Tom Waits & German Rain. Solid Combo.

maybe this is creepy that it's in a cemetary...

http://http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nDaJpl8jrW8&feature=related

Here is the deepest secret nobody knows...

Decemberists.

This is the story of the boys who loved you.

The Morning Benders

"And I made an excuse; You found another way to tell the truth.
I put no one else above us. We'll still be best friends when it all turns to dust."

This was when the year was winding back to the beginning, when all the colors starting looking purple and gold, when I started reading your mind. This was after everything, but before things mattered. I just want sometimes to be on my own because it is hard to share. Do you know what I mean?

That's not the point.
The point is... I am elated. Out of my mind in love with everything. And especially you. Today is something else completely! Can you believe it? If you think that it's all already been created, you're wrong. You woke up today. Isn't that enough?

It is most difficult to be positive on one's own.
Some people just don't listen the same.

Nicole Krauss

"I want to say somewhere: I've tried to be forgiving. And yet. There were times in my life, whole years, when anger got the better of me. Ugliness turned me inside out. There was a certain satisfaction in bitterness. I courted it. It was standing outside, and I invited it in."
— The History of Love

Right.

How do you react to that which you should forgive?

I never saw anything wrong with sunshine until you reminded me that some people are allergic.

Anais Nin

"Reality doesn't impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in exstacy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another. No more walls."

Joanna Newsom

"There's a man who only will speak in code
Backing slowly, slowly down the road
May he master everything
That such men may know
About loving, and then letting go."

Joni.

"We'd all go looking for a party
Looking to raise Jesus up from the dead
And I'd be kissing in the back seat
Thrilling to the Brando-like things that he said
And we'd be rollin'
Rollin'
Rock 'n' rolling..."

Poetry

You can’t be beautiful in poetry anymore, not serene or
magical, no more song and (or) dance. Nobody’s been lovely
since Neruda, nobody can fall in love or fall in anything
but garbage cans or down rabbit holes or from airplane
emergency exits on your birthday or fiftieth anniversary
of your dead cat’s adoption. You can get hit or shot and now,
even fucked, but we are not electric anymore. Babies can’t die
unless it’s funny, Jesus can only show up if he’s going
on a date with your step-mom’s sister in a Bon Jovi t-shirt
that he bought at Goodwill and your parents’ divorce will never
matter, unless you can tell me about it in one-syllable
words that including letters Q or X. The men who taught me
to write have died, all failed for saying too much. There are no more
bright stars or fair faces (unless they are on clocks), no more
delight because poets know the best things in life are
cliché. I want to tell whoever decided I could not be beautiful
anymore in pure poetic monosyllabic imagery to
shove it up their ass. How’s this for poetry?

Signing Love Notes in My Mother’s Name

“Part of me is made of glass, and also, I love you.”
-from the History of Love by Nicole Krauss

Mornings aren’t the same without your square jaw lit by
a window and California mornings. The B12 has been doing
things to my dreams, dreams where we talk Freud, where I
remind you of your mother and how we share a birthday
with nothing but silence and the sound of your cigarettes.

In these dreams and the houses inside them, the smoke
of this drug or your cigarettes, I let you build a home
against my breast and that fat part of my upper arm.
And even though my bed turned into mud, it is too much
like a heartbeat, like gaining weight, like how nobody

has sex like we can. Tell me about our drive to Birmingham,
how we couldn’t close the window or my mouth, how we always
arrived the wrong day, how we order cake even though I never
eat it. Tell me how you are still a country away, a lifetime
ago, the only person who knows the words I carved inside

the library, that one time you were here and everybody knew
it was us. Tell me about the dream-you, how he is not the boy
I fell in love with, but is always saying that poems are about
death, and sex. And how no matter how much you love me
or tell your therapist I matter, I can depend on you not being

here when I wake up. Because boredom is like bus windows,
the kind you push out during emergencies, the kind that,
like the body, can still move and change, and melt, or shatter
on impact.