Hello Sunshine

Hello Sunshine

by Ryan Adams

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Overview

Poetry from “one of America’s most consistently interesting singer/songwriters” (Stephen King).
 
Fans who have enjoyed the lyrics and music on such albums as Cardinology, Easy Tiger, and Prisoner, or hit songs including “When the Stars Go Blue,” know that Ryan Adams is a poet at heart. In this follow-up to his first collection of poems, Infinity Blues—praised by Stephen King as “a passionate, arresting, and entertaining book of verse”—readers will discover new ideas, deeper insights, and graceful, sensual compositions that reveal another side of Ryan Adams.
 
“Ryan Adams writes with equal parts precision and recklessness; the blood he draws from the text is easily as unnerving as its unapologetic tenderness. He is proof that poetry will find its writer.” —Mary-Louise Parker

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781936070305
Publisher: Akashic Books (Ignition)
Publication date: 12/01/2009
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 192
File size: 303 KB

About the Author

Ryan Adams is an alt-country/rock singer-songwriter best known for his song New York, New York. In addition to releasing five solo albums, Adams has also produced an album by Willie Nelson and contributed to albums by Toots and the Maytals, Beth Orton, The Wallflowers, Minnie Driver, Counting Crows, and Cowboy Junkies. Adams also appeared on CMT's Crossroads with Elton John.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Florida


florida lay there before us swollen this driver and me rolling into a sure ghetto neon jacksonville ghetto to get a car taxi was rattling smoke shot up with seats ripped we rolled into the lot and streetlamp-outlined men standing up in a row braced each on a corner body language loud saying listen they had it firearms street pharmaceuticals and when our eyes met palms blurred smokeburns electrical fires sky ripping those whitecotton clouds up in some deep-ass blue the too-deep sea never-going-to-see-land-again deep sky lost-at-sea deep sky blur just over there that i could see total anger moans calm rage lamps without shades drywall tears a history of night hours and in that moment some clenched fists they broke my bones like a light falling off a night table and like the rats we all are florida florida spat me out but i kept my breath slow a little girl at the bottom of the stairs scowled surrounded by night shade shadow wall bricks hidden in a mossy funk in a row on the second floor landing in the cement block apartment rise some half-dressed bodies lit up christmas trees these men were streetlamp damp sweating hard guns near in the nightpools she stared through me like i was meat she held a plastic uzi in a room staring like they were eating through my skin and without a nod without a tip we slid very quietly into the butterscotch grand prix the driver and me under the moons screaming inside maybe inside the rooms with television blurs circling us and circling it that car all armor-alled up and smelling like grease and like bad stuff or like something like forget it we got in all of a sudden he stopped asking me about the money which was scary he knew i knew he knew i had that money and in your mind you go bloody feet barely alive screaming for your neighborhood life out of that place but she called and he answered and something pulled him triggered his heart click guiding him smiling to the freeway no taxi his nephew's car butterscotch grand prix and off the highway in a fast food parking lot the driver pulled me in hands over my shrugging sides delivered me like a wish as i forked over a little more than bargained forgot about landing in the wrong city
  that airport dry rotting forgot about meeting
  her father her father so decent his grill smoking forgot about the mosquito bites
  pine halls those castle walls of wood forgot about myself and i was just happy to be home i was happy to remember who i really was and you know i see that sky still it reminds me of a dishrag rolled with heavy dew and palmettos exploding oranges that florida sky emitting total life and total death and me on the fresh steps to dropping all the bags arms out receiving my destiny and hope in several phases of doubts colored somehow with love


Fruit-Rotting

once in coins subwayesque we paid all the way uptown back in the skeleton-eye like,
  "hey hey hey gotta
  keep up now"
somebody would shout sweating beautiful on the shitty rushing chinatown streets glistening bodies yellow mash sunrocked those days ...
but now we are old and in us drugs rot like we are dirty like our insides are paying for our sins and not us our insides like a cross fruit-rotting sun-diving we are eagles now
    beautiful
  and we we feast on what we like
  lucky ones so so lucky so lucky imagine if one of us,
um, found out one of our best friends had died overdose-cop-call on an empty bed or worse all of us lied
  more some of us got free on the dust falling out of the bags meant for a sick sunday
  or one of us betrayed the animals let loose in the disco metal farm
  we
  are lucky count-your-wishes-and-stars lucky now we are old and going for more we are dirty like our insides went to work for us for every night we spent in the throws throwing up diamonds and trust funds our souls eternal for those nights and we felt it a real disco polaroid
  famous wasted
    eternal buzz
      so rocked but inside it was all a joke hahahahaha
  and we we were a joke just all sped up and neon and ugly
  like sharks
  in shiny dresses
  minus leeches
  us, and our bowls of fruit fruitcake-dreaming
  but full of disco-lies and fucking each other disgusting our souls shining hard in valhalla but inside we were lying and while we were not busy with the snake or the unicorn-rainbow hallucinations if we sat down for even one moment we knew once we got home our insides t2hey would pay for our sins while we sat on the window-bed-nook under a peach-rind quilt suffering a loss
    we was bright and alive once
    we was
  was but now now;
  just steeped in self juice and balloon-popped yellow-yucked and fucked up white-wine dinnered and disgusting crossworded all of us totally sucking and stuck our insides like a cross sun-diving
  and fruit-rotting


