I hold the reels of heavy gold
The stories that the projectors told
I feel the shake of the wooden floor
As thunder knocks at the cellar door
The rain is drumming on the porch roof tight
I keep the celluloid out of the light
A sudden flash makes the rafters glow
While the wind makes the heavy shutters blow
Spin the wheel and let the picture run
Hold the heat until the storm is done
Silver ghosts on a white linen sheet
Where the salt and the city rhythms meet
The oil is thick in the heavy black lamp
The air in the hallway is heavy and damp
I watch the water leak through the old seam
While the lens throws a flickering steady beam
Spin the wheel and let the picture run
Hold the heat until the storm is done
Silver ghosts on a white linen sheet
Where the salt and the city rhythms meet
The sprocket holes click in a steady line
The copper wire and the gears align
I am the eye that never needs to blink
Standing right on the jagged water's brink
The projectionist leans on a rusted rail
Watching the sky turn a ghostly pale
He smells the ozone and the wet pine wood
Holding the frame where the old tower stood
The clouds are breaking in a purple haze
The reel is ending in a dizzy maze
The last few frames are a blur of gray white
Before the morning brings the coming light
Spin the wheel and let the picture run
Hold the heat until the storm is done
Silver ghosts on a white linen sheet
Where the salt and the city rhythms meet
Click and hum. Fade to black.
Keep the glass clear.
