1. |
Only Idaho, Forever
02:19
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Last night everything froze over;
it's back to work today.
The cars warming up out in the weekday street:
the sound of someone else's money being made.
And the highways curve,
and the trucks barrel down them like pain down a nerve,
but there's only one place they ever go:
forever only Idaho.
Billboards proclaiming salvation
all the way to work,
but if it's Christ or the Powerball or quitting cigarettes,
well — it's hard to tell for sure.
And a song comes on,
one that made you feel better in days that are gone,
but there's only one place the echoes go:
forever only Idaho.
Fools with dollar signs for eyes
have been selling you your life
one weekend at a time, saying you'll go far,
but you're still nowhere, so far.
And the ponderosa pines leave their branches behind
like they're trying to leave the ground,
and sometimes they drop a load of snow into the snow
and it disappears without a sign or a sound,
and they stand so tall,
like they're made for more than power lines and dirty strip malls,
but there's only one place they'll ever grow:
forever only Idaho.
Forever, only Idaho.
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2. |
Silverlake
02:33
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"Attention please;
your attention, please:
the mall will soon be closing."
You shift your weight
off the jewelry case
smudged with the fingerprints
of the long day.
You stare down through your spread hands
at the things you can't afford
glittering, glittering
like a dragon's hoard.
The cookware displays
and sale signs give way
to a small town
made up for the holiday.
And the headlights off of 95
twist your stomach in the dark
and you couldn't say why,
but you run for the car.
And the evening stands there empty,
like it can hardly bear to be,
like a taxi throbbing waiting waiting waiting.
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3. |
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Tourists amble on the boardwalk
though it's forty-some degrees.
What on earth could they be looking for
that they think they'll find it here,
in evil times like these?
Long day at concierge/reception
fiddling with the nameplate on your breast.
The lobby's velvet denizens
won't look you in the eye
like you've failed some hidden test.
Friends that you could visit,
back here for a week or maybe two.
Lives full of untold wonders,
or they must be, you suppose;
can't bring yourself to find out if it's true.
Big band playing by the water,
wailing like the kingdom's gonna come.
The mansions gleam like topaz
in the mountain's inky heights,
black sky humming and humming and humming like a big big drum.
One look back at the resort hotel
lighting up the night:
the windows shine like icons, full of hope and truth and life,
but the labyrinth hallways smell like bleach
and the shower heads don't work right.
Tourists amble on the boardwalk
though it's thirty-some degrees,
like sheep without a shepherd,
and the way is growing dark.
God bless all such as these.
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4. |
Burn Down the Title Loan
03:22
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The old truck lurches from gear to gear,
but it's alright.
There's a hairline crack in the mirror,
but it's alright.
You got off work an hour late again,
and Amber won't answer the phone,
and one of these nights, when the mood is right,
someone'll burn down the title loan.
Linda Ronstadt on the radio.
It's alright.
Sometimes she sings too rock 'n' roll,
but it's alright,
'cause there's an old backroad nobody else knows
and you can park out in the clear,
and smoke a few, and drink a few,
and try to forget whatever led you here
and see the red sun
the red sun
bleed out on the mountain.
They're all big guys with little necks,
but it's alright.
They're always talking like the president,
but it's alright.
They've got a camera hooked up to a computer in there
just as good as to say that they know
that one of these nights, maybe tonight,
someone'll burn down the title loan.
They place a lien on your soul,
but it's alright.
Give back your body like a ticket stub,
but it's alright.
It's a real dead-end, but it's as good as a friend:
scrub grass, yellow and cold;
and the engine may whine, but the radio's fine
and the choruses sing with the sad old world
and if this were your car,
and if it could make it that far,
you'd drive up from the mountain
clear into the red sun
the red sun
that's dying
on
the mountain.
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5. |
Hayden Hello
02:13
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Cracked glass laundromats in strip malls.
Maples fading in the late fall.
"Guess who just got back today?"
They don't remember you anyway.
Forms devoid of any function,
lonely lingering conjunction
between black redacted lines
inside the minutes of your mind.
Hello, Hayden.
Hayden, hello.
Wake up somewhere that you used to live
buzzing with thousands of false positives.
The years that intervened
were just a long and boring dream.
Stop for lunch down at the Super 1.
