I must have been sleeping; I must have been drinking.
I haven't been dreaming about you for years.
There was a sharp turn and a sunburn -
I was too cool for high school that year.
Must have have been new years -
no one invited you; we took things too far.
But I missed you and your antics:
you were lonesome and blue-eyed and so special to us.
Friday, February 26, 2010
SO Into T. Williams Today
"You said, 'They’re harmless dreamers and they’re loved by the people.' 'What,' I asked you, 'is harmless about a dreamer, and what,' I asked you, 'is harmless about the love of the people? Revolution only needs good dreamers who remember their dreams."
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Kevin Devine: Just Stay
The morning's hot and harsh.
My notebook fills itself.
The words come thick with sweat,
but it feels like someone else
is writing all of this -
someone I just can't believe.
So I mop my brow,
set my pen back down.
Still me, still me.
And I'm grabbing at a feeling, now,
that I can't ever name -
some sign posted to remind me
how I wanted things this way.
She says, "It's pretty,
but you hate yourself;
I can hear it clear as day."
And I say, "I sing like this;
it sounds worse than it is -
I'm okay, okay.
I'm okay, okay.
I'm okay, okay.
I'm okay, okay.
So just stay, just stay
So just stay, just stay
I'm okay, okay.
So just stay, just stay,
just stay, just stay."
My notebook fills itself.
The words come thick with sweat,
but it feels like someone else
is writing all of this -
someone I just can't believe.
So I mop my brow,
set my pen back down.
Still me, still me.
And I'm grabbing at a feeling, now,
that I can't ever name -
some sign posted to remind me
how I wanted things this way.
She says, "It's pretty,
but you hate yourself;
I can hear it clear as day."
And I say, "I sing like this;
it sounds worse than it is -
I'm okay, okay.
I'm okay, okay.
I'm okay, okay.
I'm okay, okay.
So just stay, just stay
So just stay, just stay
I'm okay, okay.
So just stay, just stay,
just stay, just stay."
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Wallace Stevens
The plum survives its poems. . .
So Crispin hasped on the surviving form,
For him, of shall or ought to be in is.
- from "The Comedian as the Letter C."
(Confusing grammatical choices, but still beautiful.)
So Crispin hasped on the surviving form,
For him, of shall or ought to be in is.
- from "The Comedian as the Letter C."
(Confusing grammatical choices, but still beautiful.)
Jeff & Jill's Wedding Locale
Jeff and Jill got married on that stage. Right there. And I read to them. And it was just the loveliest thing. Everyone should have a wedding that's that beautiful. I hope my wedding can make me feel the way theirs did. :)
One More Emma One For The Day.
I can't wait for thirty years from now. A million years from now. For the time when, when someone asks us how long we've been together, I can say "Since always." We've got 'forever' written all over us.
Emma Cowie, Mid-Summer '09
Today, Jim came by with his wife and baby girl. She's twelve days old. It made me realize that smaller increments of time have more importance when the length of something isn't very long. (i.e., the age of people is first measured in days, then weeks, then months and finally years. The same is true for relationships. We've only been together two months, so certain weeks and days hold more meaning. I want to be with you so long that it becomes necessary to measure our relationship in years. Hell, decades even. Don't get me wrong - I never want to forget those special days or weeks that hold so much meaning to us now; I just want LOTS and LOTS of them! Basically, I love you and I want us to share our lives with each other. I originally worded that sentence as 'I want to share my life with you' but then I realized that I want your life just as much entangled in mine as I want to be entangled in yours. Let's share lives? Let's aim for the day when we can measure the length of our love in years? K, Thanks.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Toni Morrison, from Beloved
"She is a friend of my mind. She gather me, man. The pieces I am, she gather them and give them back to me in all the right order."
Clive Barker, From Arabat: Days of Magic, Nights of War
"After a battle lasting many ages,
The Devil won,
And said to God
(who had been his Maker):
'Lord,
We are about to witness the unmaking of Creation
By my hand.
I would not wish you
to think me cruel,
So I beg you, take three things
From this world before I destroy it.
Three things, and then the rest will be
wiped away.'
God thought for a little time.
And at last He said:
'No, there is nothing.'
The Devil was surprised.
