The Lyric Sheet: Songs from Richard Buckner’s “Our Blood”

Escape

Let’s waste the night; pay the price and get out of here.

It’s not enough, backing out just to disappear without a fight they’ll never know we’ve won.

How’d you know where to go and when to stop to look ahead?

No one’s ending up with what they thought they’d figured out.

Well, this is what they get, cold and lost.

Close calls take their toll some days.

The threads hang down; pull one out, the world falls away, chased and caught begging to be found far from home, bound to where we’ve been out of sight, fallen as we run.

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Thief

Give it back: broken-in and stolen from the mourning, counted out.

The branded charged ahead of the warnings rising beyond their due, checking behind for you with word on the way you heard was never sent, watching the gone go by baited and kept alive, shaking you loose.

But, you’d wind up again near the stars, spreading out and stranded somewhere, waving, seen and lost.

The moment has only left them waiting.

Seize the light; was it only shelter you were taking?

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Collusion

It was a chance you took: everything was good until you went back inside for a second look, holding out your hand.

Did you understand, crossing all of those lines and crawling back, slipping from your skin?

You couldn’t keep it in?

Overgrown, wearing thin, silent, as you whined around at another sound, you missed your turn, slowing down, caught in the lights and left again without the time to forget coming up for air from the hollow prayer you were sleeping through.

As you went nowhere, the cold would come as they’d always done and run into almost anyone curled in the rocks beyond their days.

Leaving the rest to find their way, the tempered tried as they rushed to hide, already gone with no goodbyes locked-up and out of key.

You’d hear them sing the distant songs with familiar rings, luring you out until you could remember the chance you took.

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Hindsight

Ours: to never learn the beginning of it all, keeping you alone; almost-overheard voices that had gone as far as they could go were ready to return, waiting for the call sooner than they’d know, missing by a night.

Did you hear it in the wind?

I couldn’t make it down, cloudy, in the lights fading out.

And, folded in a letter that I found, remembered just in time: forgetting to forgive never turning back around, stretching at the seams, pulling back the hood, forever, as a gaze you didn’t really mean, stricken as we stood broken, as we made time for make-believe, stealing, when we should, what we couldn’t give away.

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Gang

Can you call it what you see when you’re reaching for the light, found again before you leave, holding back enough to try, overheard talking down from somewhere, just above, to take you in, then throw you out, when the open evenings come through the years you’re due to spend in the promise of the vice, pouring shares to weathered friends ditching out at closing time, caving in and trailing off?

Will they find the fight to run, doubled back until they’ve gone where the open evenings come shaking in the coldest hours kept just out of mind, whispered where they wouldn’t go, tying off the broken lines that sent you on as if to show something waiting in the night, facing up and looking in, that you’d finally had too much, at last, to be?

It won’t begin until the open evenings come.

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Richard BucknerSince 2006′s Meadow, fans of Richard Buckner have been clamoring for new material and wondering what was keeping their hero from releasing the new songs he would perform on the road. Well, it’s a long story!

First, there was the score to a film that never happened. Then there was a brief brush with the law over a headless corpse in a burned-out car that had all eyes in Buckner’s small hometown in upstate New York turned toward him and his long-suffering truck. Shortly after a move to a safer, less popular corpse dumping ground, the death of his tape machine led to yet another reboot. After Richard called in pedal steel and percussion players and put new mixes on his laptop, his new “safer” place was burglarized. Goodbye, laptop.

Buckner says: “Eventually, the recording machine was resuscitated and some of the material was recovered. Cracks were patched. Parts were redundantly re-invented. Commas were moved. Insinuations were re-insinuated until the last percussive breaths of those final OCD utterances were expelled like the final heaves of bile, wept-out long after the climactic drama had faded to a somber, blurry moment of truth and voila!, the record was done, or, let us be clear, abandoned like the charred shell of a car with a nice stereo.”

All lyrics by Richard Buckner, taken from Richard Buckner’s album Our Blood

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lyric Sheet Lyric Sheet

The Lyric Sheet series presents the lyrics to unreleased songs (at time of publication), previewing the song, without the music.

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