In
writing on 08.20.09 at 11:50:45 AM
set it on fire
is the only advice
that i never received
but wish i had when
i was thirteen.
set it on fire,
is the only metaphor
that has less to
do with guidance
and more to with
living.
set it on fire,
are the only words
with which to see the
world through eyes
to know they are working.
In
writing on 08.20.09 at 11:47:51 AM
you don’t need to
worry of ruination
my strength fits two.
In
writing on 08.11.09 at 12:17:37 PM
if i could go back
and advise myself about life:
words are pretty great.
In
writing on 08.10.09 at 12:16:45 PM
the line that traces down your hair
past that spot on your neck
that only we and the poet know about.
only i haven’t felt it yet
but you know it’s there and
with my words i could find it past
the couplets using your hand as a guide.
that line tracing down your back
past your hips to that place just
above your leg that you tell me about.
i am sure that it exists even though
my hand was made to its measure,
or so i have been told by the carver
of your virtue who betrays you in sleep.
the line traces down to your feet
drawn by the hand of a painter
long dead but not forgotten since his
final work of your masterpiece
hangs in that museum with the overflowing
gutters of warm summer rain drenching
that window i peek through in your dreams.
In
writing on 08.10.09 at 12:15:10 PM
when you shower i
wonder how long it takes you,
i would stay forever.
In
writing on 08.09.09 at 12:13:23 PM
i know that i could sleep next to you:
we would huddle in all of those
fairytales to hide the monster
living in our closet.
the one who likes to eat laughter, even
more than he likes those cakes made of
chocolately ideas we forget to feed
us.
i know that i should dream next to you:
we fly over the mountains and
rivers like our capes flittering
with word like confections that
love is made by the sand we are
from and you, you would sleep next to me:
to breathe out all of that
history to make room for us to inhale
future like a hukuh left behind
by the forgetful caterpillar
who smiles to guide the
story.
you know that you would dream next to me:
and we would take off in that rocket
across the galaxy on the left
hand side of visible
certitude.
you know that we should remember forever:
every unknown quantity that has
us wondering what happens from watch to
watch.
we know that we can keep this together:
even though we worry about how close we are
to the september of our
life.
we know this will never define us, but rather unite us.
In
writing on 08.07.09 at 09:55:28 PM
Angus&Julia Stone//Paper Aeroplane
i know that the pillow
only fits my head
shaping the feathers next
to my exhaled emotion
and hair
tossing
round
and
round
and round
with midnight behind
the silk of what your hands
could steal away
underneath my willow.
i know that the sheets
only form the linen
of ballerinas prowling near
the window breezing
and limbs
turning
over
and
over
and over
against the mystical
framgment of what your mind
could be gathering
by the side of my street.
i know that you are awake
even though distance
is folded near the feet
of my nightly bed
and breathing
in
and
out
and in
is all that inside
every one of these moments
hearing you take
that dream for sleeps sake.
In
writing on 08.07.09 at 11:53:35 AM
Keane//Somewhere Only We Know
everyone knows that the
fourth song on first
sides is the most important
part of life’s mix.
just like the seventh song
on second sides hiss
a tape playing with
three chords of your heart.
everyone knows that
fourth songs are the ones
that make and break
what will be that forever fix.
just like headphones
plugged into that stereo
you hide under the bed
hold us when life starts.
In
writing on 08.05.09 at 01:21:14 PM
i woke up feeling
you liked raising my head with
delicate poker hands.
In
writing on 08.04.09 at 11:26:52 AM
Devotchka//Hot Burrito #1 (I’m your toy)
words are like
coffee brewing
just at points of: steam
leaving creme.
both sweet with arousing
musk (when mixed
with the sun) breaking through
those sheets we tore off a
bed we didn’t sleep in.
good nights are
the sound of my town:
slowly slipping along
a cloud drifting moon.
good mornings steal
glances like
the flirtations: in the
street for (those of us that
know) they are connected.
play simple seduction
with hellos and similes
hidden just beyond the future.
dreams are
the mystery of my town:
delectably igniting napalm
stolen from our fumes.