'Not even you, Lord?' he said.
And God said:
'No. Not even me.'"
The Devil won,
And said to God
(who had been his Maker):
'Lord,
We are about to witness the unmaking of Creation
By my hand.
I would not wish you
to think me cruel,
So I beg you, take three things
From this world before I destroy it.
Three things, and then the rest will be
wiped away.'
God thought for a little time.
And at last He said:
'No, there is nothing.'
The Devil was surprised.
'Not even you, Lord?' he said.
And God said:
'No. Not even me.'"
Oh, You Should Know Who This Is.
"Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta."
Nicole Krauss: from The History Of Love
Franz Kafka is Dead
He died in a tree from which he wouldn't come down. "Come down!" they cried to him. "Come down! Come down!" Silence filled the night, and the night filled the silence, while they waited for Kafka to speak. "I can't," he finally said, with a note of wistfulness. "Why?" they cried. Stars spilled across the black sky. "Because then you'll stop asking for me." The people whispered and nodded among themselves. They put their arms around each other, and touched their children's hair. They took off their hats and raised them to the small, sickly man with the ears of a strange animal, sitting in his black velvet suit in the dark tree. Then they turned and started for home under the canopy of leaves. Children were carried on their fathers' shoulders, sleepy from having been taken to see who wrote his books on pieces of bark he tore off the tree from which he refused to come down. In his delicate, beautiful, illegible handwriting. And they admired those books, and they admired his will and stamina. After all: who doesn't wish to make a spectacle of his loneliness? One by one families broke off with a good night and a squeeze of the hands, suddenly grateful for the company of neighbors. Doors closed to warm houses. Candles were lit in windows. Far off, in his perch in the trees , Kafka listened to it all: the rustle of the clothes being dropped to the floor, or lips fluttering along naked shoulders, beds creaking along the weight of tenderness. It all caught in the delicate pointed shells of his ears and rolled like pinballs through the great hall of his mind.
That night a freezing wind blew in. When the children wake up, they went to the window and found the world encased in ice. One child, the smallest, shrieked out in delight and her cry tore through the silence and exploded the ice of a giant oak tree. The world shone.
They found him frozen on the ground like a bird. It's said that when they put their ears to the shell of his ears, they could hear themselves."
He died in a tree from which he wouldn't come down. "Come down!" they cried to him. "Come down! Come down!" Silence filled the night, and the night filled the silence, while they waited for Kafka to speak. "I can't," he finally said, with a note of wistfulness. "Why?" they cried. Stars spilled across the black sky. "Because then you'll stop asking for me." The people whispered and nodded among themselves. They put their arms around each other, and touched their children's hair. They took off their hats and raised them to the small, sickly man with the ears of a strange animal, sitting in his black velvet suit in the dark tree. Then they turned and started for home under the canopy of leaves. Children were carried on their fathers' shoulders, sleepy from having been taken to see who wrote his books on pieces of bark he tore off the tree from which he refused to come down. In his delicate, beautiful, illegible handwriting. And they admired those books, and they admired his will and stamina. After all: who doesn't wish to make a spectacle of his loneliness? One by one families broke off with a good night and a squeeze of the hands, suddenly grateful for the company of neighbors. Doors closed to warm houses. Candles were lit in windows. Far off, in his perch in the trees , Kafka listened to it all: the rustle of the clothes being dropped to the floor, or lips fluttering along naked shoulders, beds creaking along the weight of tenderness. It all caught in the delicate pointed shells of his ears and rolled like pinballs through the great hall of his mind.
That night a freezing wind blew in. When the children wake up, they went to the window and found the world encased in ice. One child, the smallest, shrieked out in delight and her cry tore through the silence and exploded the ice of a giant oak tree. The world shone.
They found him frozen on the ground like a bird. It's said that when they put their ears to the shell of his ears, they could hear themselves."
Jonathan Safran Foer, From ELAIC
"We need enormous pockets, pockets big enough for our families and our friends, and even the people who aren't on our lists, people we've never met but still want to protect. We need pockets for boroughs and for cities, a pocket that could hold the universe."
