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by Nana Grizol

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This was the EP we recorded before making URSA MINOR! We ran it as a benefit for the Queer Undocumented Immigrant Project and raised a good chunk! Thanks if you donated! Any money that you pay for download now will go to Cruisin' Records in support of future releases.


released February 22, 2014

NANA GRIZOL (BAND) (this time): Emily Simpson (sings), Jared Gandy (plays bass and guitar), Laura Carter (plays drums and her car), Madeline Adams (sings), Robby Cucchiaro (plays trumpets and euphonium), Theo Hilton (plays guitar, sings and writes lyrics). Derek Almstead, badass that he is, recorded this stuff in his lovely home in Athens, GA--January and February 2014.




Nana Grizol Athens, Georgia

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And you said you felt a change was coming near
I said “nothing ever changes here.”
and so we watched for shooting stars
we caught some in the shining shower
In the morning I will never be the same

There are trees that grow up higher than, some
I start to believe you’re one of them, one
who wonders where I am tonight
who lingers longer in my sight
who gives me one more reason to be happy
(to go home)

But you never used to worry like you do;
at least before it was for things that could possibly be true.
hey, this was never meant to be a
bargain for your sympathy, it’s
just that world sits heavy on your shoulders
now you’re terrified of telephones
as we grow older never slower, yeah

Today we explored the halls of heroes past;
all we found inside were autographs
and so I picked up one or two
but I still can’t tell what they do:
I think I will return them in the morning
The shy and lonely hunter
who stalks across my chest
says “I’m only seeking glory,” yeah,
but glory never gives you any

rest: me to your body in an arm chair,
wrest: me to the corner of your bed,
rest: we in the place we share our tenderness,
it’s there I’ll rest my head another night,

lights at the end of the hallway
will lead you to the back of some bar
where cloudy headed, late for bed,
you wonder where those fleeting families

are: you, living somewhere on the west coast
are: you, just a figment of my mind
aren’t you the one who always told me
“boy, it’s easier with time” to be the

saddest sound in a lullaby
speck of sand in your daddy’s eye
broke my heart to so much as try
to live the life that lay before me

so you step tender when you don’t run
so you surrender to everyone
so you remember the place you’ve come to
don’t forget the world adores you, said

“I am but my body: heart and shaking skin.”
How ever will you find a safe place where
(you never let anyone into the space where) you

keep all your timid questions, like
“can I kiss you one more time before I go?”
though I know the world is full of hopeless suggestions
it’s us who get caught in the undertow, don’t you know

we were born on a moving train,
we took form in the pouring rain,
we try hard, but come short of explaining
that lives are for living and hearts are for changing.

Forget, an instant, to stay the same!
Not us nor mountains go as they came!
All the things we’ll refuse to be framed in
From what we’ve been given to what’s rearranging.
Embedded in each story, a lapsarian distinction
an absolute, withholding “were” from “are”
a predetermined path from omnipresence to extinction
the lines we deftly draw connecting stars

Is it so wrong if I can no longer place
the features correctly together on my face?
I’ve sent away so many ghosts out from my brain
but these days they do
descend in dreams
to dance, it seems
we might just could be
friends again

In thanatotic threadbare, a hazy Sunday morning
when I can’t conceive the circuits in my head
disconnected at each molecule, hungover and unforming
a mist, I float among my unmade bed

but it is only on some shaded degrees
my synapses ever fire more efficiently
and it is only on the sharpest of days
I can connect the dots between the things I see
And things I have to say

I remain, skeptical
Track Name: TACOMA CENTER 1600
Tacoma Center sixteen hundred suffer sleepless nights
no phone calls home to families, no reading, no Miranda rights
a second tier of prison, as if the first was not enough
it seems a citizen’s great promise is
a place to stretch when they lock you up

But either way, they are commodifying someone,
as if said someone ever could just fade away:
the dreary endless days don’t pass like numbers on a page,
they sit in silence ‘til they rail against the irons of their cage

In such a casual addition to supplies, to chains, to flows
tucked between logistics systems, a lock factory, a railroad
as billboards picture families, reunited in their homes
buses carry “unnamed” inmates
to unnamed jails, on unnamed roads

It is a euphemistic package for apartheid
a billion dollars earned in someone else’s blood
a xenophobic answer to a manufactured question
how to monetize the labors lost from deportation trolls

Hundred and twenty five dollars a head
hundred and twenty five dollars a bed
and one weekend we gathered outside of the gates
and we read off the name of the dead

I must say it’s a strange sense of sedition
just to show the hopes we’d hold
contract the contradict contrition
of soulless states, of stateless souls

Oh eugenic organs, how you beat, constrict and breathe
oh you magic markets do detain, defeat, deceive
and on the edge of this gross city, your mixed metaphors conceive
remuneration, replication, yes, interminably.

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