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“Ryan Adams writes with equal parts precision and recklessness; the blood he draws from the text is easily as unnerving as its unapologetic tenderness. He is proof that poetry will find its writer.”—Mary-Louise Parker, actress
“Infinity Blues is Ryan Adams at his personal, unforgettable best. Strong and beautiful and funny and pure. Like all his work, it’s soul poetry of the highest order.”—Cameron Crowe, filmmaker
“This is much better than reading a friend’s journal. It’s more like watching somebody you love in the bathtub talking to himself. You’re like, wow, he’s even good at taking a bath. After reading Infinity Blues (which I think is a great title), I give Ryan Adams the best compliment I ever got—and the only reason for reading anyone’s poetry. Ryan, I really like your mind.”—Eileen Myles, author of Cool for You
Ryan Adams may be known primarily for acclaimed albums such as Cardinology, Heartbreaker, Gold (which includes the popular hit songs “When the Stars Go Blue” and “New York, New York”), Love Is Hell, Cold Roses, Jacksonville City Nights, and Easy Tiger, but the world renowned singer/songwriter has always been a poet and fiction writer at heart. With the release of Infinity Blues, his nonmusical writing is for the first time ever unveiled in book form. Mr. Adams’s work rings of an emotional authenticity that provides perhaps an even deeper insight into the man than is revealed through the songs that have resonated with his hundreds of thousands of fans the world over.
RYAN ADAMS is usually performing in some city on the globe at any given moment with his longtime band the Cardinals. Adams is known for his prolific nature, which in the last ten years has produced various international hit albums. Adams has also produced Willie Nelson’s Songbird album and contributed to records by Toots and the Maytals, Beth Orton, the Wallflowers, Counting Crows, and Cowboy Junkies; additionally, he has appeared on CMT’s Crossroads with Elton John. He was a longtime Manhattan resident before relocating to France in 2009, and he listens to A LOT of heavy metal.
All rights reserved Akashic Books PO Box 1456 New York, NY 10009 email@example.com www.akashicbooks.com The author would like to acknowledge the following people for inspiration or guidance, whether real or imagined: Albert Einstein, Bug, Steve Martin and everyone at Nasty Little Man, David Letterman, Sheila Rogers, Paul Shaffer, and all at the Late Show, Jwlzy, Fire Party, Robert Thurman, Carl Sagan, Margaret Betts, Keith Morris, Stephen King, Jay-Z, Cameron Crowe, the Dalai Lama,
annihilator. To Flame to flame i am so moth to sing i am so lost to lose i am so win so where do we begin? no time for stories evictions on birthdays uptown/downtown like a job for the sickness inside i have left to rob myself from any good work actually i am not sleeping again K.O.ed evening declines and another break-up despite the echo of “please, not now” this is the finale the wind-up the blow-off the pay-up what the shoemaker threw at his wife fat basket case of nerves hair falling out
alpha-omega-terminate the crack of doom the close last dollar shoved into a sock the shutdown the knockout of an infection that lessens the pain as you drift in a hospital bed into extinction no new beginnings to flame i am so moth to sing i am so lost so lost to flame Time Ain’t Nobody’s Friend Without the dress she is so empty she sees only empty showers with no soap and no hot water in a hotel room her saints immediately become whatever available t.v. personalities available or maybe street
funny i know those people their sad dinner food their reluctant sway they too are almost out we are all almost out of something almost. Cease Fire once the fires of hell cease cease fire and the smoke clears that is what i started with those words today i stop looking at your face or thinking about your hands i loved them i loved your hands hands like if they were designed by a god regardless of him an afterthought when he made them like a painter slashing a
eventual and coming; with a dress; with shoes. Chrysler Building refracting mirrored balls of total madness; the throat choke ten paces from tears, and my face, just the face of a man with new losses to count. This was how it was. This was how it was meant to be. That is what they say to you, your friends, right when the shit is fresh upon the fan, “what will be…” But the colors of an overcoat and the sound of a voice and what fall and winter will mean feel almost as though a storm is on the face