Francesca Lia Block: From Weetzie Bat
"Wish on everything. Pink cars are good, especially old ones. And stars of course, first stars and shooting stars. Planes will do if they are the first light in the sky and look like stars. Wish in tunnels, holding your breath and lifting your feet off the ground. Birthday candles. Baby teeth."
Dar Williams: The Hudson
“If we’re lucky, we feel our lives
know when the next scene arrives -
so, often, we start in the middle
and work our way out.
We go to some grey sky diner for eggs and toast,
New York Times or the New York Post,
then we take a ride through
the valley of the shadow of death.
Where and when does the memory take hold?
Mountain range in the Autumn cold…
and I thought West Point was Camelot in the spring.
If you’re lucky,
you’ll find something that reflects you,
helps you feel your life protects you,
cradles you and connects you to everything.
This whole life I remember
as I begged my heart itself:
Please, never turn me into someone else.”
Emma Cowie, Mid-Fall '09
ecowie0213 (1:55:00 AM): so girlfriend, you are laying in my bed sleeping while i am trying to keep a camper from going crazy. i wish i was in bed with you, with your arms around me, with your lips on the back of my neck. i know i say it all the time, but i just love you. i want to just love you forever. until we’re old ladies chasing eachother around with our canes. i want to be the story of your life; your greatest adventure. i will put a ring on it someday. promise.
Scandanavia, by Me
We’re gonna buy a big house with the money we’ll have
when they start buying my songs and we’ll paint it
whatever color you want, as long as I can sit in the picture
window with my notebook, and remember us with my
pencil, making sure we are heard. We’re gonna have a big
garden with sunflowers that climb the walls, and daisies
lining the crooked sidewalks; I’ll tie balloons to all our railings
and there will always be ice cream, just because. We’re gonna
have fewer broken pieces; we’re gonna have clean floors;
we’re gonna have soft beds, and mornings that don’t feel like
the end of a war. I’ll play my baby grand in the front room,
and every love song will be about a girl like you. I don’t believe
in god, or heaven – but I believe in a house like that, a love like that.
when they start buying my songs and we’ll paint it
whatever color you want, as long as I can sit in the picture
window with my notebook, and remember us with my
pencil, making sure we are heard. We’re gonna have a big
garden with sunflowers that climb the walls, and daisies
lining the crooked sidewalks; I’ll tie balloons to all our railings
and there will always be ice cream, just because. We’re gonna
have fewer broken pieces; we’re gonna have clean floors;
we’re gonna have soft beds, and mornings that don’t feel like
the end of a war. I’ll play my baby grand in the front room,
and every love song will be about a girl like you. I don’t believe
in god, or heaven – but I believe in a house like that, a love like that.
Something Somebody Said Once
"I wanted the world to go away for a little so that I could keep kissing you for longer and not give you back to that world until I was done. And I wanted it to not matter if I was ever done."
Anais Nin
“Both Henry and June have destroyed
the logic and unity of my life.
It is good, for a pattern is not living.
Now, I am living.
I am not making patterns.”
- Anais Nin
the logic and unity of my life.
It is good, for a pattern is not living.
Now, I am living.
I am not making patterns.”
- Anais Nin
From "I Wrote This For You"
On this day, you read something that moved you and made you realise there were no more fears to fear. No tears to cry. No head to hang in shame. That every time you thought you’d offended someone, it was all just in your head and really, they love you with all their heart and nothing will ever change that. That everyone and everything lives on inside you. That that doesn’t make any of it any less real.
That soft touches will change you and stay with you longer than hard ones.
That being alone means you’re free. That old lovers miss you and new lovers want you and the one you’re with is the one you’re meant to be with. That the tingles running down your arms are angel feathers and they whisper in your ear, constantly, if you choose to hear them. That everything you want to happen, will happen, if you decide you want it enough. That every time you think a sad thought, you can think a happy one instead.
That you control that completely.
That the people who make you laugh are more beautiful than beautiful people. That you laugh more than you cry. That crying is good for you. That the people you hate wish you would stop and you do too.
That your friends are reflections of the best parts of you. That you are more than the sum total of the things you know and how you react to them. That dancing is sometimes more important than listening to the music.
