Monday, June 6, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Plainclothes Man v2 new and improved?
Take your curled strumming fingers,
nails chewed off,
and pluck the strings of right here.
Turn it into a melody for us,
the ones you’ve been waiting for
in the rain.
We’ve peeled our own hearts raw
to be here with you too.
So sing us the songs of tonight’s wet streets,
sing us their mean, dirty chorus.
You grip your twisted bed sheets,
your stained coffee table,
your empty bottles,
your stupid mistakes,
you wring them into a symphony,
frail voice quivering
against the soft earthquakes of your words.
Help us brave the ghosts in the graveyard
where we once buried our dissonant chords.
Lift our chins to the moon,
give us rose petals for the path.
Help us gather our neglected, nameless thoughts
from under the rug,
from the back of our drawers.
We’ll let them sit on our desktops;
Lend us your pen and we’ll number them.
nails chewed off,
and pluck the strings of right here.
Turn it into a melody for us,
the ones you’ve been waiting for
in the rain.
We’ve peeled our own hearts raw
to be here with you too.
So sing us the songs of tonight’s wet streets,
sing us their mean, dirty chorus.
You grip your twisted bed sheets,
your stained coffee table,
your empty bottles,
your stupid mistakes,
you wring them into a symphony,
frail voice quivering
against the soft earthquakes of your words.
Help us brave the ghosts in the graveyard
where we once buried our dissonant chords.
Lift our chins to the moon,
give us rose petals for the path.
Help us gather our neglected, nameless thoughts
from under the rug,
from the back of our drawers.
We’ll let them sit on our desktops;
Lend us your pen and we’ll number them.
I'm sure I got your letter, I just didn't look at it. I didn't even take it out of the mailbox. Most of the time I forget I have a mailbox, it's bolted to a brick wall on the porch, I'll wake up past noon and the sun'll set behind it. It's just part of a big shadow, a big obscure thought while I stare out at the sunset with sunglasses on, so my eyes don't get hurt. I'll drink a coffee as though I need the energy to stand here and smile then dawdle through the night, and I'll do the same thing tomorrow. I'll hope that the phone doesn't ring me out of bed before the sun's where I'm used to it being, and I'll hope I don't see the heaping pile of browning letters damp with dew all pleading me to wake up earlier.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
riding the overpass
On the highway overpass
you can see half the city,
black boxes, shrunken fumes,
small silhouettes before the sunset.
It almost feels like something,
my insides almost flutter,
then I'm going down again,
stretching my neck to keep it.
you can see half the city,
black boxes, shrunken fumes,
small silhouettes before the sunset.
It almost feels like something,
my insides almost flutter,
then I'm going down again,
stretching my neck to keep it.
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