This is where we grow,
But it's hard for engines to evolve.
To me it seems like we were built for time-keeping,
But you swear it's the streets that doing it for us.
You're coming and I'm going,
And it's rather sad,
That your heart is racing but you're mind is slowing,
Calm down, you're veins are showing.
Angels are not in choirs anymore,
You notice that too?
They're running court controls and opening dollar stores,
But here I am with gum on my shoe.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Mountain Town.
"You have to have the appearance that you care."
This you told me while trying to tie an Ascot in your tie, and smoothing back your hair while make your reflection admit to the truth. I sat behind you on our bed, my legs stretched out, still slightly buzzed from sex, making patterns of the ceiling. This new place we were in reminded me of an old movie - with Victorian molding and brass fixtures in the bathroom. The communal hallway between apartments smelt of art and confusion, sometimes the weed smelled infiltrated and I loved the honesty of it. We weren't hiding here anymore, but here you were still talking about 'appearances' - but I knew it was just one for the money.
Here, in this new place near the ocean, we need only to concern ourselves about being all for 'one for the money.' In the other place with no beauty and sharks for neighbors, we were all about 'two for the show.' We were sideshow acts, the sexually explorable, adorable, and deplorable couple. We put our fingers on the stove to feel the sting of pain and to allow ourselves to speak gibberish for a night because it felt good to not make sense to anyone else. I am fluent in your gibberish. When you eyebrow arches and you are trying to be funny, and sliding your hands under my back and pulling yourself into me. We are gibberish, but we aren't sideshow attractions anymore here.
As you finish tying your tie and convincing the floor boards that you were substantial, I check our emails while you cruise our apartment, checking to make sure you forget nothing. Facebook statuses from the people back there resemble the Christian mumblins people spill out after a natural disaster ripped through their towns. Now they were praising the day's sunshine for no reason, and the buttercups smelled like salvation again - or some nonsense. Was it because we left their minds? I wasn't there to poke them with my liberal stick anymore, I wasn't there to spit back in their face the bullshit they spewed out. Their lives are TV shows with singing teenagers and living in their shoeboxes full of unreal expectations. But it all goes down better with a Limeade drink. We've been getting random emails here and there from the people back there that genuinely do miss us, telling us to take lots of pictures and to enjoy being in love - hoping you are doing well at your new job, and asking if i like my new university.
You turn my head from the computer and kiss me, hovering over me in this new suit and tie you're in, for this new job you're a vision of sleek and truthful elegance, in full support for the progression of lies in disguise of 'technical help'. Your hands run down the outline of me and you grab the fleshy parts of me, and soon you're mouth is full of me and we laugh for minutes before you know it's time for you to go for the day. Dinner will be waiting when you get home, you suddenly have a taste for seafood here and you prefer candles on the dining room table while we eat. You tell me now that it doesn't matter what the drones think anymore, we have to be in love everyday, we have to keep our hate alive, simmering in our pot bellies, keeping us warm.
Here we are in the middle of it, waiting for the earthquake to come, and we can run up the mountain together and watch our favorite storms. We like to count the lightening strikes and feel the rain on what feels like our 'shared skin' at times. Here, we are no longer on the murky surface of others palates anymore. They aren't tasting and testing us anymore, trying to turn us onto our backs to we can't turn ourselves over and walk over them. You grab my hand before you leave, and you breathe into my palm saying: "We're diving in life's cool waters."
We don't need oxygen anymore.
This you told me while trying to tie an Ascot in your tie, and smoothing back your hair while make your reflection admit to the truth. I sat behind you on our bed, my legs stretched out, still slightly buzzed from sex, making patterns of the ceiling. This new place we were in reminded me of an old movie - with Victorian molding and brass fixtures in the bathroom. The communal hallway between apartments smelt of art and confusion, sometimes the weed smelled infiltrated and I loved the honesty of it. We weren't hiding here anymore, but here you were still talking about 'appearances' - but I knew it was just one for the money.
Here, in this new place near the ocean, we need only to concern ourselves about being all for 'one for the money.' In the other place with no beauty and sharks for neighbors, we were all about 'two for the show.' We were sideshow acts, the sexually explorable, adorable, and deplorable couple. We put our fingers on the stove to feel the sting of pain and to allow ourselves to speak gibberish for a night because it felt good to not make sense to anyone else. I am fluent in your gibberish. When you eyebrow arches and you are trying to be funny, and sliding your hands under my back and pulling yourself into me. We are gibberish, but we aren't sideshow attractions anymore here.
As you finish tying your tie and convincing the floor boards that you were substantial, I check our emails while you cruise our apartment, checking to make sure you forget nothing. Facebook statuses from the people back there resemble the Christian mumblins people spill out after a natural disaster ripped through their towns. Now they were praising the day's sunshine for no reason, and the buttercups smelled like salvation again - or some nonsense. Was it because we left their minds? I wasn't there to poke them with my liberal stick anymore, I wasn't there to spit back in their face the bullshit they spewed out. Their lives are TV shows with singing teenagers and living in their shoeboxes full of unreal expectations. But it all goes down better with a Limeade drink. We've been getting random emails here and there from the people back there that genuinely do miss us, telling us to take lots of pictures and to enjoy being in love - hoping you are doing well at your new job, and asking if i like my new university.
You turn my head from the computer and kiss me, hovering over me in this new suit and tie you're in, for this new job you're a vision of sleek and truthful elegance, in full support for the progression of lies in disguise of 'technical help'. Your hands run down the outline of me and you grab the fleshy parts of me, and soon you're mouth is full of me and we laugh for minutes before you know it's time for you to go for the day. Dinner will be waiting when you get home, you suddenly have a taste for seafood here and you prefer candles on the dining room table while we eat. You tell me now that it doesn't matter what the drones think anymore, we have to be in love everyday, we have to keep our hate alive, simmering in our pot bellies, keeping us warm.
Here we are in the middle of it, waiting for the earthquake to come, and we can run up the mountain together and watch our favorite storms. We like to count the lightening strikes and feel the rain on what feels like our 'shared skin' at times. Here, we are no longer on the murky surface of others palates anymore. They aren't tasting and testing us anymore, trying to turn us onto our backs to we can't turn ourselves over and walk over them. You grab my hand before you leave, and you breathe into my palm saying: "We're diving in life's cool waters."
We don't need oxygen anymore.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Ghost
I came out of this place with no air, (was it water?) where I dreamed of the nights when my mom and ad drove me through Fort Adams in Newport at night. Obscure songs I never thought I'd know on the car radio, my father was so alive. I'd sell my soul now to see him so alive again. He sang and told my mother that he loved her. He told me loved me. I am back in that velvet night again. He forgives me for being me, and we take a final ride. We are happy. I hate that he is not here. Would he be proud of me? I would sell my soul for one more velvet Fort Adams night where I believed my mother loved me and I had a family. But waking from that world is like coming up for air after being underwater - gasping for breath and something to hold on to.
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