Every song is downloadable in unrestricted MP3 format—so share, share, share to your heart's content. I ask one thing only: if you like what you hear, please consider dropping a buck or two in the tip jar. Your generosity will be richly rewarded with more music (eventually) and a deposit in your karmic account (instantaneously!).
» unaffiliated
This is the Work in Progress. Watch this space for new songs.
Trigger-Happy Texan
Unimpossible
Doing Fine
The Best Way
Trigger-Happy Texan
[hi-fi] – [lo-fi] – [download]
Here we go again,
with a blast as bright as the sun.
Here we go again,
with yellow ribbons for everyone.
We're all to blame
for this new estate.
We're all to blame.
We thought it couldn't get worse.
It's gotten worse.
And it's getting worse.
We thought it couldn't get worse;
we thought we'd figured it all out,
but now there's a
trigger-happy Texan
in the White House.
Here we go again,
with our peace baton in hand.
Here we go again,
to redecorate another foreign land.
We're all to blame.
We should be ashamed.
We're all to blame.
And now we're home again,
with the jaws of progress wide.
But we're alone again,
and the wolf's in
shepherd's clothes this time.
We're all to blame
for this new estate.
We're all to blame.
We should be ashamed.
We're all to blame,
and it's time to pay.
We're all to blame.
©2003 Schroedinger's Catbox
Here we go again,
with a blast as bright as the sun.
Here we go again,
with yellow ribbons for everyone.
We're all to blame
for this new estate.
We're all to blame.
We thought it couldn't get worse.
It's gotten worse.
And it's getting worse.
We thought it couldn't get worse;
we thought we'd figured it all out,
but now there's a
trigger-happy Texan
in the White House.
Here we go again,
with our peace baton in hand.
Here we go again,
to redecorate another foreign land.
We're all to blame.
We should be ashamed.
We're all to blame.
And now we're home again,
with the jaws of progress wide.
But we're alone again,
and the wolf's in
shepherd's clothes this time.
We're all to blame
for this new estate.
We're all to blame.
We should be ashamed.
We're all to blame,
and it's time to pay.
We're all to blame.
©2003 Schroedinger's Catbox
Unimpossible
[hi-fi] – [lo-fi] – [download]
I swear, I swear
I saw you first.
I know you don't believe it.
But I dragged you
two thousand miles west,
and now I'd say we're even.
You may think I'm unimpressible,
but you know you're unforgettable.
We're not only indestructible;
we're unimpossible.
When I walked into that bar that night,
I swear, I swear I was shaking,
because when you smiled at me
from that window seat,
I knew my life was changing.
And everything I knew
said you were too good to be true,
which just proves
I don't know anything anyway.
Without a moment's hesitation
or an opening line,
without a thought to preservation
I was newly defined.
An accidental situation
never felt so well designed,
so well organized.
And you may think I'm unimpressible,
but you know you're unforgettable.
We're not only indestructible;
we're unimpossible.
©2003 Schroedinger's Catbox
I swear, I swear
I saw you first.
I know you don't believe it.
But I dragged you
two thousand miles west,
and now I'd say we're even.
You may think I'm unimpressible,
but you know you're unforgettable.
We're not only indestructible;
we're unimpossible.
When I walked into that bar that night,
I swear, I swear I was shaking,
because when you smiled at me
from that window seat,
I knew my life was changing.
And everything I knew
said you were too good to be true,
which just proves
I don't know anything anyway.
Without a moment's hesitation
or an opening line,
without a thought to preservation
I was newly defined.
An accidental situation
never felt so well designed,
so well organized.
And you may think I'm unimpressible,
but you know you're unforgettable.
We're not only indestructible;
we're unimpossible.
©2003 Schroedinger's Catbox
Doing Fine
[hi-fi] – [lo-fi] – [download]
What a way to start the year.
All the family friends were there
before the first big storm blew out
to put my father in the ground.
