weariness of flight
biplane
Wren Broderick – bass and keys
Amy Broderick – glockenspiel
Mark Meisinger – backup vocals and synthesized orchestra
Recorded by Mike Elliott, Michael Broderick, and Mark Meisinger
Mixed by Mark Meisinger
Mastered by Mark Meisinger and Zeb Dewar
Music written by Mike Elliott and Mark Meisinger
Poem written by Michael Broderick
Video:
Director/Producer — Michael Broderick
Videography — stock footage arranged by Michael Broderick
Video Editor — Michael Broderick
I am the field corn
scattered along Faddley road.
I am the naked stubs
of fresh cut wheat.
I am the parched
white cedars standing guard
beside the green-metal farm
gate.
I am the crooked neck of a
heron looking for
darting minnows.
I am the ragweed nodding
towards the morning sun in
fields of aster.
I am a small prop biplane
puttering, puttering, puttering
down the blood-red tarmac.
I am the black rat snakes
nestled in the hollow of
a sycamore tree.
I’m a late august pumpkin
hanging from
a fence post.
I’m the early morning fox
with a halo, halo, halo
of ghost moths
crossing Wise Hollow Road.
I am the crook’d neck
heron looking for darting
minnows.
I’m the jet spray of
a sprinkler over
the chocolate infield.
I’m the Flying Rabbit
sign swinging, swinging, swinging
against a blood-red sky.
dog days
Michael Broderick – spoken word
Bill Wagner – guitar and keys
Will Foster – synched drums
Recorded by Will Foster and Michael Broderick
Mixed by Will Foster and Bill Wagner
Mastered by Zeb Dewar
Music written by Bill Wagner
Poem written by Michael Broderick
Video:
Director/Producer — Michael Broderick
Videography — stock footage arranged by Michael Broderick
Video Editor — Michael Broderick
In the dog days of summer
the eternal summer
enmeshed with in the fabric of being
in the deepest dark corner of my mind
there were the dogs, and the days,
the days of dogs,
and the endless dog days of summer,
the summers in Ohio.
There was light.
In the dog days of summer
Just as the sun set, and the cold moon rose
As wild dogs bayed, and the neighborhood curls prowled,
As the coyotes searched for easy pray
In the dog days, in the long days,
In the eternal summers of my youth,
There were wolves, and claws, and fangs,
And my mother taking down the days laundry from line
Just before sunset.
Her and a basket
And the dogs, our dogs, in the hottest
Hot parts of late summer. The dog days,
The lost days, lost summer dog days of my youth.
We’d run around the backyard catching
Fireflies to put in a jar
Like a bioluminescent lamp to protect from
The darkness,
And my mom in a dress of fireflies, and the head of dog,
In the dog days, in the darkest of dark nights,
She alone the dog god Prometheus.
In the darkness, the darkness of night,
The darkest of dark in the dog days of summer
The doged, dogged, dog days of summer
In the darkness in the deepest darker corner of
My mind. The dogs barked and there was a light,
a light shone.
A small flick, flick, flicker, a flickering speck of
Light as my dad fumbled with his zippo to
Light a sparkler half damp from dew
A small light, a flick, a flickering, a flicker
a beautiful arc of light and the
smell of leaves and sulfur
In the evening, in the darkest days, in the dark, in the
Endless dark of summer, my dad stood with his
Lighter and a can of Pabst nestled
in the crux of his elbow
with our dogs at his side
In the dark, in the darkness, in the hot
hottest dog days of the summer
like the ancient jackal-headed god Anubis
god of the dead, keeper of tombs,
the dogs, the dog days of summer,
the death dogs,
there he stood head of jackal
and robe fireflies and burning embers
Like the king of all things, like the creator gas, and
Matter, and forms, like an eternal summer,
A half-drunk Prometheus
Ablaze in the last dogged sunset.
wren
Performed by:
Justin Gordon
Recorded and mixed by Justin Gordon
Mastered by Justin Gordon and Zeb Dewar
Music written by Justin Gordon
Poem written by Michael Broderick
Video:
Director/Producer — Michael Broderick
Videography — stock footage arranged by Michael Broderick
Video Editor — Michael Broderick
There was this moment
Maybe not even worth
mentioning.