Dope Camera

screaming
  lord knows,
screamed like as in screaming as in
  "sunshine came screaming into the room, bottles empty, lines under eyes
  where they were broken up and followed into a face"
awful
  rocked so hard i broke the crib
  sneezed so hard i broke a rib
    lost a dog
    couldn't take care of it
    couldn't see eyes breaking out from fleshy dope smear
  what
  what was anybody doing there?
  pretty pretty people in there in that fog land wasted in that dock of memory
  i worry about all of them
    and
    i don't know, us nothing really happened
  cuz we talked so much
  nobody moved
  inside
  the rooms
  the brightlight
  midnights
  were bloody as a lie
  and fortune cookies hung over us like the low gongs
  plus-sized songs the valley was ripe with flashfires
  and
  cement trucks
  heavy metal freight cars
  on wheels
  cemetery skin
  smoking with the hookers
  on Noplace
  and 10th
  or whatever street we made this whole thing up inside my bedroom
  madness close behind
  it felt like
  well i swallowed the whole of the world
  in a night screamed for the past to hear me first
  and take me last like as in screaming as in scream team m.v.p.
  now totally m.i.a.
  and all, "fuck you"
    somebody really should have had the cameras rolling back then well some of them did
  oops our lives went
  bullshitting with the loansharks
  and we all bought the tent
  golden tooth paying all the rent
  inside lord knows we are all ...
screaming


Bags

three bags sit on this bench sunlit flies also not on the bags a tree, oak, long branches reaches behind ever lit also yellow sunlight and green-washed like salt blast from water reefs this greenish thing i walk past in a moment thinking
"i am not here"
sure as fire my lover reclines and the electricity pulsing through the grid in the metal towers racing in a row through the cut-low grass hills trees on either side like an evergreen racing grid pump the towns with light as we read aloud the words to the song of our life in time with the jets singing
"i know a love true and i know a love strong"
we know ...
and like a saturday is coming like a fucking wall is caving like all the rest just easing into it like bricks like who fucking cares?
me—
three bags sit on the bench in the summer of my dreams filled with rose petals filled with candy i left them there without reason no reason i am beyond reason really almost beyond reason almost really i am i was


Feverpitch

in a feverpitch the note broke my eyes so glassed and in the kitchen i did the dishes very poorly almost as if to say to make this last
"i will prolong this"
my battle against time my unmade bed moans so that if i must use these things again they will go under the water for things are more useful clean like dreaming with my eyes closed and open either way i am open as in opening nonstop full-time sleeping fuzz-faced overage costs, ratios, house dollars the build-up counter tops, numbers, receipts in jars calculators tick-tock tick-tocking my body is counting itself counting something so many new pieces ah, my lungs feel like what what ash is on a still warm backyard summer fire on strike fresh-cut grass must feel like this does it feel no burning embers like what that might feel like to feel i feel things and i apply metaphor i dunno why i do that i don't know how to explain my feelings ever so i write too much down talkmouth blahzzzrt too much not enough man my nose is running achoo it feels like running there's so much energy in pain and so much madness in energy now this!
NOT doing something, so feverpitch ...
there's no sense in NOT talking that should be so easy right how much poison really how much extraction before i'm better before i say this
"i guess i had enough"
  or YES!
and
  OK THANKS! haha that note rung so loud it cracked our porcelain sky and it cracked bad pink clouds, goshawks circling soon i will put on my colored faces and planting boots and i will go cast myself into the painted desert walls and sycamore tree fuckery plus no one but the coyotes say, man, say these animals cannot read but we remember what overwhelming REALLY is captain?
... no?
well a coyote's cry echoes
& hopefully one day one last face full of tears and cracked eyes will drain simple lines for a pool of howls but glowing when that note breaks the spell and it's curtains to all things false to all things sour and ill timed in a feverpitch for a hope i will be here for you, my love always
  on key in the dusted halls
  of the infinite hours feverpitched
  and cherrysour


