| There are tiers, as in levels, to reality
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| On the industrial corner of North 17th Street & Wythe
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| Two black public high school kids watch a Nordic model get photographed
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| To them, she is lunar, impossible, alien life
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| So, as a comet might relate to a traffic-stopped taxicab
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| Or a Bahamas vacation to a stint in Guantanamo Bay
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| So, as access & privilege relate to their absolute opposites
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| That’s the way that these kids & this woman will always relate
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| And it’s nobody’s fault
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| Yeah, no one’s to blame
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| We all work through the dark
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| We all carry the weight
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| Slender shoulders & blindfolds
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| Spinning in cycles
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| Now, now, now: navigate!
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| There are tiers, as in layers, to an experience
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| Through each lens & metric, the image warps every day
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| I’m either successful, independent, & largely uncompromised
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| Or a non-starter, never-was, has-been since 2008
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| And it’s nobody’s fault
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| Yeah, no one’s to blame
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| We all work through the dark
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| We all carry the weight
|
| Slender shoulders & blindfolds
|
| Spinning in cycles
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| Now, now, now: navigate!
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| There are tears, as in waterworks, and they’re threatening
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| To spoil the negotiated sweetness of my afternoon
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| I can’t answer anything honestly without an asterisk
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| Airquotes and doublespeak litter the fountain of youth
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| And if it’s nobody’s fault
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| Then I’m not to blame
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| I just work in the dark
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| I just carry the weight
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| Slender shoulders & blindfolds
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| Stranded in cycles
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| Now, now, now: navigate! |