That the most embarrassing, awkward moments of your life are only remembered by you and no one else. That no one judges you when you walk into a room and all they really want to know, is if you’re judging them. That what you make and what you do with your time is more important than you’ll ever fathom and should be treated as such. That the difference between a job and art is passion. That neither defines who you are. That talking to strangers is how you make friends.
That bad days end but a smile can go around the world. That life contradicts itself, constantly. That that’s why it’s worth living.
That the difference between pain and love is time. That love is only as real as you want it to be. That if you feel good, you look good but it doesn’t always work the other way around.
That the sun will rise each day and it’s up to you each day if you match it. That nothing matters up until this point. That what you decide now, in this moment, will change the future. Forever. That rain is beautiful.
And so are you.
That soft touches will change you and stay with you longer than hard ones.
That being alone means you’re free. That old lovers miss you and new lovers want you and the one you’re with is the one you’re meant to be with. That the tingles running down your arms are angel feathers and they whisper in your ear, constantly, if you choose to hear them. That everything you want to happen, will happen, if you decide you want it enough. That every time you think a sad thought, you can think a happy one instead.
That you control that completely.
That the people who make you laugh are more beautiful than beautiful people. That you laugh more than you cry. That crying is good for you. That the people you hate wish you would stop and you do too.
That your friends are reflections of the best parts of you. That you are more than the sum total of the things you know and how you react to them. That dancing is sometimes more important than listening to the music.
That the most embarrassing, awkward moments of your life are only remembered by you and no one else. That no one judges you when you walk into a room and all they really want to know, is if you’re judging them. That what you make and what you do with your time is more important than you’ll ever fathom and should be treated as such. That the difference between a job and art is passion. That neither defines who you are. That talking to strangers is how you make friends.
That bad days end but a smile can go around the world. That life contradicts itself, constantly. That that’s why it’s worth living.
That the difference between pain and love is time. That love is only as real as you want it to be. That if you feel good, you look good but it doesn’t always work the other way around.
That the sun will rise each day and it’s up to you each day if you match it. That nothing matters up until this point. That what you decide now, in this moment, will change the future. Forever. That rain is beautiful.
And so are you.
A Conversation From Summertime, by Emma and I
love vs rhetoric (8:12:17 PM): do whatever it is that you think is best. you know her. you know you. don’t do anything for my benefit.
ecowie0213 (8:13:03 PM): why wouldn’t i do something for your benefit?
love vs rhetoric (8:14:49 PM): because it’s your life! i feel badly enough to have intruded on your business.
ecowie0213 (8:15:10 PM): my life is your life, now.
ecowie0213 (8:15:17 PM): i couldn’t ask for anything more.
ecowie0213 (8:13:03 PM): why wouldn’t i do something for your benefit?
love vs rhetoric (8:14:49 PM): because it’s your life! i feel badly enough to have intruded on your business.
ecowie0213 (8:15:10 PM): my life is your life, now.
ecowie0213 (8:15:17 PM): i couldn’t ask for anything more.
Rubber-Ball-Banded, by Me
The rain
slaps
my windows
like it’s
the fight
of the century.
My bet
is on
the windows.
Some things
are made
to be strong,
not to break
and these things
deserve
some confidence.
I believe
in a you-and-me love,
a Sunday drive
that takes all afternoon,
and wooden dinosaurs
and thank-you cards.
All the little pieces
of you and me
that make a life -
my life -
into something
that cannot be broken,
not by highways,
not by silence,
not by rain.
slaps
my windows
like it’s
the fight
of the century.
My bet
is on
the windows.
Some things
are made
to be strong,
not to break
and these things
deserve
some confidence.
I believe
in a you-and-me love,
a Sunday drive
that takes all afternoon,
and wooden dinosaurs
and thank-you cards.
All the little pieces
of you and me
that make a life -
my life -
into something
that cannot be broken,
not by highways,
not by silence,
not by rain.