A cool fall night. Wren
and I walked under a
street lamp and stepped through
the long shadows of sycamores.
The early dawn of winter sky
and I saw the two
of us. Our shadows.
Lithe.
The hum of the
sodium lamp.
I was dressed up.
Wren skipped beside me.
While we held hands.
Not talking.
It would be this one.
If I could.
I would hold on to.
This.
each morning
Performed by:
Michael Broderick — spoken word
Mark Meisinger — lead vocal and acoustic guitar
Recorded by Mark Meisinger and Michael Broderick
Mixed by Mike Elliott and Mark Meisinger
Mastered by Mark Meisinger and Zeb Dewar
Music written by Mark Meisinger and Michael Broderick
Poem written by Michael Broderick
Video:
Director/Producer — Michael Broderick
Videography — Michael Broderick
Video Editor — Michael Broderick
Each morning
I watch the dog
eat and wonder
what I’m
doing with
my life.
We had a cat but I can’t
remember
its name
it died in a chair my in-laws
gave us.
It left a
death stain.
Amy liked the
cat but I didn’t
I buried it in the
back yard in a
light spring
drizzle
kids crying and
no beer in the
fridge
The ground was wet
like a
sponge
Today the ground is
frozen
Dead things
would drift like
flotsam in the backyard
waiting for a tide that would never come.
weariness of flight
Performed by:
Chris Biester — vocals and acoustic guitar
Tim Peacock — bass and organ
Jon Eaves — fiddle
Justin Gordon, Zeb Dewar, Mark Meisinger, Chris Biester, Erin Cameron, Michelle Huh, Shannon Grogan, and
Caitlin Kraus — Weary orchestra
Recorded and Mixed by Mike Elliott
Mastered by Zeb Dewar
Music written by Chris Biester
Poem written by Michael Broderick
Video:
Director/Producer — Michael Broderick
Videography — Michael Broderick
Video Editor — Michael Broderick
I don’t want
to do the things I
must do
not
today, or
tomorrow, or
next week, today
I want to walk
away, to take on
anew,
not to be reborn
and never that,
human, again,
not that
ever,
but to drift
to elude capture,
to seek new
forms, to
burn away
in the last sunset
flying
against an azure
sky, as a bird a
butterfly or
bat in search
of nectar.
sundays
Performed by:
Michael Broderick — spoken word
Mark Meisinger — keys, bass, guitar, synth
Mike Elliott — drums
Recorded by Mark Meisinger and Michael Broderick
Mixed by Mark Meisinger and Mike Elliott
Mastered by Mark Meisinger and Zeb Dewar
Music written by Justin Gordon
Poem written by Michael Broderick
Video:
Director/Producer — Michael Broderick
Videography — Michael Broderick
Video Editor — Michael Broderick
On Sundays like this, I’d call my dad. Or not. Mostly, I wouldn’t call. I would sometimes. I’d call. Hey, Dad, it’s Mike. Michael, he’d say. Happy to hear from me. Each time. Each time. We’d talk. We’d navigate the awkward silence and pretend we always talked. It’s just what we did. Talk. Each week. But we didn’t. I guess. I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I wanted to, I really wanted to, but just the thought. I don’t know, the thought of it and him. And mostly him. The thought of him. The thought of him sitting there alone. Or with his dog. My grandma’s dog. The dog she left when she died. The dog—Tess. The thought of him. Alone. With Tess and a bunch of empty beer cans. I had to hit it just right. Before dinner was good, Dad, I got to go. Dinner is ready. It is. Ready. So, Okay. Well. It
was good talking to you. Michael, it’s good to hear your voice. I love you, Dad. Yeah, you, too, he’d say. But he meant it. He did. I did.