We went through all the policies,
we wrote a moving eulogy,
we each picked up a yellow rose,
we closed the box,
and we all went home.
Life returned to normal then;
there was work to do
and bills to send.
I updated my addresses
and fortified all my defenses.
Now those days are so well protected
behind a wall of
two thousand condolences
with the smell of aftershave
and dreams of being saved.
But I'm not in denial, anyway.
You can say what you will,
but I'm still doing fine,
and it's obvious that
I'm not in denial, anyway.
You can say what you will,
but I'm still doing fine.
On the day after he went,
my mother got her birthday present:
in a vase of yellow roses,
the card read, "All my love."
And a stunned silence descended.
He'd called it in from his deathbed.
That's the kind of man he was.
I'll never be half the man he was.
And no, I never dream about
a miracle recovery,
dream it was all a dream
and he's still waiting there for me.
And no, I never dream about
taking back all that
senseless shouting.
And no, I never wonder why.
And no, I never cry.
©2003 Schroedinger's Catbox
What a way to start the year.
All the family friends were there
before the first big storm blew out
to put my father in the ground.
We went through all the policies,
we wrote a moving eulogy,
we each picked up a yellow rose,
we closed the box,
and we all went home.
Life returned to normal then;
there was work to do
and bills to send.
I updated my addresses
and fortified all my defenses.
Now those days are so well protected
behind a wall of
two thousand condolences
with the smell of aftershave
and dreams of being saved.
But I'm not in denial, anyway.
You can say what you will,
but I'm still doing fine,
and it's obvious that
I'm not in denial, anyway.
You can say what you will,
but I'm still doing fine.
On the day after he went,
my mother got her birthday present:
in a vase of yellow roses,
the card read, "All my love."
And a stunned silence descended.
He'd called it in from his deathbed.
That's the kind of man he was.
I'll never be half the man he was.
And no, I never dream about
a miracle recovery,
dream it was all a dream
and he's still waiting there for me.
And no, I never dream about
taking back all that
senseless shouting.
And no, I never wonder why.
And no, I never cry.
©2003 Schroedinger's Catbox
The Best Way
[hi-fi] – [lo-fi] – [download]
"Give it back," she said,
"I'll trade my freedom for
a photograph,"
pretending ending isn't starting,
that her heart is hardly breaking,
that her hands are hardly shaking.
And the mess she's hardly making
justifies the pills
She's taking too much time,
afraid to look,
and more afraid of what she'll find
when she opens up
those little curtains in her mind.
It makes it hard to
leave it all behind.
But she's a big girl now.
She's gonna make it somehow.
And though I'd never say
that that's the best way,
well, if it works for her,
what can I say?
"Give it time," I said.
"You try to race yourself,
you'll fall behind,
always breaking
what you're building."
Though the flesh is always willing,
disappointment's always killing,
and the tears never stop spilling.
And in a little while
she'll make up her mind
to get on with her life.
©2003 Schroedinger's Catbox
"Give it back," she said,
"I'll trade my freedom for
a photograph,"
pretending ending isn't starting,
that her heart is hardly breaking,
that her hands are hardly shaking.
And the mess she's hardly making
justifies the pills
She's taking too much time,
afraid to look,
and more afraid of what she'll find
when she opens up
those little curtains in her mind.
It makes it hard to
leave it all behind.
But she's a big girl now.
She's gonna make it somehow.
And though I'd never say
that that's the best way,
well, if it works for her,
what can I say?
"Give it time," I said.
"You try to race yourself,
you'll fall behind,
always breaking
what you're building."
Though the flesh is always willing,
disappointment's always killing,
and the tears never stop spilling.
And in a little while
she'll make up her mind
to get on with her life.
©2003 Schroedinger's Catbox
» cheaper than skydiving
These are, to date, the only JHG recordings made with Actual Human Beings. They feature the percussion stylings of Mark Manzo, and bass and backing vocals courtesy of Mad Mikey Shin.