Say Yes, by Andrea Gibson
when two violins are placed in a room
if a chord on one violin is struck
the other violin will sound the note
if this is your definition of hope
this is for you
the ones who know how powerful we are
who know we can sound the music in the people around us
simply by playing our own strings
for the ones who sing life into broken wings
open their chests and offer their breath
as wind on a still day when nothing seems to be moving
spare those intent on proving god is dead
for you when your fingers are red
from clutching your heart
so it will beat faster
for the time you mastered the art of giving yourself for the sake of someone else
for the ones who have felt what it is to crush the lies
and lift truth so high the steeples bow to the sky
this is for you
this is also for the people who wake early to watch flowers bloom
who notice the moon at noon on a day when the world
has slapped them in the face with its lack of light
for the mothers who feed their children first
and thirst for nothing when they’re full
this is for women
and for the men who taught me only women bleed with the moon
but there are men who cry when women bleed
men who bleed from women’s wounds
and this is for that moon
on the nights she seems hung by a noose
for the people who cut her loose
and for the people still waiting for the rope to burn
about to learn they have scissors in their hands
this is for the man who showed me
the hardest thing about having nothing
is having nothing to give
who said the only reason to live is to give ourselves away
so this is for the day we’ll quit or jobs and work for something real
we’ll feel for sunshine in the shadows
look for sunrays in the shade
this is for the people who rattle the cage that slave wage built
and for the ones who didn’t know the filth until tonight
but right now are beginning songs that sound something like
people turning their porch lights on and calling the homeless back home
this is for all the shit we own
and for the day we’ll learn how much we have
when we learn to give that shit away
this is for doubt becoming faith
for falling from grace and climbing back up
for trading our silver platters for something that matters
like the gold that shines from our hands when we hold each other
this is for the grandmother who walked a thousand miles on broken glass
to find that single patch of grass to plant a family tree
where the fruit would grow to laugh
for the ones who know the math of war
has always been subtraction
so they live like an action of addition
for you when you give like every star is wishing on you
and for the people still wishing on stars
this is for you too
this is for the times you went through hell so someone else wouldn’t have to
for the time you taught a 14 year old girl she was powerful
this is for the time you taught a 14 year old boy he was beautiful
for the radical anarchist asking a republican to dance
cause what’s the chance of everyone moving from right to left
if the only moves they see are NBC and CBS
this is for the no becoming yes
for scars becoming breath
for saying i love you to people who will never say it to us
for scraping away the rust and remembering how to shine
for the dime you gave away when you didn’t have a penny
for the many beautiful things we do
for every song we’ve ever sung
for refusing to believe in miracles
because miracles are the impossible coming true
and everything is possible
this is for the possibility that guides us
and for the possibilities still waiting to sing
and spread their wings inside us
cause tonight saturn is on his knees
proposing with all of his ten thousand rings
that whatever song we’ve been singing we sing even more
the world needs us right now more than it ever has before
pull all your strings
play every chord
if you’re writing letters to the prisoners
start tearing down the bars
if you’re handing our flashlights in the dark
start handing our stars
never go a second hushing the percussion of your heart
play loud
play like you know the clouds have left too many people cold and broken
and you’re their last chance for sun
play like there’s no time for hoping brighter days will come
play like the apocalypse is only 4…3…2
but you have a drum in your chest that could save us
you have a song like a breath that could raise us
like the sunrise into a dark sky that cries to be blue
play like you know we won’t survive if you don’t
but we will if you do
play like saturn is on his knees
proposing with all of his ten thousand rings
that we give every single breath
this is for saying–yes
this is for saying–yes
if a chord on one violin is struck
the other violin will sound the note
if this is your definition of hope
this is for you
the ones who know how powerful we are
who know we can sound the music in the people around us
simply by playing our own strings
for the ones who sing life into broken wings
open their chests and offer their breath
as wind on a still day when nothing seems to be moving
spare those intent on proving god is dead
for you when your fingers are red
from clutching your heart
so it will beat faster
for the time you mastered the art of giving yourself for the sake of someone else
for the ones who have felt what it is to crush the lies
and lift truth so high the steeples bow to the sky
this is for you
this is also for the people who wake early to watch flowers bloom
who notice the moon at noon on a day when the world
