it's okay with me:
i feel we've wasted our entire time
waiting for those types of backyard conversations
that only happen once in a life.
there are those days when we shuffle along,
hoping to hear the crackled muffles or heavy slurs
coming from the other line.
we try to forget the mornings when we pack up our suitcases,
slipping on our clothes,
and screaming about whose father is to blame.
we sway like your mother's hips at the dance hall.
back and forth, reeking of some secret exhaustion.
we're not in love.
we don't even know what we are searching for.
we can't remember birthdays and anniversaries
or which day it was that we first knew.
we both make our claims-
speak in parables like some version of a savior,
hoping someday we'll not be afraid.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
it's hard to stay away when everything you need is right here...
(untitled):
the slant in the yard. the blinking fireflies.
the stairs i was afraid i'd fall down. the way
your sister looked at us when we snuck in past curfew
with mud on our feet. the stories you'd write at 3am
about people we'd never know.
the maps that our fingertips stained.
the shoes placed perfectly parallel. the sofa arm
you called my perch. the sock that i lost.
the windows that you'd never keep closed.
the time you said you hated girls.
the locked door. the little dipper.
the hole in the wall. the punk rock music.
the black dog with the red collar
that i'd let out at midnight like it was my dog,
like it was my job,
like it was my house.
the slant in the yard. the blinking fireflies.
the stairs i was afraid i'd fall down. the way
your sister looked at us when we snuck in past curfew
with mud on our feet. the stories you'd write at 3am
about people we'd never know.
the maps that our fingertips stained.
the shoes placed perfectly parallel. the sofa arm
you called my perch. the sock that i lost.
the windows that you'd never keep closed.
the time you said you hated girls.
the locked door. the little dipper.
the hole in the wall. the punk rock music.
the black dog with the red collar
that i'd let out at midnight like it was my dog,
like it was my job,
like it was my house.
if you don't love me someone will, i think you're afraid that you've wasted your life...
pride:
we were turning down the driveway,
sipping on drinks too cold for the season,
when we realized how little we meant to one another.
we wanted to question how many years we had lost,
but it all came out as apologies.
we moved all the furniture out to the yard
and sat on the porch until the chill set in.
we wanted to believe things could end
without circling back around.
and when the light came over the hills,
we chalked out our pains
and nodded as if to a passing neighbor.
the only sounds were our uneven sighs,
as if we were learning how to breathe.
we were turning down the driveway,
sipping on drinks too cold for the season,
when we realized how little we meant to one another.
we wanted to question how many years we had lost,
but it all came out as apologies.
we moved all the furniture out to the yard
and sat on the porch until the chill set in.
we wanted to believe things could end
without circling back around.
and when the light came over the hills,
we chalked out our pains
and nodded as if to a passing neighbor.
the only sounds were our uneven sighs,
as if we were learning how to breathe.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
how can a man seek revenge on a woman he wants to believe has no soul?...
where life began:
it didn't matter which days the leaves began to fall
or which summers were the warmest.
we always knew whose trucks were in the driveways
and which stars were our favorites.
in our childish superstition, we never forgot
to leave the windows down
so the dust would coat us on the way to the river.
we never stopped retracing our tracks.
we knew that one day we would wake
to find a sprawl of suburbs
or a generation of faces we couldn't recognize.
we watched the horizon turn red
as the stores came to town.
we thought it was the end,
but nothing changed.
the trains still rattled past our houses
and the scent of honeysuckle still filled the air.
we breathed in our grandfather's churches
and the trophies of high school quarterbacks.
we'd never forget that this place had been ours.
it didn't matter which days the leaves began to fall
or which summers were the warmest.
we always knew whose trucks were in the driveways
and which stars were our favorites.
in our childish superstition, we never forgot
to leave the windows down
so the dust would coat us on the way to the river.
we never stopped retracing our tracks.
we knew that one day we would wake
to find a sprawl of suburbs
or a generation of faces we couldn't recognize.
we watched the horizon turn red
as the stores came to town.
we thought it was the end,
but nothing changed.
the trains still rattled past our houses
and the scent of honeysuckle still filled the air.
we breathed in our grandfather's churches
and the trophies of high school quarterbacks.
we'd never forget that this place had been ours.
if i could just sit tight, but i can't sit tight. i always come right back to you...
what the promises mean:
they swore they'd never let it get this close to home.
we pretended not to notice.
like those paper cutouts from first grade,
we stood blank-faced along the wall.
we waited until we heard their engines start
and rushed to the window to watch
the red of the taillights.
we went upstairs to wash our hands
and made our way back to the kitchen
as if the only thing on our minds
was whose turn it was to set the table.
the cats ran around the house
like they were afraid they would forget how.
we knew how they felt.
we decided to leave the porch light on.
they swore they'd never let it get this close to home.
we pretended not to notice.
like those paper cutouts from first grade,
we stood blank-faced along the wall.
we waited until we heard their engines start
and rushed to the window to watch
the red of the taillights.
we went upstairs to wash our hands
and made our way back to the kitchen
as if the only thing on our minds
was whose turn it was to set the table.
the cats ran around the house
like they were afraid they would forget how.
we knew how they felt.
we decided to leave the porch light on.
i can see a candle burning, wax dripping, bible burning man that i once called a friend...
family tree:
we drank all the bourbon.
laughed about our noses.
rubbed out the stains
with ipecac or mercury.
some faded orange-
like neglected reunion photos.
others were treasured like dinner plates.
we lied to our fathers.
weighed our fingers down
with bibles and calendars.
we kept our accents intact.
dusted our ancestors in the closets.
waited on the echoes
to root us in our name.
we drank all the bourbon.
laughed about our noses.
rubbed out the stains
with ipecac or mercury.
some faded orange-
like neglected reunion photos.
others were treasured like dinner plates.
we lied to our fathers.
weighed our fingers down
with bibles and calendars.
we kept our accents intact.
dusted our ancestors in the closets.
waited on the echoes
to root us in our name.
home was always quiet 'till the sun went down, but we were stowaways. yeah, we were so afraid...
maybe, just maybe, we're different now:
those rumors we spread
when we first met
are engraved on the desks
and bathroom walls.
some things you can't run away from.
sometimes the click of heels
on a linoleum floor would be too much to bear.
the things we want to be known for
are the same things
we weren't supposed to tell our parents about.
maybe it's better
that we can't relive
the things that make us cringe.
maybe we've all grown up
and become the type of people
that walk into offices
beneath our newly pressed suits,
feeling we're staring out the same windows
that we did when we were fresh with life.
or maybe we've just moved on.
those rumors we spread
when we first met
are engraved on the desks
and bathroom walls.
some things you can't run away from.
sometimes the click of heels
on a linoleum floor would be too much to bear.
the things we want to be known for
are the same things
we weren't supposed to tell our parents about.
maybe it's better
that we can't relive
the things that make us cringe.
maybe we've all grown up
and become the type of people
that walk into offices
beneath our newly pressed suits,
feeling we're staring out the same windows
that we did when we were fresh with life.
or maybe we've just moved on.
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