Fishing with the fiddle at the old man's place.
Hooking big and little out at Carney's Lake.
The White Rock Flood hadn't hit us yet.
Big John's stroke hadn't took his legs.
Whistle overhead...the rockets shake...exploding greens and reds in soft cascades.
Fussing with the signal on my grandpa's set.
Indians and armies flicker while we rest.
The Main Street bust hadn't hit us yet.
Pa's poor heart hadn't quit just yet.
The trees bend deep to the woods.
The wild eyed boy found his soul.
Soil ain't dirty when it's mixed with work.
Soul ain't worth a penny when it's got no hope.
Wishing, praying, dreaming that our bellies grow.
Edmund Junior's Grocery hadn't been closed yet.
The Town Hall scandal hadn't been broke yet.
The wind blows soft in the house where I was raised lost it's walls.
The smell of spring fills the halls; halls I remember at Carney's Lake.
Fishing with the fiddle at the old man's place.
Waiting for a smile from the old man's face.
The love of another hadn't took him yet.
The scent of his wife hadn't left him yet.
Whistle overhead...the rockets shake...exploding greens and reds in soft cascades.
Halls that I remember out at Carney's Lake...hooking big and little out at old man's place. The White Rock Flood hadn't hit us yet. Pa's poor heart hadn't quit just yet.
Whistle overhead...the rockets shake...exploding greens and reds in soft cascades.
W.A. Fite
Courtesy James Villa Photography 2012
Monday, November 29, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Lyrics: Western In A
The ground came rushing up, with the night in swing.
A wine red cup, a moon for a king.
What for? What for?
I grabbed what I could as I went for that door.
But there she stood, her hands in the sink.
What for? What for?
I winced as she spoke, saying, "Love, where will you go?"
"Thought the concrete is warm, those boots aren't soled."
What for? What for?
"Sure, my pockets are holed. Yes, my money it won't fold."
"But I got my youth. I don't need your home."
What for? What for?
The ground came rushing up with the morning in swing.
An open guitar case. A curb for a king.
What for? What for?
So, I slipped as I crept up to the door, but there you were alive with bloom.
And you said, "Babe you're going just a little too soon...that this house is a home, not a tomb."
Now that perfume that's swirling off your bed, brings my thoughts to the phrase that once you said...
Said, "A life...a life that has no love, is the one that you won't want etched in stone..."
A wine red cup, a moon for a king.
What for? What for?
I grabbed what I could as I went for that door.
But there she stood, her hands in the sink.
What for? What for?
I winced as she spoke, saying, "Love, where will you go?"
"Thought the concrete is warm, those boots aren't soled."
What for? What for?
"Sure, my pockets are holed. Yes, my money it won't fold."
"But I got my youth. I don't need your home."
What for? What for?
The ground came rushing up with the morning in swing.
An open guitar case. A curb for a king.
What for? What for?
So, I slipped as I crept up to the door, but there you were alive with bloom.
And you said, "Babe you're going just a little too soon...that this house is a home, not a tomb."
Now that perfume that's swirling off your bed, brings my thoughts to the phrase that once you said...
Said, "A life...a life that has no love, is the one that you won't want etched in stone..."
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Lyrics: Crazy Horse
My life is emptying, as she lies on the corner of my bed.
My time is emptying, as it clicks the tick-tock it makes sense.
My love is silent she makes no waves, smiles as I rest.
We laid upon the rocks to see how hard that sleeping should have been.
I've gone to Crazy Horse to ask him for advice. He makes no sense.
Where has my woman gone?
She took the flashlight, when she took the tent.
Now I am huddled down, with no light, nothing but the wind.
Back out to Crazy Horse, asking please and thank you. Let me in.
Another turn away and I'd turn back, but this shit it don't make sense.
Wrapped in a safety bag, lying on the rocks the clock it ticks.
My life is emptying as I smell the wind turn cold as death.
My love is silent as she lies on the corner of my bed.
If I could sleep to dream; would she appear as she once did?
Curled down on my lap whispering sweet words that she'd never say...
My time is emptying, as it clicks the tick-tock it makes sense.
My love is silent she makes no waves, smiles as I rest.
We laid upon the rocks to see how hard that sleeping should have been.
I've gone to Crazy Horse to ask him for advice. He makes no sense.
Where has my woman gone?
She took the flashlight, when she took the tent.
Now I am huddled down, with no light, nothing but the wind.
Back out to Crazy Horse, asking please and thank you. Let me in.
Another turn away and I'd turn back, but this shit it don't make sense.
Wrapped in a safety bag, lying on the rocks the clock it ticks.
My life is emptying as I smell the wind turn cold as death.