Pray you don't run into anyone
who'd know you from before;
you're just a ghost now, nothing more.
Hello, Hayden.
Hayden, hello.
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6. |
Exonerated
02:23
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Let off on a technicality!
Praise God for technicalities!
Even the DA's got to fold 'em now and then.
Weep to see the winter sun,
the Wednesday morning just begun;
Post Falls never looked so beautiful,
and it never will again.
Zip's Drive-In, old red S-15;
the banks and strip malls in between;
drab walls raised in the seventies, way back when.
Hot coffee and an ice cream cone
and a vision meant for you alone.
Post Falls never looked so beautiful,
and it never will again.
Even the modular homes —
the low grey cell blocks of the high school —
you might learn something from it,
if you weren't such a fool.
Scrub your uniform by hand,
bury all the contraband.
Better a Christmas behind the counter than in the pen.
Vow to quit your lowdown ways
in a year or two, if not today.
Post Falls never looked so beautiful,
and it never will again.
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7. |
Local Business
04:16
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In town for the weekend,
wedding of a former friend,
and everything has changed again.
The stores and bars on Sherman
look just like Portland or Brooklyn;
it's all been rearranged again.
It's a dirty tourist trap.
It'll never love you back.
Front page of the local press
sings hymns to local business:
sell whatever isn't nailed down.
And the guy at the hotel bar
still talks about the time he met a movie star
right here, in our own town.
They'll bruise you blue and black,
but they're never gonna love you back.
Granddad worked in a factory
(or was it a fishery?)
and saved up every penny that he earned,
but to want a captive audience
and to be someone of consequence
is the only trade you ever learned.
And they'll tear your ticket in half,
but they're never gonna love you back.
And no one seems to know what to make of
the thing they exist for the sake of
and spin around like dim and dying worlds:
the resort at the center,
like a holy place no one dares to enter
but the priests with their attendants and their pearls.
It's a dirty trick at that:
a god who'll never love you back.
It breaks your heart
to see them lean in at the door
to catch some dying strain
of what they're living for.
Dusk falling on the empty pier.
Hotel lit up like a chandelier.
Bitter lake-sand smell, a jagged line of evergreen,
as out of reach as the memory
of the place when you were seventeen
and still in love with everyone and everything.
The water is beautiful and black,
but it'll never love you back.
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8. |
Wonderful Life
03:07
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Late getting home again from the nursing home.
Mom got scared again.
Honeymoon postcard of some steps in Rome
from someone you thought of as a friend.
But oh,
it's a rare kind of friend
who's gonna be there
until the credits end.
It's a rare kind of friend.
Dream of blood flowing from Christ's own side;
wake up to the TV drone in your childhood living room alone,
with the insurance still not paying out,
with the secrets you keep from everyone;
the way other people's lives seem to shine
with God's own light:
a place near the coast,
op-eds in the Seattle times.
But oh,
what kind of son
would just take off,
no thought for anyone?
What kind of son would you be?
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9. |
Overpass in Dreams
03:58
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Another night at the office park,
putting in time.
Another night at the office park,
putting in time,
saving up the money
to buy someone else's life.
You're a buzzing light at the office park,
putting in time.
Wonder who's living now
in the house you grew up.
Wonder who's living now
in the house you grew up.
It was a beautiful house,
but it's never enough.
Wonder who's living now
in the house you grew up.
All your friends speak in movies
and live in hotels.
All your friends speak in movies
and live in hotels,
and you don't really mind,
but it's a living hell.
All your friends speak in movies
and live in hotels.
A heartache saved
is a heartache earned.
A heartache saved
is a heartache earned.
Feels like lonely
is the only trick you ever learned.
A heartache saved
is a heartache earned.
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10. |
The Old Band
03:17
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Robbie moved to Arizona.
Josiah tried out L.A.
Courtney got married to a Mormon guy.
Micah landed in A.A.
But it's still stuck in your head.
Levels in the red.
So long forever.
The old band is never
getting back together.
The Long Ear is never moving back.
Pavement is never coming back.
It's too late to never compromise.
No three chords are ever gonna save your life.
But you still have the cassettes,
the stale cigarettes.
So long forever.
The old band is never
getting back together.
