10x10 print booklet with fully annotated lyrics, original prose, photos, and more.
ships out within 1 day
edition of 100
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lyrics
I walked the Coulee Dam.
Now I, followed by a Ford on ’55,
will ride that Chrome back home—
Some ride.
High art from Pliocene.
A dam followed the flood
and then the workers’ blood to dam—
don’t lie, whose land?
King Columbia?
Damn creditors.
Scum, predators.
Some coffers they’re constructing on the
Rhône.
No hope.
Around the fishing ground
a quiet settled death
spawned trouble for the West Indian—
and Guthrie said this thing was grand?
Graves watery,
in cautery,
they relocated certain burial grounds.
Some drowned.
Belgium Wastes
Belgium steals and takes.
Belgium hates.
No doubt in my heart:
We, too.
A Congo riverboat
surveys fifty meters up the northward face
of Inga,
cap’s a grayscale:
“MK”.
Cut to le Roi-des-Belges:
“J’y suivais un serpent qui venait de me mordre.”
“Demi mort?
Your accent’s poor, speak up, say more.
Quel endroit?”
“Atlantropa—
Ein Damm über den Straße von Gibraltar."
Belgium wastes.
Belgium steals and takes.
Belgium hates.
No doubt
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