Bad Girl
End of the Line
Landslide
Bad Girl
[hi-fi] – [lo-fi] – [download]
She said, "I'm a bad girl,"
just like in the movies,
just like in those dirty little magazines
(not that I'd know,
but I've heard stories).
And then she bit that lip—oh my—
and then she shook those hips—and I died—
and then she shot me a little smile
and walked out of the room.
But she knew what she was doing.
She knew what I was gonna say.
She knew how she was moving
when she walked away.
Now, she's a hell of a dancer,
so I stood and watched her,
and when she slid up to me
I didn't know what she would do to me.
And then she winked that eye—oh my—
and then she let loose a sigh—and I died—
and then she shot me a little smile
and walked out of the room.
But, you see, I don't dance anymore.
I don't do one-night stands anymore.
And so I took her hand,
looked in her eyes, told her goodnight,
went to my room, turned out the light,
got into bed (alone again),
and cursed my conscience
'til the morning, when
I heard the telephone:
She was calling to say hello.
She wanted to apologize
for whatever she did last night.
And then we laughed and talked about it,
and she laughed it off—and I died.
And then she laughed and said goodbye,
and walked out of my life.
©2001 Schroedinger's Catbox
She said, "I'm a bad girl,"
just like in the movies,
just like in those dirty little magazines
(not that I'd know,
but I've heard stories).
And then she bit that lip—oh my—
and then she shook those hips—and I died—
and then she shot me a little smile
and walked out of the room.
But she knew what she was doing.
She knew what I was gonna say.
She knew how she was moving
when she walked away.
Now, she's a hell of a dancer,
so I stood and watched her,
and when she slid up to me
I didn't know what she would do to me.
And then she winked that eye—oh my—
and then she let loose a sigh—and I died—
and then she shot me a little smile
and walked out of the room.
But, you see, I don't dance anymore.
I don't do one-night stands anymore.
And so I took her hand,
looked in her eyes, told her goodnight,
went to my room, turned out the light,
got into bed (alone again),
and cursed my conscience
'til the morning, when
I heard the telephone:
She was calling to say hello.
She wanted to apologize
for whatever she did last night.
And then we laughed and talked about it,
and she laughed it off—and I died.
And then she laughed and said goodbye,
and walked out of my life.
©2001 Schroedinger's Catbox
End of the Line
[hi-fi] – [lo-fi] – [download]
"I'll sue for custody,
but only if I have to," I said.
And she laughed,
laughed and looked right through me.
She said, "I never loved you,
so what's the use?"
And I may be living in this
burned-out home,
but at least it's home.
And her, she's poor again,
living like a whore again,
spending her last dollar on an faithless night.
And her, she's poor again,
living like a whore again,
spending her last dollar on a ride
to the end of the line.
"Do you have a secret song
you've never sung to anyone?" I said.
And she laughed.
She said, "I'm all sung out, love,
but I can paint you a picture,"
and she walked away.
Now I may be staring at this
bleached-out frame,
but at least I'm sane.
And her, she's poor again,
living like a whore again,
spending her last dollar on a faithless night.
And her, she's poor again,
living like a whore again,
spending her last dollar on a ride
to the end of the line.
©2001 Schroedinger's Catbox;
lyrics co-written by Brian Hegedus
"I'll sue for custody,
but only if I have to," I said.
And she laughed,
laughed and looked right through me.
She said, "I never loved you,
so what's the use?"
And I may be living in this
burned-out home,
but at least it's home.
And her, she's poor again,
living like a whore again,
spending her last dollar on an faithless night.
And her, she's poor again,
living like a whore again,
spending her last dollar on a ride
to the end of the line.
"Do you have a secret song
you've never sung to anyone?" I said.
And she laughed.
She said, "I'm all sung out, love,
but I can paint you a picture,"
and she walked away.
Now I may be staring at this
bleached-out frame,
but at least I'm sane.
And her, she's poor again,
living like a whore again,
spending her last dollar on a faithless night.
