Searching for an Alibi

by | Aug 12, 2014 | Fires in the Belly, Songs

Searching for an Alibi

by John Fitzsimmons | Fires in the Belly

Here I am out on the road again
and it feels longer than it was back then;
when I was younger, man, it saw me through—
now it don’t do
what I want it to—

Too ra loo ra loo ra lady I—
I’m just out searching for an alibi
Too ra loo ra loo ra lady I
I’m just out searching for an alibi.

Drinking tea in some dirt village square,
I start to wonder what I’m doing there;
in hard worn skin and gentle peasant eyes
there’s nothing left that I can idolize…

Too ra loo ra loo ra lady I—
I’m just out searching for an alibi
Too ra loo ra loo ra lady I
I’m just out searching for an alibi.

I tease the children and drink with the men,
and we’re all glad that I’ve come back again;
and we all laugh about our crazy lives—
I feel the woman—just to feel alive.
I’ve got no time ‘til the train is gone,
I’ve got no time, but I can’t get on.
I know there’s no way
to check the speed;
but, I know the motion
is all I need…thinking—

Where were you
when you had the chance?
or do you shrug it off as circumstance?
Where were you when you felt inside
some other soul you could realize?
Where were then—
where are you now:
looking back forgetting how?
But look into the eyes of other men—
everywhere the same thing happening…

Too ra loo ra loo ra lady I—
I’m just out searching for an alibi
Too ra loo ra loo ra lady I
I’m just out searching for an alibi.

 

 

Essex Bay

by | Aug 12, 2014 | Fires in the Belly, Songs

Essex Bay

by John Fitzsimmons | Fires in the Belly

This house makes funny noises
When the wind begins to blow.
I should have held on and never let you go.
The wind blew loose the drainpipe.
You can hear the melting snow.
I’ll fix it in the morning when I go.
I’ll fix it in the morning when I go.

I should call you and tell you
How the frost heaves were this year.
You’d laugh and say, “Keeps the riff-raff out of here.”
You’d laugh and say, “In a funny way,
The whole place is kinda queer.”
You know, the State’s finally begun to thin the deer.
Yeah, the State’s finally begun to thin the deer.

And I know the way the tides,
They come and go and flow,
And I know the Essex River
And the clam flats down below.
But there’s something I don’t know
About living all alone
Without you …

I sold the lot that looks out,
That looks out past the bay.
Just a pile of sand that’s worth too much to save.
We said we’d beat the greenheads
And build a dreamhouse there someday;
But I got three times the price I had to pay.
Yeah, I got three times the price I had to pay.

And I know the way the tides,
They come and go and flow,
And I know the Essex River
And the clam flats down below.
But there’s something I don’t know
About living all alone
Without you

This house makes funny noises
When the wind begins to blow.
I should have held on and never let you go.
The wind blew loose the drainpipe.
You can hear the melting snow.
I’ll fix it in the morning when I go.
I’ll fix it in the morning;
I love you every morning;
I still miss you every morning when I go

Many Miles To Go

by | Aug 12, 2014 | Fires in the Belly, Songs

Many Miles to Go

by John Fitzsimmons | Fires in the Belly

I see it in your eyes
and in the ways you try to smile;
in the ways you whisper—I don’t know—
and put it all off for a while;
then you keep on keeping on
in the only way you know:
you’re scared of where you’re going
and who’ll catch you down below.

We walked down to the river
to the maples hung from shore
where we talked and laughed
and skipped the stones
that spoke of something more:
five skips for tomorrow,
six skips make a year;
ten skips and forever
there will be nothing left to fear.

And it’s one step and you turn;
two steps and you know
there’s many steps that make a mile
and there’s many miles to go.
There’s many miles before us,
and there’s many a hard won day
and too many lies that tell you why
and keep you from your way.

We dangle over darkness,
over depths we’ll never know:
making faces at reflections
and wondering where to go—
and wonder where the river goes,
and where it all began;
or to just jump in and sink or swim
for we both know that we can…

And it’s one step and you turn;
two steps and you know
there’s many steps that make a mile
and there’s many miles to go.
There’s many miles before us,
and there’s many a hard won day
and too many lies that tell you why
and keep you from your way.