That wasn’t too bad, but you had to hit it just right. The timing. The time of day. You had to know the time to call. Maybe not so much the time, maybe it wasn’t the time but the rhythm. It was the rhythm of things. Like at night when I sit in the backyard and watch the chimney swifts give way to the little brown bats—it’s not so much the time of day, but this seemingly endless rhythm of flight. And I know this. And I knew this. But sometimes, I’d call early. I’d call early. Goddamnit, why did you call at 3? Hey dad, it’s me, Michael. I’d hear a pause. And the clinking of ice in glass.
My dad would call on my birthday. To talk. He’d send me cash and a handwritten note. I kept a handful of notes at some point when I knew. When I knew time was short. And it was. I’d call on his birthday, too. I would. Or I’d want to. I’d try to. Call. To talk. Because that’s what we’d do, talk. We’d talk. So, I’d call on his birthday. Happy birthday, Dad. He was born on a cold February day in Pittsburgh. The day after Valentine’s Day. He missed the day of love by one day. He was married once. For a while. To my mom. But now he lives alone. With Tess. The dog. My grandma’s dog. Tessie.
He called to congratulate me. He left a message: You did it! The first Broderick ever! Man, I’m so proud. And he was. I was. I called him back. I did. I was excited and proud. And
fuck it, I was calling. Because that’s what we do. We talk. We talk and talk and talk. And it could be bright and brilliant and true. So I called. And it wasn’t. He was drunk, and I got off the phone. Dad, I got to go. Yeah, sorry it was so short. Dad. Yeah. I know. I got to. (He was drunk) I got to go. And I didn’t know. How could you? You couldn’t know that it would end like this. The call. The last time. The last call. Like this.
So, on Sundays. On Sundays like this, I’d call my dad. Or not. Mostly not. Mostly, I wouldn’t call. Couldn’t call. Couldn’t. Call him. I couldn’t. I didn’t. Call him. On Sundays. On Sundays like this, I’d call my dad. Or not. Mostly, I wouldn’t call.
rose
Performed by:
Caitlin Kraus — lead vocal, rhythm guitar
Chris Biester — lead guitar
Matt Box — bass and backup vocals
Shannon Grogan — organ and piano
Mike Elliott — concertina Recorded and Mixed by Mike Elliott
Mastered by Mark Meisinger and Zeb Dewar
Music written by Mike Elliott
Poem written by Michael Broderick
Video:
Producer — Michael Broderick
Director — Celka Kovar and Michael Broderick
Videography — Celka Kovar and Michael Broderick
Video Editor — Celka Kovar
You haven’t left
yet.
But someday
you will.
I’ve watched
it
play over,
and
over again.
The sky
holding the moon
like a jailer
in the smallest
corner of the
room.
A curtain of
summer teeth.
And the light
shines.
On dry knuckles
reaching to
put a kettle
on to
boil.
sparkler
Performed by:
Rosalie Broderick — spoken word
Michael Broderick — spoken word
Mark Meisinger — orchestrated synth
Tim Peacock — organ intro
Recorded by Mark Meisinger and Michael Broderick
Mixed by Mark Meisinger and Mike Elliott
Mastered by Mark Meisinger and Zeb Dewar
Music by Mark Meisinger and public domain circus intro
Poem by Michael Broderick
Video:
Producer — Michael Broderick
Director — Celka Kovar
Videography — Celka Kovar
Video Editor — Celka Kovar
in the end
it can all go
so quickly
it can
like a front porch
confetti popper
or a 4th of July
firecracker
but, if you catch
it just right
bang, just
like that
it can go so
slow and sweet
like a jar of
fireflies
or a stringer full of
sunfish
or a defiant summer
sparkler.
fire
Performed by:
Wren Broderick — spoken word
Mike Elliott — rhythm guitar and drums
Chris Biester — lead guitar
Shannon Grogan — organ
Matt McElroy — claw hammer banjo outro
Recorded by Mike Elliott and Michael Broderick
Mixed by Mike Elliott
Mastered by Mark Meisinger and Zeb Dewar
Music written by Mike Elliott
Poem by Michael Broderick
Video:
Producer — Michael Broderick
Director — Erika Larsen
Videography — Erika Larsen
Video Editor — Erika Larsen
I lay gently
on the earth
like a raft on a
placid sea.