And her, she's poor again,
living like a whore again,
spending her last dollar on a ride
to the end of the line.
©2001 Schroedinger's Catbox;
lyrics co-written by Brian Hegedus
Landslide
[hi-fi] – [lo-fi] – [download]
I think I'm heading for a landslide.
Gotta watch my step,
gotta keep my voice down.
But I'll keep heading up that incline,
'cause this time when I hit the top
I'm never coming down.
I'll stand and scream aloud
at the top of my lungs,
and I'll look at the sky above
and know I've just begun.
Don't know why I've tried to justify.
My life is mine—
won't back down this time;
this time I'm standing.
And I'm not halfway done.
Feels like I'm running for my dear life.
I wanna catch my breath,
wanna take a look around.
But I've been running my whole damned life,
and this time I'm never looking back;
I'm never slowing down.
I'll lean into the wind,
leave a trail of dust behind,
and when I reach the end
I'll finally take what's mine.
And if I hurt you, well,
I'm sorry for my sins,
but I've done time
and time to spare.
I hate to fight,
but I gave up on giving in.
I'm sure you'll realize
that's better in the end.
(Third verse, same as the first.)
©2001 Schroedinger's Catbox
I think I'm heading for a landslide.
Gotta watch my step,
gotta keep my voice down.
But I'll keep heading up that incline,
'cause this time when I hit the top
I'm never coming down.
I'll stand and scream aloud
at the top of my lungs,
and I'll look at the sky above
and know I've just begun.
Don't know why I've tried to justify.
My life is mine—
won't back down this time;
this time I'm standing.
And I'm not halfway done.
Feels like I'm running for my dear life.
I wanna catch my breath,
wanna take a look around.
But I've been running my whole damned life,
and this time I'm never looking back;
I'm never slowing down.
I'll lean into the wind,
leave a trail of dust behind,
and when I reach the end
I'll finally take what's mine.
And if I hurt you, well,
I'm sorry for my sins,
but I've done time
and time to spare.
I hate to fight,
but I gave up on giving in.
I'm sure you'll realize
that's better in the end.
(Third verse, same as the first.)
©2001 Schroedinger's Catbox
» schroedinger's cat
Here you have my first attempts at home recording. The production isn't what the kids would call "professional," but I like a few of these quite a bit. I even plan to re-record a couple someday.
Mutually Assured Destruction
Words Fail
Paralyzed
Sendoff
Happily Ever After
Taxidermized
Suburban Galileo
Mutually Assured Destruction
[hi-fi] – [lo-fi] – [download]
(No lyrics here—it's an instrumental. Sort of.)
©2000 Schroedinger's Catbox
(No lyrics here—it's an instrumental. Sort of.)
©2000 Schroedinger's Catbox
Words Fail
[hi-fi] – [lo-fi] – [download]
The empty line buzzes like an insect.
I'm well aware of what you expect,
but I'm in distress, frozen
in the spotlight of your stare.
I try to speak, but it's not easy;
I'm less than eloquent
with what means most to me.
And I know, deep down,
I owe you an answer
that I'd like to offer.
But every time I open my mouth,
nothing comes out.
Now my head is flailing
and words are failing me,
selling me out again.
I don't know where to begin.
I don't know where this will end.
You ask your questions, perfectly justified;
your demands are sensible.
But still, I'm immobilized, perfectly tongue-tied,
slave to the brutally rational.
I try to speak, but it's not easy.
I'm worse than stupid
with what means most to me.
And I know so well
you wait for this answer
that I'm here to offer.
But every time I open my mouth,
nothing comes out.
©2000 Schroedinger's Catbox
The empty line buzzes like an insect.
I'm well aware of what you expect,
but I'm in distress, frozen
in the spotlight of your stare.
I try to speak, but it's not easy;
I'm less than eloquent
with what means most to me.
And I know, deep down,
I owe you an answer
that I'd like to offer.
But every time I open my mouth,
nothing comes out.
Now my head is flailing
and words are failing me,
selling me out again.