So don’t fall for your reflection,
for what should be left behind;
a day has never come and gone
without giving back some time
there’s time for what we know,
and there’s time for moving on;
this ain’t the time to let slip by,
for it whispers and it’s gone…

And it’s one step and you turn;
two steps and you know
there’s many steps that make a mile
and there’s many miles to go.
There’s many miles before us,
and there’s many a hard won day
and too many lies that tell you why
and keep you from your way.

 

Trawler

by | Aug 12, 2014 | Fires in the Belly, Songs

Trawler

by John Fitzsimmons | Fires in the Belly

Leave the fog stillness
of a cold harbor town;
cup our hands
in the warm diesel sound—
leave while the children
are calmed in their dreams
by light buoys calling:
“Don’t play around me.”

The kids think their daddy
is so sure where to steer;
they throw in our holds
what they catch from the pier—
they throw in our holds
their after-school days;
what our nets couldn’t drag
will still be okay.

Okay keep your head up
and take care of the home.
I’ll call you next week
on the radiophone.
You say: “Yo, Captain Joe,
on the Marilyn Joe.
Make a beeline back home
on the Marilyn Joe

Creaking and groaning
play it for me.
We’re the whitecapped and crazy
slaves of the sea—
haul away
heave away
keep what you will;
with a fire in your belly
the holes that you fill.

We leave the bay shallows—
be a waste of our time
to drag empty waves
for a pure lucky find.
We leave the bay shallows
for the edge of the shelf
where the warm waters slide
to a cold deeper self.

There on the edge
we drift nets in the night;
we winch and we pray
and bitch for the light.
We winch and we pray
and bitch for the day—
‘Hook on to the rail
and get out of my way!”

“Get out of your bunk’s mates,
and get up from below.
Get into your oilskins—
she’s coming up slow:
We’ll say: ‘yo, Captain Joe,
on the Marilyn Joe.
Bring her into the wind:
Oh, the Marilyn Joe.”

Creaking and groaning
play it for me.
We’re the whitecapped and crazy
slaves of the sea—
haul away
heave away
keep what you will;
with a fire in your belly
the holes that you fill.

We gut all the night,
and pack all the day;
count down to each man
this feast of the waves.
Some take it back
to some love they have found;
some like the wind
they’ll just blow around town.

Six days on the Banks,
our eyes heavy as stones,
we chart a course
that will take us back home.
Docked at the pier,
with our kids by our sides,
we bitch about haddock
the market won’t buy.

We’ll sing: “Yo, Captain Joe.
on the Marilyn joe,
When will we go
on the Marilyn Joe?
No I don’t mind the rain,
or the wind or the snow—
We’ll set out the trawl
on the Marilyn Joe.”

Creaking and groaning
play it for me.
We’re the whitecapped and crazy
slaves of the sea—
haul away
heave away
keep what you will;
with a fire in your belly
the holes that you fill.

 

Winter in Caribou

by | Aug 12, 2014 | Fires in the Belly, Songs

Winter in Caribou

by John Fitzsimmons | Fires in the Belly

I know your name. It’s written there.
I wonder if you care.
A six-pack of Narragansett beer,
Some Camels and the brownie over there.
Every day I stop by like I
Got some place I’ve got to go;
I’m buying things I don’t really need:
I don’t read the Boston Globe.

But I, I think that I
Caught the corner of your eye.
But why, why can’t I try
To say the things I’ve got inside
To you ….

You’re new around here, but in a quiet way.
How long you gonna stay?
Your baby sleeps by the porno rack
And you car’s got Michigan plates.
Winter here’s a lonely time:
snow piles, and generally a pain.
I blew the tranny on my pickup truck,
So I’m driving that rusted-out Fairlane.

But I, I think that I
Caught the corner of your eye.
But why, why can’t I try
To say the things I’ve got inside
To you ….

Pretty soon, she knew my name;
She’d say, “Hey, John-O, how ya been?”
I’d bring her toys that I’d whittled up
To hang over our little baby friend.
I felt myself all changed up somehow,
And I worked like I’d never worked before,
Dropping trees and bucking logs,
All the while thinking of that store.

