“Trash Man,” Jimi Hendrix

I am your trash man
Throw out all your trash today
Clean out your mind today
Please pass the weed
And please take some heed
Take your fast glass guns and
Throw them away
There he goes, hey
I just the gypsy bandit

Gypsy talk
She has been here 3 times and
The 4th time, she was emptied in from
The mouth of a bottle
Seems like I seen you somewhere before
And her dog named pig had a red
Neck shaped just like a cracker
Dipped in rot hole

Address 3rd trash can from the left
That’s where I’ll be
Just take all your blues
And throw them at my feet
Oh that’s what friends are for
Yes, I sing the blues for me and you
Let me do changes and come back
And tell you, so it won’t be so hard
When it’s time for you to go through

Anything is possible after an
Embarrassing situation

And once you take but all that
Rubbish and hate and
Load it on my truck
But don’t make me work late
I am your trashman
And don’t forget I also want

To live — not just survive
I ain’t your black slave — just
Because I just might try to
Wash out your mind — it’s up to
Your friend to get up off your rusty behind

And please pass me the peace weed
And take some heed
Throw all that mixed up speed
Away — all that dirt is gonna clog and
Hurt — man you reach 100 years old in a day
I am your trashman
I am your trashman
I come to keep your houses clean
I am the trashman
Take out all your dirty blues and
Dreams, well when I come around to
Collect for the bill
That’s when I come around for
My pleasure kill…

I am the trashman
You must have seen me in
Your t.v
I’m here to clean up
All your hang ups or
Come downs, I’m gonna kill…
That’s my duty
So please don’t try to make
Me crawl up no hill

May I whisper in your ear…
Say something you ought to hear…
Lots of people so dear
They’re getting hurt…

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“Coming Up Roses,” Elliott Smith

[Verse 1]
I’m a junkyard full of false starts
And I don’t need your permission
To bury my love under this bare light bulb

The moon is a sickle cell
It’ll kill you in time
Your cold white brother riding your blood
Like spun glass in sore eyes

While the moon does its division
You’re buried below
And you’re coming up roses everywhere you go
Red roses follow

[Verse 2]
The things that you tell yourself
They’ll kill you in time
Your cold white brother alive in your blood
Spinning in the night sky

While the moon does its division
You’re buried below
And you’re coming up roses everywhere you go
Red roses
So you got in a kind of trouble that nobody knows
It’s coming up roses everywhere you go
Red roses

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“Trash, Art, and the Movies,” Pauline Kael


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“Mansard Roof,” Vampire Weekend

I see a Mansard roof through the trees
I see a salty message written in the eaves

The ground beneath my feet
The hot garbage and concrete

And now the tops of buildings
I can see them too

I see a Mansard roof through the trees
I see a salty message written in the eaves
The ground beneath my feet
The hot garbage and concrete
And now the tops of buildings
I can see them too

The Argentines collapse in defeat
The admiralty surveys the remnants of the fleet
The ground beneath their feet
Is a nautically-mapped sheet
As thin as paper
While it slips away from view

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“Suzanne,” Leonard Cohen

Now Suzanne takes your hand
And she leads you to the river

She is wearing rags and feathers
From Salvation Army counters
And the sun pours down like honey
On our lady of the harbour
And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers

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“Silver Linings Playbook,” Running Scene

Bradley Cooper Wearing a Garbage Bag:

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“Choice Notes” by Alex Winston

Filmed at the Heidelberg Project.

More info about the Heidelberg Project: http://www.heidelberg.org/

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Landfill Harmonic

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Quasimoto, “Catchin’ the Vibe”

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from Chapter 32, “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings” by Maya Angelou

“On one flat street I passed a junkyard littered with the carcasses of old cars.  The dead hulks were somehow so uninviting that I decided to inspect them.  As I wound my way through the discards, a temporary solution sprang to my mind.  I would find a clean or cleanish car and spend the night in it.  With the optimism of ignorance I thought that the morning was bound to bring a more pleasant solution.  A tall-bodied gray car near the fence caught my eye.  Its seats were untorn and although it had no wheels or rims it sat evenly on its fenders.  The idea of sleeping in the near open bolstered my sense of freedom.  I was a loose kite in a gentle wind floating with only my will for an anchor.  After deciding upon the car, I got inside and ate the tuna sandwiches and then searched the floorboards for holes.  The fear that rats might scurry in and eat off my nose as I slept (some cases had been recently reported in the papers) was more alarming than the shadowed hulks in the junkyard or the quickly descending night.  My gray choice, however, seemed rat-tight, and I abandoned my idea of taking another walk and decided to sit steady and wait for sleep.

My car was an island and the junkyard a sea, and I was all alone and full of warm.  The mainland was just a decision away.  As evening became definite the street lamps flashed on and the lights of moving cars squared my world in a piercing probing.  I counted the headlights and said my prayers and fell asleep.

The morning’s brightness drew me awake and I was surrounded with strangeness.  I had slid down the seat and slept the night through in an ungainly position.  Wrestling with my body to assume an upward arrangement, I saw a collage of Negro, Mexican and white races outside the windows.  They were laughing and making the mouth gestures of talkers but their sounds didn’t penetrate my refuge.  There was so much curiosity evident in their features that I knew they wouldn’t just go away before they knew who I was, so I opened the door, prepared to give them any story (even the truth) that would buy my peace.

The windows and my grogginess had distorted their features.  I had thought they were adults and maybe citizens of Brobdingnag, at least.  Standing outside, I found there was only one person taller than I, and that I was only a few years younger than any of them.  I was asked my name, where I came from and what led me to the junkyard.  They accepted my explanation that I was from San Francisco, that my name was Marguerite but that I was called Maya and I simply had no place to stay.  With a generous gesture the tall boy, who said he was Bootsie, welcomed me, and said I could stay as long as I honored their rule: No two people of opposite sex slept together.  In fact, unless it rained, everyone had his own private sleeping accommodations.  Since some of the cars leaked, bad weather forced a doubling up.  There was no stealing, not for reasons of morality but because a crime would bring the police to the yard; and since everyone was underage, there was the likelihood that they’d be sent off to foster homes or juvenile delinquent courts.  Everyone worked at something.  Most of the girls collected bottles and worked weekends in greasy spoons.  The boys mowed lawns, swept out pool halls and ran errands for small Negro-owned stores.  All money was held by Bootsie and used communally.”

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