I don't know where to begin.
I don't know where this will end.
You ask your questions, perfectly justified;
your demands are sensible.
But still, I'm immobilized, perfectly tongue-tied,
slave to the brutally rational.
I try to speak, but it's not easy.
I'm worse than stupid
with what means most to me.
And I know so well
you wait for this answer
that I'm here to offer.
But every time I open my mouth,
nothing comes out.
©2000 Schroedinger's Catbox
Paralyzed
[hi-fi] – [lo-fi] – [download]
You hope and pray
and always say
you don't believe in these
"futile gestures."
But, in the dark at night,
I know you know you do.
This doubt is everything to you—
your very own religion.
Take a look at yourself;
you know it's true.
But every time that we sit down
it seems you've got the higher ground
and every word I try to say
won't leave my mouth.
So take your time;
I'm paralyzed.
I'm going nowhere.
I'll be right here when you come home,
right here waiting this time.
I'm paralyzed.
We're getting nowhere.
I'll be right here when you come home,
right here all alone.
Call it a masochistic streak;
I know my position's a little weak:
an atheist misologist
versus a shameless idealist.
But still we go around again,
hoping this time we both might win,
but we can't even agree
on what we're fighting for.
It's getting late again,
and once again we're stuck in nowhere.
It's past time to turn and walk
and never look behind.
But I'm not the kind to walk away,
even with the battle over;
I'm stumped, but still
hanging around.
And every time that we sit down
you know you've got the higher ground,
and so I sit here like a fool
and write it down.
©2000 Schroedinger's Catbox
You hope and pray
and always say
you don't believe in these
"futile gestures."
But, in the dark at night,
I know you know you do.
This doubt is everything to you—
your very own religion.
Take a look at yourself;
you know it's true.
But every time that we sit down
it seems you've got the higher ground
and every word I try to say
won't leave my mouth.
So take your time;
I'm paralyzed.
I'm going nowhere.
I'll be right here when you come home,
right here waiting this time.
I'm paralyzed.
We're getting nowhere.
I'll be right here when you come home,
right here all alone.
Call it a masochistic streak;
I know my position's a little weak:
an atheist misologist
versus a shameless idealist.
But still we go around again,
hoping this time we both might win,
but we can't even agree
on what we're fighting for.
It's getting late again,
and once again we're stuck in nowhere.
It's past time to turn and walk
and never look behind.
But I'm not the kind to walk away,
even with the battle over;
I'm stumped, but still
hanging around.
And every time that we sit down
you know you've got the higher ground,
and so I sit here like a fool
and write it down.
©2000 Schroedinger's Catbox
Sendoff
[hi-fi] – [lo-fi] – [download]
Across the quiet street
in this quiet town,
they finally tore that old, decrepit
supermarket down.
The screeching music
of machinery was calling
I stood amid the dust
and laughed to watch that building falling.
A giant metal arm reached down,
tore a huge support beam out,
and shook its prize above the mess
triumphantly.
And I saw without a doubt
how we build to tear our buildings down.
So it's always been, so ever it will be.
And I can't think of the buildings
left in front of me
or left behind.
Nothing more than the
voyage of discovery
this time.
And now I'm racing with strange urgency,
drawn by some emergency
through undiscovered, undistinguished,
and unnoticed country,
blazing down the road before me,
agent of immediacy,
hoping that this inauspicious sendoff
doesn't mean the end of me.
The coast is calling, ready or not,
I'm hoping for deliverance
with each ounce of strength I've got.
Leaving the city's din,
I smell California on the wind,
but there's a thousand miles to go before I stop.
The road is singing its lullabye.
The pale synthetic moonlight
pokes the huge, impassive sky.
The cars are dancing in a line
through the bare expanses,
all keeping time to steel lightposts flashing by.
©2000 Schroedinger's Catbox
Across the quiet street
in this quiet town,
they finally tore that old, decrepit
supermarket down.