My love is silent as she lies on the corner of my bed.
If I could sleep to dream; would she appear as she once did?
Curled down on my lap whispering sweet words that she'd never say...
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Lyrics: Tennessee Tango Whiskey
The Tennesse boy's shoes don't tie right.
His shirt don't tuck with them jeans so tight.
Pockets of dust, and an empty mouth, but that shit don't matter it's a Saturday night, Alright.
Out on Alsup Road...sip on Lightning Joe.
Here waits Sam with her rolled red hair.
On Highway 61, thumb in the air.
Her lips are drawl. Her legs are lean. In fifteen hours she'll be in New Orleans, Nawlins.
Up on Royal Street. Sam at Mr. B's.
The boy is skinny, but his voice is deep.
His beard won't grow out on his cheeks.
Half a cigarette hangs by his teeth.
Vulgar tones a mane of grease.
Here comes the love of the redhead child.
His eyes are locked on her frame of wire.
Shimmying down Canal and Camp, to the rhythm of the steps of the one he desires.
He's light and wild.
She's fair stone mild. Sam at Mr. B's.
The love can't find Sam at Mr. B's.
He turns west 14 blocks, Bourbon Street.
Spots her frame and stops to breathe.
Takes her hand, she sighs relief.
There goes Sam and her rolled redhair.
Struttin' hot coals. Nose in the air.
Her style is cloudy, but skirt is clean. And for this city that's enough to be crowned queen.
His shirt don't tuck with them jeans so tight.
Pockets of dust, and an empty mouth, but that shit don't matter it's a Saturday night, Alright.
Out on Alsup Road...sip on Lightning Joe.
Here waits Sam with her rolled red hair.
On Highway 61, thumb in the air.
Her lips are drawl. Her legs are lean. In fifteen hours she'll be in New Orleans, Nawlins.
Up on Royal Street. Sam at Mr. B's.
The boy is skinny, but his voice is deep.
His beard won't grow out on his cheeks.
Half a cigarette hangs by his teeth.
Vulgar tones a mane of grease.
Here comes the love of the redhead child.
His eyes are locked on her frame of wire.
Shimmying down Canal and Camp, to the rhythm of the steps of the one he desires.
He's light and wild.
She's fair stone mild. Sam at Mr. B's.
The love can't find Sam at Mr. B's.
He turns west 14 blocks, Bourbon Street.
Spots her frame and stops to breathe.
Takes her hand, she sighs relief.
There goes Sam and her rolled redhair.
Struttin' hot coals. Nose in the air.
Her style is cloudy, but skirt is clean. And for this city that's enough to be crowned queen.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Stream "Poisoning The Medicine Tree" @ Bandcamp.com
"Poisoning The Medicine Tree" long play by W.A. Fite, 12 song streaming available @ http://wafite.bandcamp.com .
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
My Hand The Handle
I was afraid to open the door. Afraid of the handle and of the turn.
I was afraid to open the door. Afraid of what I knew I would learn.
Looked at the handle, looked at my hand. Noticed it's paint chips, noticed it's slant.
I was afraid to open the door. Thinking it's stance was maligned, but true.
I was afraid to open the door. Thinking I'd stumble, slip right through.
Reached for the handle, gave it a turn.
It's bolt clicked at going and finally I knew...
As I stood looking through that open door, the nothing I saw was simply the floor.
I was afraid to open the door. Afraid of what I knew I would learn.
Looked at the handle, looked at my hand. Noticed it's paint chips, noticed it's slant.
I was afraid to open the door. Thinking it's stance was maligned, but true.
I was afraid to open the door. Thinking I'd stumble, slip right through.
Reached for the handle, gave it a turn.
It's bolt clicked at going and finally I knew...
As I stood looking through that open door, the nothing I saw was simply the floor.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Lyrics: Sergeant F. Head
Sergeant Head walks his line to view his prisoners; smell their crimes. His stick goes click from side-to-side, his lips smacked hard, his teeth clenched wide.
He picks the ones who live or die. He picks the ones who make him smile. The whince and beg is what he'll claim, the pride in which keep him sustained. He's riding high up on the wind. That Sergeant Head's old dirty grin.
Sergeant Head walks his line to view the women in their prime. His stick goes click from side-to-side, his tongue wagged hard, his teeth sneered wide.
He picks the girls to be his bride. He picks the ones who like to cry. The whince and beg is what he'll claim, the pride in which keep him sustained. He's riding high up on the wind. That Sergeant Head's old dirty grin.
One day he woke up from his sleep to see a new line forming deep. He combed his mane and wiped his eyes and stepped outside to greet the line...
"Move aside and take him from my line. Move aside and take her from my line."