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11. |
Missed Connection Blues
03:32
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This one's for all our friends who never made it free.
This one's for all our friends who never made it free.
Never bought a Thunderbird;
never went to Italy;
never made it free.
This one's for everyone who fell off the map.
This one's for everyone who fell off the map.
Maybe moved to Texas;
maybe had an early heart attack;
fell off the map.
This one's for everyone you never knew that well.
This one's for everyone you never knew that well.
Maybe you loved them a lot;
maybe it was hard to tell;
but you'll never know them well.
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12. |
This Is Not the Year
02:23
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Memory
comes out and meets you like an enemy
in the smell of burning fields,
in desire that never yields.
You're getting tired;
it's getting down to the wire.
Another year or two,
who knows what you might do.
December comes on like a heart attack.
You call and no one calls you back.
They all get depressed,
or so they say.
Hole up in their rooms
like stowaways.
They've paved over the vacant lots
where you and your brothers got lost.
Is love just standing by
watching a million useless things die?
Birds headed south
and you've half a mind to follow them out,
leave the dead for dead,
follow the magnet in your head,
but something in the treeline glow
says you've got nowhere to go.
You might make it to Sandpoint
or Kellogg
or Moscow, or Spokane,
but if you ran,
well, the hemisphere's too small,
the world's too hard
to break such a late fall.
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13. |
Your Hometown
07:14
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Another Wednesday morning,
another bout of the same old blues,
the hotel awning
still bathed in the same old hues.
Look over the water
from one of the upper floors:
more condos going up.
The old band playing, all in four.
The rising cost of living,
the rising cost of land:
everything according
to someone else's plan.
You never meant to give it your life.
Dreams of the city in the TV at night.
Houses all in rows,
uniform and brown:
it's your hometown,
your hometown.
Watch the sunset
going to pieces in the lake.
Wonder which one
was the fatal mistake.
You've been on the waitlists
at some of the finest schools.
You had big plans;
you were gonna break all the rules.
But mom got sick
and dad flew off the handle
and you moved home
to a small-town scandal.
You swore you wouldn't ever give up the fight.
Pretty New York City and your name up in lights.
Graves in staggered rows,
Mullan eastbound:
it's your hometown,
your hometown.
Flashes in your mind
of every face that left this place behind.
Higgins Point, watching the Perseids,
warm asphalt on your backs,
dreaming like good American kids.
—
Come to yourself,
the hour grown late, very late.
House sunk in darkness.
Cold ashes lying in the grate.
The streets are covered
in a mantle of virgin snow.
Someone like you lived here
a long time ago.
Face tangled in the window
with branches and moon,
marked by all the time
nothing can undo.
You never meant to give it your life.
"Don't sit so close to the TV, alright?"
Your worn out eyes
overlaid on the worn out town,
and the choked up sky,
and the snow coming down:
everything desperate
and spent for the day
joins in the darkness,
and you can hear something in you say:
"You want to be a city
and I want to be a star,
but when you get down to it,
that isn't what we are.
"We're children sledding
in Cherry Hill Park,
lights on the mountain
way up in the gathering dark;
we're cars warming up
out in the Sunday street,
bells of St. Thomas
ringing out clear and sweet;
"We're blue and gold,
St. Vincent de Paul,
the world and all its promise
in the dusky fall;
we're trucks without wheels
in the vacant lots
on the near edge of nowhere,
still waiting to be bought.
"I forgive you, you dirty old town.
It's not your fault I stuck around."
Mansions in the heights:
how they shine, like jewels in the crown
of your hometown,
your hometown.
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14. |
Forever Only Idaho
02:28
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Shooting cans off the fence on New Year's Day
with your father's .22.
No birds to scare. They all went away.
Just your father and you.
A report rings out, and the countryside
answers for a while.
Now Amy's on the steps, watchful-eyed,
seven months with child.
Any fool can tell you where the shot lands,
but no one knows
where the echoes go:
forever only Idaho.
Nothing said. Nothing to say.
Snow dripping from the trees.
It's back to work after today;
tonight, it's going to freeze.
Any fool's gonna tell you this is no kind of life,
but they don't know
where the echoes go:
forever only Idaho.
Forever, only Idaho.
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Harrison Lemke Austin, Texas
tape-hiss symphonies to God
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