Numbers

  Blitzed all kinds of slow sad My God i remember being really pilled out numb the TV blew all this static at me about WAR because WAR SELLS like POETRY likes WAR fuck that
    seriously
  i was all pilled up
  Medication Station
  and this giant love
  earth/air elemental
  orange-juice-good
  for me
  and me
  numb
  her,
  right beside me —
  white walls
  cotton sheets
  asleep
  and on the f'n TV
  Just War Shit numb
  Blitzed then
  then
    then i go deaf from this fucking head trip thing i got my grandfather, he was also super deaf/super duper hearingaide deaf
  now Now i can't hear the numbers people's kids are all shot up in the desert they only dream this empty sand trap and say the names
  and there i was
    alone
      in my head
        going deaf
  afraid i wouldn't be able to hit the notes and i would forget the numbers and
  all these people were dying all shot up
  my lover asleep
    ready to let me slip away
    across the ocean
    all pilled up
    i got so lucky
    i even got kinda
    religious about it
  Blitzed all
  numb My God


OK, Wow

i allow myself the invitation,
i surround the door,
ill at ease,
maybe — but draped — still foolishly,
eh i have a wiry shape ...
his my grandfather's and possibly wolves i dunno age ...
things growing ...
backaches and oh wow ow
"that hurts"
but
"this feels fine"
certainly well, "doesn't it always something?"
all these things match the way i have to always wear a watch because it's right to enjoy the race morning turning day for someday we will meet inside the gates because there is nothing left to do but not be late and we all learn from our mistakes like it or not ugh,
ouch and well,
ok, w o w


I Am Standing on This Beach

i am on this fucking beach.
noisy noisy waves ... blast, blast in my face so loud—
pigeons,
sea spray,
the second crash comes after the first like a wave — it binds though, so binds itself to the rot of the beach; a "fuckoff"
almost to the tide ... washing garbage on dirty sand-like-sand,
colors — electric blue, with candy wrappers and condoms and shells/plus some breeze that comes,
goes, comes, goes, oblivious to tempo or nature even a beach, on the fucking endless beach where that goddamn sun rises and falls like a loud boss; like a nightmare; restart machine-ball hot like a nuclear stop watch
....i watch it.
watch it.......
break into the fall of lines sized for angels and ancient gods or mountains
—born there,
and ...
no matter how it sounds,
crass and underhanded,
inside any man,
fought off or not,
it's just it's just this ...
a woman can be a junk ship, wooden,
patched red sail here and there like flying over singapore thru that fog ever there — hiding it.....her/us/me/it her/me/us/it/fog—
fog—like singapore fog we are hiding.
sad sad sad
(always —then —
like magic — whammo — descend and out the window—there it is —
beautiful and not in any time — not decade-era fixed —
"totally" non-american — past/present —
all functioning at once — .......................
with harbors — junk ships — and my, my god, my god....
all lit with skyscraper xmas lights —
lit peaks and nighttime valleyhouses a fortress of woven wooden trunks of trees — blinded by mad mad mad beauty).....
mad beauty.....
and a man is a tug, mechanical and plastic; hard-lining sunken; work'd manhands broken nails chalked palms boxer-sized bed-ready —
the kind that fix ropes round boxes if they had to with an elephant cargo — before they were even a child — past sails, deaths, things drunk......ugh,,,,,,,
drunken ... worse — beyond youth more
"curse of youth"
all that shit no matter how mannered no matter how buddhist no matter how many dresses who?
who is handing out the charity turkeys on new year's in the mission, low key — crying—with some lady saying "it's ok honey — we all do it, you just ain't been down here as long,"
all that shit, in a man,
always,,,,,,,,
but whatever really,
a man, hey, he is still a tug tugboat.
a tug.
and sometimes,
sometimes, not always,
but sometimes,
it needs repair/slides up aside there — "there" like arms; like long pale arms —
..........................from the junk ship down come the ropes — to bind tugboats plastic outsides align — soft each splinter of wood into the fabric of shitty-weather salt-riddled plastic feel like rooms if a child were born in the heart of a man
...inside his tug,
his cry machine,
his eyes.
...beaten too — from a weather-only an ocean-sized dream that never ended could whisper it to you — ///////////rusted so that you might believe — and you do.
inside the flicker or the blue no words say shit — just a look and every horizon-wave-tide —
bloody rope gloved catch — it is.
it just is.
she sees.
in a lucky thought here — she smiles —
but we just don't know.
we don't know what she or he would really do.
not really.........................................
so into a bed two could go, harbor side torn apart — funnily, no different than any mechanic, working on a car — but this ocean, he works in it, and it — it —
THAT ocean it is so many-many-many-many hearts in a row — what you throw out and what comes back — never mind so much..........
it's all that bottomless and in-between that, well, you know,
that is what drives any tug driver home H O M E Home —
eventually —
that is if a man were lucky.
lucky being fickle,
fickle luck being funny,
funny being sad sometimes,
like you just ran out of it —
steam, money,
dreams, honeycomb or blankets,
and somebody was going to get cold.
cold,
not in a home.
to know a home my god, how lucky.
and certainly a postman too, a diver or a saloon owner or a personal driver or anyone,
it drives them home,
this in and out of an ocean of somethings thoughts, working-assembly-line working-desk-sitting-phone-answering —
everyone, even those in a dream when they do a thing —
something in them realizes that clock upon the wall if it is to be anything so true it is just numbers of a face — kind,
beautiful we are lucky to return to —
our homes..............................................
and into a bed the bind is not the sizes of a shape of a person there to hide against but hopeful blue light if a tv set is on—
or just doors/windows — open to the stars,
or......
impressions of stars cause unnatural light also binds itself too, like when it is not a me or a him or her or a you but an us.
where the ocean stops.........................
but it stops.
not home.
no home there.
lucky-not.
noisy noisy waves, tideblast, blast in a face, squinting in place.........................
sarong or blanket flag flying horizontal colors against that line that goes down the sides of a woman.
in a wow, sigh,
from sea spray for a little while till the ocean is the woman who you waited for and,
strangely, saying this as a man,
why you went,
why you went anyway.......a soldier of sorts, to collect new things inside you —
to restart those eyes, that woman, and without a doubt—inside she could see too the impression of unimaginable sunsets,
only happening out there — while we we are not looking but the tug goes still and the sky holds —
holds it to the blue pages —
to bring home to her.
like a rat. in a bow tie.
smiling at small beds to a family of also cartoon rats, in bow ties
(imagine that!!!!)
if only in a gesture of the shoulders —
and a look — that something amazing still stands even if that wait meant.....
well......
just inside a man,
and if that man were the one —
the one under the blue lights —
and nightstars pulled into the junk ship a tug binded binded and the splinters went in and i felt each one, and i am a tug on this ocean of ours ...

