Charles Mingus' Garbage Pile

by Sgt Dunbar & the Hobo Banned

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released March 1, 2009

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tags: folk indie Albany

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Track Name: A March Through Charles Mingus' Garbage Pile
The Arch-Artist solitude symbolized
amidst an old forest, feral and fecund.
A garbage pile sits for to be realized,
waiting patiently for tolled time to come.

The shapes decayed from cold Cartesian grace,
rusting and red as they assimilate.
A difference displayed against nature’s space
with lines and planes she can't create.

Kitchen sink and cans, scattered pots and pans,
the estranged remains of a personal past,
left far away from the reach of human hands.
I wonder when they were used last.

And the forest feels your wrath,
if you could only have heard her laugh.
And you wonder about your size.
You’re too big for those tiny eyes.

At the bottom of the hill there’s shot gun shells
with broken glass and branches dead,
to make room for the light that seethes and swells.
Oh you know the joy of destruction and dread.

The Arch-Artist solitude symbolized
amidst an old forest, feral and fecund.
A garbage pile sits for to be realized,
waiting patiently for tolled time to come.

And the forest feels your wrath,
if you could only have heard her laugh.
And you wonder about your size.
You’re too big for those tiny eyes.
Track Name: The Table & The Cup
Sometimes its good to say out loud
nothing has happened.
That I feel weary and chilled
is of no consequence.
And that I run about the streets all day
is of my own conscience.

I defend myself although I know its all over
a moment more and everything will have lost its meaning:
the table and the cup and the chair to which I'm clinging.

And mine is the lonely face I thought to raise
inside of some familiar thing for someone I'd once seen
but there was nothing there.

And there will come a day when my hand is far from me.
And when I bid it to write it will write words I don't mean.
When my harp is tuned to mourning and my organ the voice of the weeping.

With a somnambulic certainty I drag my deepest fears.
I childhood illness I had conquered begins in me again.
The fear that I might betray myself and tell you all that I dread.


And mine is the lonely face I thought to raise
and sought for some familiar thing for someone I'd once seen
but there was nothing there.
And if I fall asleep oh the fears, the fears, the fears
that I might swallow a piece of coal or a number might begin to grow in my brain til there's nothing left there.