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lyrics

The reporter doesn’t sleep. Has to file, in a week, his most robust and no doubt controversial piece for the daily. Well, at the budget meeting last, he’d set forth a proto head: “What is our city smoking?” And below it, “Three more dead.” He was amazing. Simply amazing. So amazing. Well, he’s been cooking dusty coffee in his dusk-lit kitchenette. When he squints, he sees the ghosts of all the sources he has met. A sovereign citizen named Rand, returned from war with just one hand. Then that junkie queen Patrice, with her little code orange niece, for whom the state would name a law, at which the townies would guffaw. As the reporter slumps down and beats his head against the wall. In November, at his folks’, dodging every friendly joke. He admits he thinks his copy’s getting hacky and he’s failing. But lo! His uncle thinks he’s cool, the noble product of j-school. A neoliberal hero for a generation of shaken babies. Oh, baby. Whoa, baby. Whoa, baby. Well, he’s discerning with his Moleskines. He never picks one color twice. (Picks one color twice.) And he eats a modest dinner made of pinto beans and rice. (Pinto beans and rice.) They know him at the town hall, and they hate him there at night. (Hate him there at night.) And he wonders if he’ll ever pop the cork on that new wine. (Cork on that new wine.) Or if he’ll one day leave this suburb to work the spin room for the Times, where he’ll prod those nasty senators ’til one shoves him out of line. It’s the long game for a book deal and a shot at the prime time. But until then, he sits alone and types.

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from The Truth Doesn't Live Here, released October 7, 2022

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Trauma Cat Syracuse, New York

America’s sorriest “power” trio

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