The screeching music
of machinery was calling
I stood amid the dust
and laughed to watch that building falling.
A giant metal arm reached down,
tore a huge support beam out,
and shook its prize above the mess
triumphantly.
And I saw without a doubt
how we build to tear our buildings down.
So it's always been, so ever it will be.
And I can't think of the buildings
left in front of me
or left behind.
Nothing more than the
voyage of discovery
this time.
And now I'm racing with strange urgency,
drawn by some emergency
through undiscovered, undistinguished,
and unnoticed country,
blazing down the road before me,
agent of immediacy,
hoping that this inauspicious sendoff
doesn't mean the end of me.
The coast is calling, ready or not,
I'm hoping for deliverance
with each ounce of strength I've got.
Leaving the city's din,
I smell California on the wind,
but there's a thousand miles to go before I stop.
The road is singing its lullabye.
The pale synthetic moonlight
pokes the huge, impassive sky.
The cars are dancing in a line
through the bare expanses,
all keeping time to steel lightposts flashing by.
©2000 Schroedinger's Catbox
Happily Ever After
[hi-fi] – [lo-fi] – [download]
Here we are with the world at our feet now,
thinking that we know it so well.
Here we are with a smile for the preacher
and buck for the beggar
ringing on the mission bell.
Here we are with the world in between us
and our eyes screwed up tight.
Here we are, looking, mute, at one another.
We're wondering if we can make it right.
Oh lord, we'll never get it right.
It's the power of the consequence,
the iron chains of circumstance,
the quiet call of independence—
I don't hear a thing.
So when you get right down to the meaning,
there's no meaning there at all.
And when you lie awake in the candlelight
I know you hear me calling.
So you hope for the worst for your enemies,
and you hope for the best for your friends.
And then you learn one day that it's hopeless,
and that's where the story ends.
You know one day the story ends.
©1999 Schroedinger's Catbox; music co-written by Leland James "Pugsley" Pugsley, III
Here we are with the world at our feet now,
thinking that we know it so well.
Here we are with a smile for the preacher
and buck for the beggar
ringing on the mission bell.
Here we are with the world in between us
and our eyes screwed up tight.
Here we are, looking, mute, at one another.
We're wondering if we can make it right.
Oh lord, we'll never get it right.
It's the power of the consequence,
the iron chains of circumstance,
the quiet call of independence—
I don't hear a thing.
So when you get right down to the meaning,
there's no meaning there at all.
And when you lie awake in the candlelight
I know you hear me calling.
So you hope for the worst for your enemies,
and you hope for the best for your friends.
And then you learn one day that it's hopeless,
and that's where the story ends.
You know one day the story ends.
©1999 Schroedinger's Catbox; music co-written by Leland James "Pugsley" Pugsley, III
Taxidermized
[hi-fi] – [lo-fi] – [download]
It started innocently,
nothing but bliss before me,
but it got ugly in a hurry
and I got worried.
Not just a trophy
you were looking for,
but something more:
a still-life image
at no matter what the cost to me.
I never asked to be
a showpiece on your mantletop.
Now I can't get up.
You're pressing down,
trying to force a fit,
and I'm just trying to break free.
So stuff me tight
and sew me up,
my taxidermy love.
It's not enough
to gild the cage
that locks me up,
my taxidermy love.
It's not enough.
And now I'm frozen, finally.
This sawdust fill defines me,
screaming in silence in your prison
of childish visions.
You bind my arms back
to the breaking point,
and all the while, you smile,
not noticing
the tearing, rending, breaking bones.
I never asked to be
the highlight of your gallery.
Now I can't break free.
So, are you happy
with your little prize?
These glassy eyes
look terrified, but
you glow with pride
for what you've done to me.
©2000 Schroedinger's Catbox
It started innocently,
nothing but bliss before me,
but it got ugly in a hurry
and I got worried.
Not just a trophy
you were looking for,
but something more:
a still-life image
at no matter what the cost to me.
I never asked to be
a showpiece on your mantletop.