has slapped them in the face with its lack of light
for the mothers who feed their children first
and thirst for nothing when they’re full
this is for women
and for the men who taught me only women bleed with the moon
but there are men who cry when women bleed
men who bleed from women’s wounds
and this is for that moon
on the nights she seems hung by a noose
for the people who cut her loose
and for the people still waiting for the rope to burn
about to learn they have scissors in their hands
this is for the man who showed me
the hardest thing about having nothing
is having nothing to give
who said the only reason to live is to give ourselves away
so this is for the day we’ll quit or jobs and work for something real
we’ll feel for sunshine in the shadows
look for sunrays in the shade
this is for the people who rattle the cage that slave wage built
and for the ones who didn’t know the filth until tonight
but right now are beginning songs that sound something like
people turning their porch lights on and calling the homeless back home
this is for all the shit we own
and for the day we’ll learn how much we have
when we learn to give that shit away
this is for doubt becoming faith
for falling from grace and climbing back up
for trading our silver platters for something that matters
like the gold that shines from our hands when we hold each other
this is for the grandmother who walked a thousand miles on broken glass
to find that single patch of grass to plant a family tree
where the fruit would grow to laugh
for the ones who know the math of war
has always been subtraction
so they live like an action of addition
for you when you give like every star is wishing on you
and for the people still wishing on stars
this is for you too
this is for the times you went through hell so someone else wouldn’t have to
for the time you taught a 14 year old girl she was powerful
this is for the time you taught a 14 year old boy he was beautiful
for the radical anarchist asking a republican to dance
cause what’s the chance of everyone moving from right to left
if the only moves they see are NBC and CBS
this is for the no becoming yes
for scars becoming breath
for saying i love you to people who will never say it to us
for scraping away the rust and remembering how to shine
for the dime you gave away when you didn’t have a penny
for the many beautiful things we do
for every song we’ve ever sung
for refusing to believe in miracles
because miracles are the impossible coming true
and everything is possible
this is for the possibility that guides us
and for the possibilities still waiting to sing
and spread their wings inside us
cause tonight saturn is on his knees
proposing with all of his ten thousand rings
that whatever song we’ve been singing we sing even more
the world needs us right now more than it ever has before
pull all your strings
play every chord
if you’re writing letters to the prisoners
start tearing down the bars
if you’re handing our flashlights in the dark
start handing our stars
never go a second hushing the percussion of your heart
play loud
play like you know the clouds have left too many people cold and broken
and you’re their last chance for sun
play like there’s no time for hoping brighter days will come
play like the apocalypse is only 4…3…2
but you have a drum in your chest that could save us
you have a song like a breath that could raise us
like the sunrise into a dark sky that cries to be blue
play like you know we won’t survive if you don’t
but we will if you do
play like saturn is on his knees
proposing with all of his ten thousand rings
that we give every single breath
this is for saying–yes
this is for saying–yes
Bless The God Of Small Things, by Me
I strain my
thoughts
like thread
through
rusted needles,
trying to find
a way
to explain
the tenderness
in your body
when it moves
against mine,
like a glove
so gently
holding
protecting
a hand.
I am a poet
who fails
or maybe
flies highest of all -
I can never
find the words
and so,
I make do
with what’s around.
Your tongue
paints pictures
like ancient
drawings of faith
across the bones
of my hips,
against
the throb
of my neck.
There’s something
so sweet, so soft
in the shape
of your eyes
when they turn towards me,
taking me in -
I can feel your whole self
dilate
and I feel like I, too,
just once,
might be Something.
You love me
with a charming grace
so believable
simply because
it is true:
you love me,
you love me,
and to you
it is as easy
and as complicated
as that.
In my worst dreams,
you leave me
and yet
you break my heart
so gently, so gently
that even in
my pain, my loss,
I never forget
how well
I have been loved
by you.
Your fingertips
read the prayers
written in braille
upon my pale skin,
and offers them up
to the god of small things,
the god of everyday deaths
and lives that try;
it is him I thank
when my palm presses
against your pulse,
counting the rhythm
of you, you, you
and I, I, I
until sleep takes us
in its arms
and rocks us into dreams.
thoughts
like thread
through
rusted needles,
trying to find
a way
to explain
the tenderness
in your body
when it moves
against mine,
like a glove
so gently
holding
protecting
a hand.
I am a poet
who fails
or maybe
flies highest of all -
I can never
find the words
and so,
I make do
with what’s around.
Your tongue
paints pictures
like ancient
drawings of faith
across the bones
of my hips,
against
the throb
of my neck.
