1. |
Winner
02:44
|
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Managing to accomplish what I'd always wanted to.
Living mostly satisfied— but now what do I do?
Settling for
settling up,
settling in.
Managing to accomplish what I'd always wanted to.
Living mostly satisfied— but now what do I do?
Settling for
settling up,
settling in.
Still I'm searching,
quietly,
for something to sustain me.
Still I'm searching,
quietly,
for something to sustain me.
|
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2. |
Actor
02:10
|
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Deciding to take up smoking just to see how it feels.
Losing myself in the role.
Constructing that smoker’s fragile ego by holding a real thing—
like a cigarillo!
I’m pacing the stage,
inhaling like a sprinter out of breath.
I’m facing my character’s rage
at middle age
and impending death.
It’s not a very good play, but I’m doing my best to find in it
something worthwhile.
The run is ending and it’s time to find a new job,
along with a new habit.
I never really committed to smoking anyway,
that’s why it was so easy to break it—
the habit, I mean.
Not me.
|
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3. |
Singer
02:41
|
|||
Reveling in the repetition
when we begin again.
Breaking glass—pass the beer.
Hear the band stand alone up here.
The clandestine fears caving in
when we begin again.
Stages bring the sting of sound,
surrounding them, and hemming us in-stage.
Again, and again, and again we tour four states,
doing our best to branch out, and to create
something worthwhile, something bold, something new—
and almost managing to.
Reveling in the repetition
when we begin again.
Breaking glass—pass the beer.
Hear the band stand alone up here.
|
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4. |
Thinker
02:47
|
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Stealing some old insight
for some thought of mine.
Reeling from the delight
of some pithy line.
Approbation, another tortured analysis.
Publication, something long-awaited.
Vindication, celebration, something quite like bliss.
Ego inflated.
Indignation, a quickly vanishing audience.
Consternation, bourbon, and something sweet.
Isolation, research, and even more this time
since the last futile feat.
Forming some new insight—
obscure? Not too obscure.
Reeling from the delight—
enough to endure.
|
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5. |
Teacher
03:01
|
|||
Expecting apathy, but not outright disdain.
All the same, I’m thankful for the job.
Jacket and tie for me, white polos for the kids.
So, yes, I did it! Got the job.
The classroom of the future, glass, and 80k a year.
And so? Why not? I worked hard to get here.
But something nags: their snobbishness? Or mine just in reverse?
It’s worse.
Abashedly, I make a return to the city.
Still, a pity about the salary.
Far nicer here aesthetically than in the suburbs.
I’m stubborn—what’s a pay cut to me?
The rooms are Spartan, lower-tech, but there’s something else amiss.
Resources are not the things I miss.
Since I’m good at what I do, I seem to be encouraged to
leave.
I’m a good teacher, and so I’m encouraged to leave.
Mid-lesson, and now I see their deserved suspicion—
concurrent recognition of my arrogance.
Abandon the idea of being someone’s savior,
but not the greater good.
Makes sense.
Does that make sense?
I know I’m good at what I do, but maybe not that good.
I’ll do what I want to, not what I should.
The classroom of the now, maybe, and 60k a year.
I’m here.
I’m here.
|
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6. |
Composer
01:29
|
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7. |
Partner
02:59
|
|||
Building something to democratize our lives.
Our lives are building something together.
Coexisting as one—coexisting in one—
as us, not me.
I'm in the bedroom, and I'm in the kitchen.
Living as if my eye were split in two (in two).
Peering into the mirror, and leering at the fruit peeler
at once; I'm you.
Well, me is still me. I am an autocracy.
I'm not simply going to defer (no, I'm not going to defer).
And she is still she. She has her autonomy,
I can't make decisions for her (I can't make decisions for her).
But we are still we. We're living collectively.
And trite though it may be, we're sure that
building something to democratize our lives (our lives) is
building something together (together).
Coexisting as one. Coexisting in one
as us. Not me.
|
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8. |
Father
03:14
|
|||
Soothing the crying, and falling asleep again.
Moving towards dying. A crisis of mortality
thanks to this half-me.
She fills the bottle, a strange machine at her breast.
Raising a child by sacrificing parts of us.
Well, we must.
Ego disappearing as they lie asleep in the next room.
This is how I'll live and how I'll die, my life
ebbing as theirs bloom.
Ego disappearing as they lie asleep in the next room.
This is how I'll live and how I'll die, my life
ebbing as theirs bloom.
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9. |
Writer
02:31
|
|||
Finding a little outlet.
Looking for a scrap of ice, and
then writing about it.
Shatter it, examine every shard.
Quick! Before it melts into the yard.
Making a scrap of a living
with a scrap of thought.
Take that thing you jotted down
and turn it into what
you would read or do
or see or think
or not.
Brittle things.
Brittle things.
Little, brittle things.
Sharp and cold to the touch.
Strewn on the grass under my window.
Struck by the desire to do so much.
Then feel them dissolve in my clutch.
Needing a little respite.
Looking for a little fun!
Searching for a scrap of ice.
Looking for it, looking all day and
maybe only finding one.
Seeking a little frost, maybe.
Looking for the end of Fall.
Searching for a scrap of ice.
Looking for it, looking all day.
Looking for it, looking all day and
maybe only finding none.
|
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10. |
Laborer
03:26
|
|||
Setting out to work with my hands
and maybe build a something tangible and me.
Winding up a cook on the line and lonely.
Working as a cook for a spell
to maybe save something and make it of myself.
But of course the savings are miserable,
and the commis work’s hard.
If you’ve given up once it’s easy to feel
your potential’s been marred.
But of course I never give in; I’m hopeful
and I always work hard.
Prodding ambition
never leaves me scarred.
And one day the axe it just falls,
a rapid end to my paralysis and me—
a recently-promoted sous with a family.
Suddenly I’m young and I’m free again to
build a something tangible fully.
Setting out to work with my hands
and maybe cook a something fleeting that will last indefinitely.
But, of course, even at the top I’m a cog—
albeit better paid.
Wondering, before I even start the thing,
if I should have just stayed
where I was: a laboring sous in a
somewhat successful café,
under-scrutinized, and therefore free to
sporadically go astray.
But of course the savings were adequate,
although the sous work was hard.
Having labored so long I refused to let
my potential be marred.
So of course I open a restaurant—
no, not the first of its kind—
but it gives me some measure of satisfaction
to know that it’s mine.
Although to be just fine
with knowing it’s mine
is to be just fine
with the labor on the line.
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11. |
Loser
03:08
|
|||
Failing to accomplish what I had wanted to.
Living, but dissatisfied.
Learning to make do.
Settling for
settling down.
Settling in.
Still there's something there—quietly—
enough to sustain me.
Still there's something there—quietly—
enough to sustain me.
Still there's something there—quietly—
enough to sustain me.
Still there's something there—quietly—
enough to sustain me.
Still there's something there—quietly—
enough to sustain me.
Still there's something there—quietly—
enough to sustain me.
|
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