Under a blood
red moon, I dissolve
into the spaces
between the
stones.
The fat of
my body collect
into the base
of my skull,
forming a simple
ivory lamp,
which floats to
the surface above
the waves.
You take a
lock of my hair as
a wick,
lay it into the shallow
skull-cup,
and find fire.
while The cold
moon shines,
the hairs
of my body
become grass, and
blow in the
late autumn wind.
mountains
Performed by:
Zeb Dewar — vocals and piano
Recorded and mixed by Zeb Dewar
Mastered by Zeb Dewar
Music written by Zeb Dewar
Poem written by Michael Broderick and Kathleen Broderick
Video:
Director/Producer — Michael Broderick
Videography — Michael Broderick
Video Editor — Michael Broderick
touching the lichen and stone
casting long shadows in an old graveyard
Looking for mushrooms and eating grave violets,
each one more delicious than the last.
When you’re not at home
mountains and mountains
between us
I sit quietly on the couch with my best friend
with that old cat and listen to her purr
wishing I could be a purring cat, too
when you’re not at home
mountains and mountains
between us
I just sit out back when its sunny
try to take in the beauty of the flowers and warm air
and the days that seem endless
are not endless, and the
days that seem endless are no more.
vivian in blue
Performed by:
Kathleen Broderick — spoken work
Mike Elliott — rhythm guitar and drums
Chris Biester — lead guitar
Shannon Grogan — piano and organ
Recorded by Mike Elliott and Michael Broderick
Mixed by Mike Elliott
Mastered by Mark Meisinger and Zeb Dewar
Music written by Mike Elliott
Poem written by Michael Broderick
Video:
Director/Producer — Michael Broderick
Videography — Michael Broderick
Video Editor — Michael Broderick
My mother’s name was Vivian but everyone called her Mickey. She loved Mickey Mouse. She was 39 when she died and left me and my four-year-old aunt to fend for themselves. My father, Frank, was a terribly wounded man. At some point, the was institutionalized. He woke up one morning and couldn’t go to work. He sat motionless in his chair
he stared tracing patterns on the smoked stained ceiling. It was angels speaking in archaic tongues and cigarette resin. It was god himself seeking retribution in flesh.
Folks in white jackets came to the house and carted him away to the Dayton State Mental Hospital, where he received round after round of electric shock therapy. (As luck would have it, my ex-husband would die on the same grounds in a hospice unit 55 years later. Just me and my son by his side when he died.) In the end, my father couldn’t remember my me or my sister, we were just echoes upon echoes in the hollowed out spaces of his mind. He’d just parrot our names: Kathleen? Marta? I was the one who had made the call to have him taken to the mental hospital all those years ago. I was only eighteen-years-old.
My dad was married within a year a mom’s death. We moved to the east part of town, down the street from chicken slaughter house. At night, under the dim hum of a box fan, we could hear the
muffled cries of chickens waiting for slaughter. In the morning my sister and I would get dressed and walk past the chicken house to St. Anthony’s. We lit candles and watched the smoke rise in ethereal whispers. We were told stories about a god who rose from the dead, but all we secretly hoped was that folks who ain’t gods could rise, too.
I’m 76 now. I was married. Divorced and remarried. My children are grown. Scattered like dry leaves in the wind.
After my mom died, I dreamt that she asked me to climb a ladder to heaven. With her. To be with her. I said, I couldn’t go. I had to stay here, but I wanted to be with her. There. Now she’s been go so long, I don’t want to follow.
saturn
Performed by:
Adam Remnant — vocals, guitar, keys, bass, and drums
Recorded and mixed by Adam Remnant
Mastered by Adam Remnant and Zeb Dewar
Music written by Adam Remnant
Poem written by Michael Broderick
Video:
Director/Producer — Michael Broderick
Videography — stock footage arranged by Michael Broderick
Video Editor — Michael Broderick
It was the weight of
things, or perhaps the
way around
things.