Now I can't get up.
You're pressing down,
trying to force a fit,
and I'm just trying to break free.
So stuff me tight
and sew me up,
my taxidermy love.
It's not enough
to gild the cage
that locks me up,
my taxidermy love.
It's not enough.
And now I'm frozen, finally.
This sawdust fill defines me,
screaming in silence in your prison
of childish visions.
You bind my arms back
to the breaking point,
and all the while, you smile,
not noticing
the tearing, rending, breaking bones.
I never asked to be
the highlight of your gallery.
Now I can't break free.
So, are you happy
with your little prize?
These glassy eyes
look terrified, but
you glow with pride
for what you've done to me.
©2000 Schroedinger's Catbox
Suburban Galileo
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Suburban Galileo
hangs his laundry out to dry
and polishes his telescope,
pointing at the sky
as countless nameless neighbors
point and laugh as they roar by
in their temporary paradise machines.
They search for immortality
with artificial youth
in a fight against extinction
that they're guaranteed to lose,
as Galileo stumbles
on the stony path of truth
and does his best to focus on his dreams.
For the clamor of tradition
is the moaning of the dead,
but the heavens hold the answers
if one dares to raise his head.
Yet, from the cold light of a million suns,
a million minds have fled,
leaving empty words to ring in empty heads.
At every evening's end
the nameless eyes are searching still,
looking at a mirror
through a rolled-up dollar bill,
or their shuddering surroundings
through the bottle as it spills.
The vision's always narrow, and untrue.
Afraid to turn their eyes
above their petty, earth-bound goals,
to peer beyond the walls
that form their own personal holes,
as permanent as twilight
or a falling star's bright soul.
A storm of self-importance clouds their view.
Suburban Galileo
hangs his laundry out to dry,
and polishes his telescope,
still pointing at the sky.
He thinks about how nameless faces
fade as time goes by,
he shakes his famous head,
and he smiles.
©2000 Schroedinger's Catbox
Suburban Galileo
hangs his laundry out to dry
and polishes his telescope,
pointing at the sky
as countless nameless neighbors
point and laugh as they roar by
in their temporary paradise machines.
They search for immortality
with artificial youth
in a fight against extinction
that they're guaranteed to lose,
as Galileo stumbles
on the stony path of truth
and does his best to focus on his dreams.
For the clamor of tradition
is the moaning of the dead,
but the heavens hold the answers
if one dares to raise his head.
Yet, from the cold light of a million suns,
a million minds have fled,
leaving empty words to ring in empty heads.
At every evening's end
the nameless eyes are searching still,
looking at a mirror
through a rolled-up dollar bill,
or their shuddering surroundings
through the bottle as it spills.
The vision's always narrow, and untrue.
Afraid to turn their eyes
above their petty, earth-bound goals,
to peer beyond the walls
that form their own personal holes,
as permanent as twilight
or a falling star's bright soul.
A storm of self-importance clouds their view.
Suburban Galileo
hangs his laundry out to dry,
and polishes his telescope,
still pointing at the sky.
He thinks about how nameless faces
fade as time goes by,
he shakes his famous head,
and he smiles.
©2000 Schroedinger's Catbox
» tributes
These songs were written for the occasions of my mother's and father's seventieth birthdays, respectively. They're not really like anything else on here, but then—what is?
Smile
Testament
Smile
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Small-town girl of seventeen,
you know she must have seemed a dream
to that eighteen-year-old from the city.
She could paint and she could sing;
he gave her his mother's ring,
and the rest, they say, is history.
I gotta wonder if she knew
what she was getting herself into
when she caught my father's eye.
But looking back, I don't expect
that she's got any regrets;
that just wouldn't be her style.
'Cause when the nightmares come calling
or there's trouble at the door,
and you run to her just like you've run
a thousand times before,
and you ask her for advice, she will reply,
"All you gotta do is smile."*
Now, Jim was born in '54,
so she had almost a year before
her life was turned inside out.
