1. |
Warm Wind Rolling
00:53
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2. |
Image
03:06
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There was one image that was leading me down the road.
There was one sound leading me down.
And that sight was you under the stars.
That sound was you laughing in the dark,
But I’ve never seen it and I don’t even know how it sounds,
So it looks like we’ll never know.
Do you remember the time you washed your dog?
And all I could think about was when she’d shake the water off;
Maybe one drop could roll down your face, and if I tried
I could reach my hands into the darkness and trace it down.
Maybe I could bring you comfort in a time you were so sad.
Maybe I could make you happy; make you feel loved.
But I’ve never done that and you’ve never felt it,
so it looks like we’ll never know.
Miles behind me, miles before me;
Some nights I think I may never get home.
But with little lights in dark bars, bad connections in slow cars,
I can hear the tunnel you’re driving through.
See it’s just a few more days until I marathon my way back into your arms.
If they’re wide open, then I’ll come running for them.
If they’re closed, I’ll pry them apart with the image that keeps leading me down the road.
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3. |
Lingers
04:10
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Dirty water lingers where my fingers are the filter.
So why won’t you go? Why won’t you leave me?
Why won’t you go? Why won’t you leave me?
As loose as my hands can go, nothing drips, nothing falls.
So why won’t you go? Why won’t you leave me?
Why won’t you go? Why won’t you leave me?
I’ve been a slave to the growth of a black mold my hands can’t hold like they used to.
Maybe they never could?
My hands can’t hold like they used to.
Maybe they never could?
They could never reach another.
They could never build any higher.
They could only pool dirty water
for my dry lips to drink, crack, choke, and grow silent.
I’ve been a slave to the growth of a black mold my hands can’t hold like they used to.
Maybe they never could?
My hands can’t hold like they used to.
Maybe they never could?
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4. |
Don't Make Me Go Alone
02:19
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5. |
Leave
04:39
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We all know the plot to a thousand films;
nothing ever happens until the hero leaves their hometown
or until that hero comes back around.
So, as aloof as it may sound, it’s time for you to leave.
To go away and learn, to build a home you’re proud of;
one that’s all your own.
To curate the truth of yourself that you love
and only share that one with the people that you meet.
To forget your embarrassing anecdotes to make
room for the new ones that align with your lightened life.
To learn, learn, learn.
To always ask questions and
learn, learn, learn.
You’ll find a new watering hole where the drinks are deep.
You’ll find the closest corner store where your cigarettes are cheap.
You’ll find a diverse, new community ready to welcome the new you.
You’ll find it’s easier to love yourself when you have space to be yourself, unafraid.
Day after day, you’ll be unafraid.
And, of course, you’ll find yourself, come Chanukah time,
reading by a window as the train winds slowly, parallel to the coast line.
We can meet you at the station, if you like,
we’ll be eager to see how you’ve changed since then.
Happy to see your silly scruffy face in Los Angeles again.
See we love you lots, but it’s time for you to leave.
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6. |
Boise
03:24
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From the back porch on Boise street,
an old view took on a new shape for me
when I cut myself on the water stone
in the space that always welcomes me home.
Carving layers off of the old body,
sending splinters south to rest at my feet,
placing “Pulp” back on it’s proper shelf,
between walls that feel me better than myself.
Some loving words have made it to my hands;
they’re filled with the scent of wood glue and rain.
I’m full of envy for the area rug that sits at the door;
fresh feet that trace it, they just don’t know what I claim to know.
My arms ache from constant unwinding,
rasing back to the intended tuning.
With time and patience, I could have strength to
shape sound for the city like you do.
Some loving words have made it to my hands;
they’re filled with the scent of wood glue and rain.
I’m full of envy for the area rug that sits at the door;
fresh feet that trace it, they just don’t know what I claim to know.
The last words that echoed from the door
urged me to go out and discover.
But what if the dreams that I have been chasing
are on that back porch, patiently waiting.
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7. |
He Was Asking For It
01:16
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8. |
Hum
03:54
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There’s even a hum in his voice that rings to me.
That longs to sit in a dank stack of book and show new things to each other.
But I am so young and he is so old
and the road goes on a long way where I can’t see the other side.
I long to visit him bedside.