Far away from the
light
and possibility
of life
in the far off
reaches of the
stealth ocean
moon
they fused into
the rings of
Saturn.
There they stood
shoulder to shoulder
in the icy frost of
the outer most
rings,
looking up towards
the columns of granite and
stone
a small speck of star
light
and a woman waving
from the rooftop in her
hospital gown.
soccer
Performed by:
Justin Gordon
Recorded and mixed by Justin Gordon
Mastered by Justin Gordon and Zeb Dewar
Music written by Justin Gordon
Poem written by Michael Broderick
Video:
Director/Producer — Michael Broderick
Videography — Michael Broderick
Video Editor — Michael Broderick
I didn’t know
today
like that
you’d slip away.
I’ve gotta stop
and get this one.
Just one more
shot of the
Upper 90 Soccer
sign.
You touched
my hand
as if to say
go ahead get out.
It was raining
and I struggled to
see droplets run
down
my glasses and
the camera lens.
I snapped the
top button
on my jacket
and shrugged
off the rain.
I saw you
in the window
for a moment.
You turned up the heat
and scrolled through
your phone.
I couldn’t see your
eyes but
just your hair
hanging down into
your lap.
Like a cat
ready to run.
before the gray
Performed by:
Michelle Huh — spoken word and vocals
Michael Broderick — spoken word
Erin Cameron — vocals
Leslie Horner — vocals
Mike Elliott — rhythm guitar and drums
Chris Biester — lead guitar
Shannon Grogan — organ
P J Gilmore — banjo
Recorded by Mike Elliott, Michael Broderick, Michelle Huh, Erin Cameron, and Leslie Horner
Mixed by Mike Elliott
Mastered by Mark Meisinger and Zeb Dewar
Music written by Mike Elliott
Poem written by Michael Broderick
Video:
Director/Producer — Michael Broderick
Videography — Wren Broderick
Video Editor — Michael Broderick
The countryside is a confused and majestic ancient order. Lines in the fields meeting at odd angles. A contrivance of tiny boxes in different phases of early winter death. The leaves drop and bleed into the hillsides and fields.
Awash in last color. Before the gray.
.
In mid-autumn, the hillsides are ablaze in muted tones. A downy hay covers the chocolate dirt and red clay. All buffeted by an early winter rain. Golden rod falls like dead soldiers: distant prairie eyes, faded blue jacket, and a painted red sash.
Awash in last color. Before the gray.
The Appalachians have a deep and dark beauty. A haunting landscape of black-headed vultures and murders of crows. The cows in the early winter fields mimic the fish crows moving overhead in the sycamores branches. The pin oaks and chinquapins cast shadows over half-eaten acorns.
Awash in last color. Before the gray
This is the place. The season of my return. This. Now. The long hot summer hidden behind pulled window shades, wood smoke, and oil lamps. The rhythm of this summer. The rhythm of all my summers. The forgotten moments, the smallest of small pleasures, collapse in the dark sorrow of winter and loss. Of home. My home.
Awash in the last color. Before the gray.
will you miss me when i’m gone
Performed by:
John McGovern — lead vocal and mandolin
Michael McGovern — backup vocals and lead guitar
Bart Motz — backup vocals
Recorded by Michael McGovern
Mixed by Mike Elliott
Mastered by Mark Meisinger and Zeb Dewar
Lyrics written by A.P. Carter (public domain)
Video:
Director/Producer — Michael Broderick
Video production — Michael Broderick (family archive footage)
Video Editor — Michael Broderick
Perhaps you’ll plant a flower
On my poor unworthy grave
Come and sit along beside me
When the roses nod and wave
Will you miss me?
(Miss me when I’m gone)
Will you miss me?
(Miss me when I’m gone)
Will you miss me?
(Miss me when I’m gone)
Will you miss me when I’m gone?