There’s something
so sweet, so soft
in the shape
of your eyes
when they turn towards me,
taking me in -
I can feel your whole self
dilate
and I feel like I, too,
just once,
might be Something.
You love me
with a charming grace
so believable
simply because
it is true:
you love me,
you love me,
and to you
it is as easy
and as complicated
as that.
In my worst dreams,
you leave me
and yet
you break my heart
so gently, so gently
that even in
my pain, my loss,
I never forget
how well
I have been loved
by you.
Your fingertips
read the prayers
written in braille
upon my pale skin,
and offers them up
to the god of small things,
the god of everyday deaths
and lives that try;
it is him I thank
when my palm presses
against your pulse,
counting the rhythm
of you, you, you
and I, I, I
until sleep takes us
in its arms
and rocks us into dreams.
I Wasn't, by Me.
My mind
needs
a leash,
maybe
a muzzle
since
it
crashes
through
the shriek
of my
electric
fenced
brain
and always,
always,
always, always
always
ends up
in
someone
else’s
yard.
needs
a leash,
maybe
a muzzle
since
it
crashes
through
the shriek
of my
electric
fenced
brain
and always,
always,
always, always
always
ends up
in
someone
else’s
yard.
I Do, by Andrea Gibson
I do.
But the motherfuckers say we can’t, ‘cause you’re a girl and I’m a girl (or at least something close) so the most we can hope for is an uncivil union in Vermont but I want church bells – I want rosary beads; I want Jesus on his knees. I want to walk down the aisle while all the patriarchy smiles – well, I guess that’s not true. But I do want to spend my life with you. And I want to know that fifty years from now when you’re in a hospital room and getting ready to die, when visiting hours are for family members only, I want to know they’ll let me in to say goodbye. ‘Cause I’ve been fifty years memorizing how the lines beneath your eyes form rivers when you cry and I’ve held my hand like an ocean at your cheek saying, “Baby, flow to me.” ‘Cause fifty years I’ve watched you grow with me – fifty years of you never letting go of me, through nightmares and dreams and everything in between from the day I said “Buy me a ring.” Buy me a ring that will turn my finger green so I can imagine our love is a forest – because I wanna get lost in you. And I swear I grew like a flower every hour of the fifty years I was with you – and that’s not to say we didn’t have bad days. Like the day you said, “That checkout girl was so sweet.” And I said I’d like to eat that checkout clerk and you said, “Baby that’s not funny” and I said “Baby, maybe you could take a fucking joke now and then,” and I slept on the couch that night. But when morning came, you were laughing. Yeah, there were times we were both half-in and half out the door but I never needed more than the stars of your grin to lead me home. For fifty years, you were my favorite poem and I’d read you every night knowing I might never understand every word but that’s okay – ‘cause the lines of you were the closest thing to holy I’d ever heard. You’d say, “This kind of love has to be a verb.” We are paint on a slick canvas – it’s gonna take a whole lot to stick but if we do, we’ll be a masterpiece. And we were – from the beginning living in towns that frowned at our hand-holding, folding up their stares like hate notes into our pockets so we could pretend they weren’t there. You said, “Fear is only a verb if you let it be. Don’t you dare let go of my hand.” That was my favorite line. That and the time we saw two boys kissing on the streets of Kansas, and we both broke down crying, because it was Kansas and what are the chances of seeing anything but corn in Kansas? We were born again that day. I cut your cord and you cut mine, and the chords of time played like a concerto of hope so we could feel the rope unwind, feel the noose of hate loosening, loosing from the years of “People like you aren’t welcome here. People like you can’t work here. People like you cannot adopt” – so we had lots of cats and dogs and once even a couple of monkeys you taught to sing, “Hey, hey, we’re the monkeys.” You were crazy like that – and I was crazy about you. On nights you couldn’t sleep, I’d lay awake for hours counting sheep for you and you would rewrite the rhythm of my heartbeat with the way you held me in the morning, resting your head on my chest and I swear my breath turned silver the day your hair did, like I swore marigolds grew in the folds of my eyelids the first time I saw you and they bloomed the first time I watched you dance to the tune of our kitchen kettle in our living room in a world that could have left us hard as metal, we were soft as nostalgia together. For fifty years, we feathered wings too wide to be prey and we flew through days strong and through days fragile as sand-castles at high tide and you would fold your love into an origami firefly and you’d throw it through my passageways until all my hidden chambers were filled with lanterns, now, every trap door, every pore of my heart is open because of you – because of us – so I do, I do, I do want to be in that room with you. When visiting hours are for family members only, I want to know they’ll let me in. I want to know they’ll let me hold you while I sing, “ba be de bop de ba ba, baby I’m so in love with you. I’m so in love with you. Ba be de bop de ba bop be be da bop ba – goodbye.”