but i am standing on this fucking beach.

CHAPTER 2

Smoking and Bug


so many years old but not a man
  at all
  am i this weird place so much bedroom noise radiator making clangs this whole night like a stretch of beach with blond and salty bangs or candy cane missiles projecting light orbs over blankets cursed under backache and why did i stop or even start what a
dumb kid i have been that for so long pointless really isn't it to act like this
  or that say we get lost in a moment say we get gone in the fly rods casting outward to sea on expensive dinghies en masse spanish armada omelets diner fantasy food outward upward dreaming half-assed and awake i miss someone so much i quit well, smoking really to prove to myself how strong a love is even for me so many years old and not a man
  at all
  in years but terribly
  terribly overwhelmed by a name and mercy be a woman with her name and me imagine this not smoking wowed secret loud backwards lot centered alive arms out planted in the new days

(Continues…)


Excerpted from "Hello Sunshine"
by .
Copyright © 2009 Ryan Adams.
Excerpted by permission of Akashic Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents

Contents

Florida....................11
Fruit-Rotting....................17
Dope Camera....................22
Bags....................26
Feverpitch....................29
Numbers....................34
Ok, Wow....................37
I Am Standing on This Beach....................39
Smoking and Bug....................51
Hover....................54
Plus Dreams....................57
Our Hearts, Okay....................59
Papercut-Sunrays....................61
No Mask....................63
Fixtures Rot....................65
Ironing....................69
Goodbye, New York City....................70
New Gods....................75
Back to Us....................77
Windows....................78
Full Tilt....................80
Sparklers....................83
Night Blooms Sweet....................88
Nonsmoking Dream....................90
Snowflakes, Curtains, and All....................91
Now I Sing My Life....................93
Go I....................95
Future/Past....................101
FutureFucked....................102
What a Bad Idea....................103
Me and Joan of Arc....................105
A Colorful Ending....................109
Flight Pattern....................116
Poets Smoke....................117
The Bible Sold Lots, Didn't It?....................121
Repeat....................124
Our Dreams Went South....................126
Help....................130
White Diamond....................132
San Pedro Park Blues....................138
Saturday....................143
Super Good/Keep Looking....................146
Smiling Like I Was New....................149
Whale Ships....................152
Drift....................159
Moon....................161
Good Things Too....................163
Artificial Lights....................165
Why Not?....................167
Yes....................169
Before That ....................171
California Forever....................175
Hellosunshine....................177
Hi,....................180
You're Sleeping Now, Yes?....................182
Bright as Stars....................184
Like This, Us....................186
Lucky....................189

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