It was forty years before I left
and they had the place to themselves,
and that's really all I care to know.
Yet from the tiniest of scrapes
to the heaviest of heartbreaks
she's been there to heal the pain
with the hands of a sculptor,
and the voice of an angel,
and the patience of a saint.
Now seven decades out the door,
and we all hope for seven more
(though we'd settle for three or four).
Things may be getting hard these days,
but you've lost none of your grace,
none of your beauty, and none of your strength.
I will remember until I die: you said,
"I can see the fire in your eyes.
I pray you warm the world,
not burn it down."
Well, the best way that I know how
is to live my life the way you live yours now
and pass your simple message on.
So when my own kids come calling
'cause there's trouble at the door,
and they run to me just like I ran to you
a hundred thousand times before,
and they ask me for advice, I will reply,
"All you gotta do is smile."
©2002 Schroedinger's Catbox
Small-town girl of seventeen,
you know she must have seemed a dream
to that eighteen-year-old from the city.
She could paint and she could sing;
he gave her his mother's ring,
and the rest, they say, is history.
I gotta wonder if she knew
what she was getting herself into
when she caught my father's eye.
But looking back, I don't expect
that she's got any regrets;
that just wouldn't be her style.
'Cause when the nightmares come calling
or there's trouble at the door,
and you run to her just like you've run
a thousand times before,
and you ask her for advice, she will reply,
"All you gotta do is smile."*
Now, Jim was born in '54,
so she had almost a year before
her life was turned inside out.
It was forty years before I left
and they had the place to themselves,
and that's really all I care to know.
Yet from the tiniest of scrapes
to the heaviest of heartbreaks
she's been there to heal the pain
with the hands of a sculptor,
and the voice of an angel,
and the patience of a saint.
Now seven decades out the door,
and we all hope for seven more
(though we'd settle for three or four).
Things may be getting hard these days,
but you've lost none of your grace,
none of your beauty, and none of your strength.
I will remember until I die: you said,
"I can see the fire in your eyes.
I pray you warm the world,
not burn it down."
Well, the best way that I know how
is to live my life the way you live yours now
and pass your simple message on.
So when my own kids come calling
'cause there's trouble at the door,
and they run to me just like I ran to you
a hundred thousand times before,
and they ask me for advice, I will reply,
"All you gotta do is smile."
©2002 Schroedinger's Catbox
Testament
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What can I say that hasn't been said?
Take a look around
and see where your footsteps have led:
this room is a testament to you,
though these words are the best that I can do—
not to try to repay the gifts of your heart,
'cause we all know there's no way;
I wouldn't know where to start
except to say "thank you."
Looking back now, I wish that I could
take those shouts back somehow,
and let you know that I understood
that this room is a testament to you,
though these words are the best that I can do.
The epic wars, the angry roars—
but I'm not angry anymore, so
thank you
for every time a job's done right—
for every time I bite down on my pride—
for heavy plates and brimming cups—
for every word you made me look up—
for forcing us to make our stands,
but always standing close
with those helping hands—
for strength of will and clear eyes—
for every time my mother smiles—
for our very lives—
thank you.
©2001 Schroedinger's Catbox
What can I say that hasn't been said?
Take a look around
and see where your footsteps have led:
this room is a testament to you,
though these words are the best that I can do—
not to try to repay the gifts of your heart,
'cause we all know there's no way;
I wouldn't know where to start
except to say "thank you."
Looking back now, I wish that I could
take those shouts back somehow,
and let you know that I understood
that this room is a testament to you,
though these words are the best that I can do.
The epic wars, the angry roars—
but I'm not angry anymore, so
thank you
for every time a job's done right—
for every time I bite down on my pride—
for heavy plates and brimming cups—
for every word you made me look up—
for forcing us to make our stands,
but always standing close
with those helping hands—
for strength of will and clear eyes—
for every time my mother smiles—
for our very lives—
thank you.
©2001 Schroedinger's Catbox