navigation if we invite its power.

you my child

Of all the world’s perfections,
we safely may assume
the most blessed and untainted
is the treasure of the womb

We wait for revelations,
some miracle, some sign
then suddenly a life is sparked
and it almost seems divine

But both of us are much too young
to know what we believe
and we can’t find the answers
in how you were conceived

So you won’t feel the rapture
of your mother’s first embrace
and I won’t see my features
in the contour of your face
we won’t hug your body
and press against it’s warmth
for you my child will not be born

If we fear the grand design
or deny a higher source
it’s only that we all prefer
controlling our own course
Because a million things can happen,
and you were just the one
we were least prepared for,
a daughter or a son

The choice is more than painful
the wounds may never mend
as we wonder what you might have done
and who you might have been

Chorus

To hear a sample, click the ear (must have RealPlayer).

Afterword…
I have no desire to become associated with one group or the other in the abortion debate, and anyone who thinks I wrote this song to do so is mistaken. No matter which side you’re on, it is a tragedy. Here I am voicing hurt from my life and mourning in general for all parties.

All Songs © Copyright 1992-2004 Stuart Davis

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