But I, I think that I
Caught the corner of your eye
But why, why can’t I try
To say the things I’ve got inside
To you ….

But it all ends up kinda’ like you think it might. I got all spiffed up and headed on over to the store. I get there a little later than I usually do. I’d been home whittling up this Canada goose— little thing with wings that flap, so we could hang it over the baby’s crib and she should slap at it—and it would look like it was flying.
Anyways, I get there and Frank is behind the counter reading one of them magazines, all of a sudden I felt myself getting real small, and kinda drifting away. I could hardly even hear him saying, “Yeah, that’s too bad about Carol. She was a real good girl. But I told her not to worry none, that there’s plenty of folks around looking for work, but it would be hard to find one just like herself. Fact is, John-O, she was waiting around here for you to show up; but seeing as how you were so late in coming, and that fellow she was with kinda looked like he wanted to get going, she just wrote down this here note for you. Asked if I’d give it to you here….”
“What’s she say, John-O?”
“Not much, Frank, It just says, …
Dear John-O. 
Thanks a lot for everything you did for me this winter. It really meant a lot to me, and I really do wish we could have gotten to known each other better. But life just takes quiet, crazy turns sometimes, and you never know.”

No address. Michigan somewhere, I guess.

So I stuck my head in a Field & Stream magazine so Frank wouldn’t see me. But, like all the folks around here, he knew. It just all seemed kinda weird: Frank, over there, behind the counter saying “Hey, John-O, check out this one over here….”

Damn, damn it I,
I had the corner of her eye.
But I…
I didn’t try.

 

Last of the Boys

by | Aug 12, 2014 | Fires in the Belly, Songs

Last of the Boys

by John Fitzsimmons | Fires in the Belly

Come on over here
and I’ll buy the next round:
cold beer and some shooters
for the boys on the town;
Darby ain’t drinkin’
so let’s live it up
‘cause he’ll drive us all home
in his company truck

Jesus Christ, Jimmy,
man you say that you’re well;
I say we drive into Boston
and stir up some hell;
put a cap on the weekend,
a stitch in the night,
watch the Pats play on Sunday
and the welterweight fight.

That’s all she wrote boys,
there ain’t any more;
that’s why we’re standing here;
that’s what it’s for.
That’s why we all go on working all day
busting our ass for short pay:
~Hey…

Wally there thanks
for the call yesterday;
Yeah, I do need the work
but those people can’t pay;
they’re all pie in the sky
with their heads in the clouds
the high-talking yahoos
that fill up this town.

Fill up this glass
one more time there old man;
sneak one for yourself
I know that you can.
Nick man come here;
come on tell me it’s true—
you won the college bowl pool
and the trifecta too.

That’s all she wrote boys,
there ain’t any more;
that’s why we’re standing here;
that’s what it’s for.
That’s why we all go on working all day
busting our ass for short pay:
~Hey…

Rogue what you say,
come on tell us the one
about the dog and the bull
and the ministers son;
you told it to Willy,
who told it to me,
who told the whole team
down the alley last week

Well it’s hard to believe
you’ve been married since June;
It seems just yesterday
we’d go piss at the moon—
piss at the moon
and somehow we’d get by
with a pocket of cash
and a piece of the sky.

That’s all she wrote boys,
there ain’t any more;
that’s why we’re standing here;
that’s what it’s for.
That’s why we all go on working all day
busting our ass for short pay:
~Hey…

It seems kind if strange
the quiet of the room,
everyone had to be
leaving so soon.
It seems kind of strange
they got families at home;
I’m the last of the boys
I’ll have one more alone.

One more rye Howie;
straight up is fine;
I’m okay to drive home,
I’ll just take my time;
keep all the change;
you treated us well;
I’m just trying to figure
if this is heaven or hell.

Heaven or hell
or some pitstop for man,
where we all just pull over
and do what we can;
you do what you can,
and you hope that your right:
I’m the last of the boys
to tie one on tonight.

That’s all she wrote boys,
there ain’t any more;
that’s why we’re standing here;
that’s what it’s for.
That’s why we all go on working all day
busting our ass for short pay:
~Hey…