That's the sign, to take a wife.
"Move along and take him from my line. Move along and take her from my line."
That's the sign, to take a life.
"What's her name? Please take her from my line. What's her name? I'll put her by my side."
Now's the time to beg with tears.
I'd say, "Pause. Take a breath try again from here."
"Oh, just take him from my line. What a wreck. I'll put him on this line."
Now's the time to say a prayer.
I'd say, "Stop. Hold your breath try again from here."
"Oh, where's that pretty little one? Such a tease...always crying on my feet."
I'd say, "Stop. Hold your breath, count it back from ten."
She'd say, "Please...OH NO, no no no no no!!!"
That's the sign, to take a life.
He picks the ones who live or die. He picks the ones who make him smile. The whince and beg is what he'll claim, the pride in which keep him sustained. He's riding high up on the wind. That Sergeant Head's old dirty grin.
Sergeant Head walks his line to view the women in their prime. His stick goes click from side-to-side, his tongue wagged hard, his teeth sneered wide.
He picks the girls to be his bride. He picks the ones who like to cry. The whince and beg is what he'll claim, the pride in which keep him sustained. He's riding high up on the wind. That Sergeant Head's old dirty grin.
One day he woke up from his sleep to see a new line forming deep. He combed his mane and wiped his eyes and stepped outside to greet the line...
"Move aside and take him from my line. Move aside and take her from my line."
That's the sign, to take a wife.
"Move along and take him from my line. Move along and take her from my line."
That's the sign, to take a life.
"What's her name? Please take her from my line. What's her name? I'll put her by my side."
Now's the time to beg with tears.
I'd say, "Pause. Take a breath try again from here."
"Oh, just take him from my line. What a wreck. I'll put him on this line."
Now's the time to say a prayer.
I'd say, "Stop. Hold your breath try again from here."
"Oh, where's that pretty little one? Such a tease...always crying on my feet."
I'd say, "Stop. Hold your breath, count it back from ten."
She'd say, "Please...OH NO, no no no no no!!!"
That's the sign, to take a life.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Oil Machine
I am an oil machine of gears and clogs, parts that don't match. Gears that won't turn, clamps that won't latch. Grease and steam whistling.
Tired and alone. Made by steel, not stone.
I am a tattooed old piece with words that bend to odd to read. Cars that don't match. A crime at the scene. Grease and steam whistling.
Tired and alone. Made by steel, not stone.
No more lines. No sunsets behind. Just oil and rust. Tired and alone.
Tired and alone. Made by steel, not stone.
I am a tattooed old piece with words that bend to odd to read. Cars that don't match. A crime at the scene. Grease and steam whistling.
Tired and alone. Made by steel, not stone.
No more lines. No sunsets behind. Just oil and rust. Tired and alone.
Lyrics: Large Lights
The more I stay awake. The farther It gets away.
If I stay up too long, this memory will be gone.
It is dark when I wake. It is dark when I get home.
Big huge large lights, that say I've been lost.
That's a lie. I chose this spot. This spot is mine.
Where have you gone? I can't be left alone this long.
It is dark when I wake. It is dark when I get home.
If I stay up too long, this memory will be gone.
It is dark when I wake. It is dark when I get home.
Big huge large lights, that say I've been lost.
That's a lie. I chose this spot. This spot is mine.
Where have you gone? I can't be left alone this long.
It is dark when I wake. It is dark when I get home.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Lyrics: The Piddler
Why did you let me down, standing out at the Fairfield Line?
I've tried to rest in this deafening sound, the sky meets the ground.
Slow, slow, so slow.
Did the clock wind out as the room went cold?
My suit has torn a hole.
And your dress has split where it can't be sewed.
Why did you have me wait? My feet went push till the floor went split.
I stared through the screen and latch, and through the roof peering near the thatch.
Slow, slow, so slow.
Did the clock wind out as the room went cold?
My suit has torn a hole.
And your dress has split where it can't be sewed.
Why did it take so long for you to say, "Hey, I've met someone"?
I sure as hell would've left this town and it's sparse lit clouds.
I've tried to rest in this deafening sound, the sky meets the ground.
Slow, slow, so slow.
Did the clock wind out as the room went cold?
My suit has torn a hole.
And your dress has split where it can't be sewed.
Why did you have me wait? My feet went push till the floor went split.
I stared through the screen and latch, and through the roof peering near the thatch.
Slow, slow, so slow.
Did the clock wind out as the room went cold?
My suit has torn a hole.
And your dress has split where it can't be sewed.
Why did it take so long for you to say, "Hey, I've met someone"?
I sure as hell would've left this town and it's sparse lit clouds.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)