But the motherfuckers say we can’t, ‘cause you’re a girl and I’m a girl (or at least something close) so the most we can hope for is an uncivil union in Vermont but I want church bells – I want rosary beads; I want Jesus on his knees. I want to walk down the aisle while all the patriarchy smiles – well, I guess that’s not true. But I do want to spend my life with you. And I want to know that fifty years from now when you’re in a hospital room and getting ready to die, when visiting hours are for family members only, I want to know they’ll let me in to say goodbye. ‘Cause I’ve been fifty years memorizing how the lines beneath your eyes form rivers when you cry and I’ve held my hand like an ocean at your cheek saying, “Baby, flow to me.” ‘Cause fifty years I’ve watched you grow with me – fifty years of you never letting go of me, through nightmares and dreams and everything in between from the day I said “Buy me a ring.” Buy me a ring that will turn my finger green so I can imagine our love is a forest – because I wanna get lost in you. And I swear I grew like a flower every hour of the fifty years I was with you – and that’s not to say we didn’t have bad days. Like the day you said, “That checkout girl was so sweet.” And I said I’d like to eat that checkout clerk and you said, “Baby that’s not funny” and I said “Baby, maybe you could take a fucking joke now and then,” and I slept on the couch that night. But when morning came, you were laughing. Yeah, there were times we were both half-in and half out the door but I never needed more than the stars of your grin to lead me home. For fifty years, you were my favorite poem and I’d read you every night knowing I might never understand every word but that’s okay – ‘cause the lines of you were the closest thing to holy I’d ever heard. You’d say, “This kind of love has to be a verb.” We are paint on a slick canvas – it’s gonna take a whole lot to stick but if we do, we’ll be a masterpiece. And we were – from the beginning living in towns that frowned at our hand-holding, folding up their stares like hate notes into our pockets so we could pretend they weren’t there. You said, “Fear is only a verb if you let it be. Don’t you dare let go of my hand.” That was my favorite line. That and the time we saw two boys kissing on the streets of Kansas, and we both broke down crying, because it was Kansas and what are the chances of seeing anything but corn in Kansas? We were born again that day. I cut your cord and you cut mine, and the chords of time played like a concerto of hope so we could feel the rope unwind, feel the noose of hate loosening, loosing from the years of “People like you aren’t welcome here. People like you can’t work here. People like you cannot adopt” – so we had lots of cats and dogs and once even a couple of monkeys you taught to sing, “Hey, hey, we’re the monkeys.” You were crazy like that – and I was crazy about you. On nights you couldn’t sleep, I’d lay awake for hours counting sheep for you and you would rewrite the rhythm of my heartbeat with the way you held me in the morning, resting your head on my chest and I swear my breath turned silver the day your hair did, like I swore marigolds grew in the folds of my eyelids the first time I saw you and they bloomed the first time I watched you dance to the tune of our kitchen kettle in our living room in a world that could have left us hard as metal, we were soft as nostalgia together. For fifty years, we feathered wings too wide to be prey and we flew through days strong and through days fragile as sand-castles at high tide and you would fold your love into an origami firefly and you’d throw it through my passageways until all my hidden chambers were filled with lanterns, now, every trap door, every pore of my heart is open because of you – because of us – so I do, I do, I do want to be in that room with you. When visiting hours are for family members only, I want to know they’ll let me in. I want to know they’ll let me hold you while I sing, “ba be de bop de ba ba, baby I’m so in love with you. I’m so in love with you. Ba be de bop de ba bop be be da bop ba – goodbye.”
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