When he’s draped in afghans, I’m gonna tell him stories
About the secret ways I’ve found or the mornings I’ve spent far from the shore.
Of each of my narrow escapes and to let him know that
I’ve never settled for anything less than what I deserved.
That there wasn’t a hillside left unsung and
I didn’t leave a single field unrun.
It was only a matter of time before the moon was mine,
When I’d return to tell him how the dust felt mushy between the sweat in my toes.
And then it’d be ours.
See I have no thought or want of how he should be.
Because my hope for him can’t halt or stale.
Except for his thick, rich hum, that I’ve come to long for,
To look down each hall for,
To lean behind doors for.
I dream of a late, rainy night
Where the whiskey flows and
He might delight in the pulse
Of my sloppy ragtime.
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9. |
Between
04:56
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Outstretched against the rain,
Compressing progress between.
Lengths breathe me into clutter.
Tangled and wirey; tired embroidery.
I need you close to me.
What a sleek descent down, crashing to the ground,
A thousand more behind.
Piling up, the seconds pass.
Each beating drop beckons the fact that
I need you close to me.
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10. |
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11. |
Evergreen
04:53
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Waiting by her open door, hoping she’ll pull you through.
But I know her ins and all her outs.
I can hear her body say;
“Push him away. Push him all the way.
Push him away. Push him all the way.”
Through the vent just above me, I hear a new man understand how he’s understood.
Down the hall, beyond him, a young one’s validated by her nightly sounds, and I say;
“Push them away. Push them all away Push them away. Push them all the way.
Push them away. Push them all away. Push them away. Push them all the way.”
Floorboards creak, records skip, another knock comes at our front door,
For every night, and stormy day, that the lost ones of the house warm up each other and say;
“You’re not so bad that we can’t love you. You’re not so bad that we won’t stand by you.
You’re not so bad that we can’t love you. You’re not so bad that we won’t stand by you.”
With flour flying through the air, another lover of mine is sent running up the stairs,
Out the alley, to his own door, to brag to his friends about the fresh free whores at
444 Evergreen Avenue.
444 Evergreen Avenue.
I took a shot before I left for a particularly hard goodbye.
She took a shot just before she left for her first meeting with her darker side.
And that’s when I told her;
“You’re not so bad that we can’t love you. You’re not so bad that we won’t stand by you.
You’re not so bad that we can’t love you. You’re not so bad that we won’t stand by you.
You’re not so bad that I can’t love you. You’re not so bad that I won’t stand by you.
You’re not so bad that I can’t love you. You’re not so bad that I won’t stand by you.”
The hardest wave I’ve ever crossed was pulling out from that gravel road.
She stood and cried, waving goodbye, and as the tears formed, in my own eyes, I told myself to
Push them away, push them all the way, push them away, push them all away.
Push them away, push them all the way, push them away, push them all away.
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12. |
Our Feet So Certain
01:06
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13. |
Peak
06:52
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Memories of that day eternal lead me
to never stand on stone the same.
You’re stark against the vast horizon.
Your silhouette’s enlarging.
Ring your arms around the rocks.
The wind can’t take you far from me.
Sliding over sentiment.
Our feet so sure in their steps.
No, no, no this isn’t the peak, this isn’t the peak;
we’re at the base of the mountain of my love for you.
And we’re going up. And we’re going up, up.
And we’re going up. And we’re going up, up.
Of all the things that I hold on to,
It’s your reach I throw myself to.
Guide me through your ocean floor, slowly,
To build a home for you and me.
I’m alive and overflowing.
Place a plate under my feet.
Thank the sun, the sand, the soil, and
thank the one who’s gardening.
No, no, no this isn’t the peak, this isn’t the peak.
We’re at the base of the mountain of my love for you.
And we’re going up. And we’re going up, up.
And we’re going up. And we’re going up, up, up, up
Slowly, while we’re holding each other.
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Hannah Rose Dexter Los Angeles, California
With her defiantly fuzzy, pink bass by her side, Hannah Rose Dexter has traveled the world performing jazz and blues. On her debut album, "The View From Normal", her unique style of bass playing frees the instrument from the traditional role of glorified kick drum, and into the harmonic lead it’s always been capable of. ... more
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