Tuesday, January 29, 2008

The Two For Tuesday Special


Today the bombs rang louder then usual
I sucked it in
I got out of bed, finially.
I wrote you a two and a half page letter
It's waiting on the floor
In two days, everything was done and over
You can't stand the way I've looked at things and
I've just driven you stark mad
I called my mother and she thinks I should
broaden my horizons and find myself a good man
She said two of my aunts got what I have and the one
has tried to kill herself a few times already and I
should get on some of that medicine before I end up like her
Severely bi polar.
"I just knew something was wrong with you ever since you were a little girl"
I stumbled around last night til I couldnt pronounce your name
And at 2 AM I had to throw the phone across the room, so I
wouldnt call you
I haven't heard your voice all day
And I never saw your shield and sword
I didn't see you kicking up dust
You never even turned around at the sound of my plead
This is the second time I have lost what I loved most
Poof.
And in both I have been the center of blame.
"It's all your undoing and doing and all your fault"
Maybe so, but,
It takes two to tango

Saturday, January 19, 2008

I carved the fruit like it was your hand
Drove around for awhile and the road was
the only companion worthy of my sad sap stupid ark of dreams
Noah was a drunk
And so I conform to the High Man's choice of personna
Well I've got a couple bucks so give me what you can
Seven straws on the table
Imprints on the napkin
Dead song in the background
I've got a bent will and its tied to the back of one
of those cross country rigs that weave too close to the middle line
Fourteen empty coke cans and a cabinet of wants
I just know im going to slice myself in half
and I'll fix it with invisible thread
Bright light bulb and I've got the kind of migraine that
makes you see little people in peripheral
And I can hear the tears through the bedroom door
Obtuse pillow. Wet with regret and the fear of giving something away that
can never be found
We could cut the cord.
I just got paid and I swear I could go forget your name
We should let the world sqaunder
and our bodies will return to the bacterial molecules they were before God
decided to give us ideas
This is a pilgrimage
So cry all you want

Friday, January 18, 2008

Go To Sleep, Cardigan

And at what point did you suffer?
You, of all people, should have been gang banged and
ass raped
walking about with that Rebel hat and your narrow mind
"Call me the Candyman"
"You want some, little black bitch girl?"
I'm glad they've got you on this table
Were it not for the protestors, you would have no
friends at this moment
And that's only because it was not their own
daughter you fucked the guts out of, literally, and
hung feet first in the old oak tree
" I ain't no nigger lover", and you just had to show the world
The local news stating are stirring up these local towns and
everybody's hating everyone
because all of us see in color now

And at what point did you suffer?
Was it when t hey asked for any final words?
Was it when they stuck you to sleep, with barely a
prick and left the viewing room to tear themsevles apart?

Cardigan, I hope you meet God.
I hope you meet God
I hope you meet God

Friction and Flame

Perhaps in an instant the friction was born
The bottom of my jeans and the top of
the carseat rendered me the way Walt Whitman felt about the green grass
The thought was cradled, then ultimatley found its way to the trash can
Some things are not fit for the graceful dance of pen talk, so they
leave the lips in simple syllables and they float above
and somewhere in time, they are lost
Gone, with the unpredictable travels of the wind
like a friend who promised you a forever
But what I did not realize is, forever is a couple years at best
Nothing more, nothing less...its all just cheap talk and a really cool handshake

And at twenty-two I've been born a few times over and I know,
that life is more then well on its way
and I can only count on seconds
not days, not hours , not mintues
So I've got to tell the truth about some things that Ive been holding close to my heart

Ive cheated on a lover
I lied about how I wrecked my parents car, I didn't hit a cat, I was drunk off my ass
And I used to hate you, mother
I stole three dollars and used it without a second thought
And at one point, I did not believe in God
I said words like I love you, because they sounded really pretty and
I broke a lot of hearts
But
at twenty-two I've made friction and flame
And now I stand tall on solid ground
And I'm wise enough to say I'm sorry for everything I've done
but I'm even more sorry it took this long for it to all come out



Wednesday, January 9, 2008

A compilation of different lyrics from different songs that consequently made a letter

She adores me from a distant. There's nothing to be said now, but in our silence, we're both aching to speak.
I can take it heavy and I will not weigh you down.
You can't deny us.
Seclusion. Sweet disarray. You are my sweetest downfall. I loved you first, I love you first beneath the sheet of paper lies. I have to go. Your hair was long when we first met. And history books forgot about us and the bible didn't mention us, not even once. Oh we couldn't bring the columns down, we couldnt destroy a single one.

I was wrong I guess.

Just lay it all down. Put your face into my neck and let it fall out. This world youre in now, it doesn't have to be alone.

I'll get there somehow.

Saturday, January 5, 2008

Burning Bridges

And the world spins madly on.
There's a wide array of strangers who feel the same.
They sit on some old, rugged couch with connections in their lap
Self-indulgent java hungry poets
So let's join hands and create make-shift picket fences
Because hearts are a disgrace and we should drown them in our own spit
and
if you know what I mean
then
you know that this has been a grave dissappointment

I come and go
But I can never get past the welcome mat

Things are up in flames everywhere you turn
Like it's a forced habit to burn bridges or let go of
ideas that frighten you
But we should shake our heads and tighten our grips
Grab our human rights and cradle the fact that we
still have a few of them left
And some of us still have the
weapon of words
And when that happens, we are forced to shut up and
let it burn
Like the burning of books and bibles
Because God forbid we believe anything other then what we are told
But nothing molds me
Not bullets, not taped mouths, not slavery
Not money, not you, not reality, not the morning
I am nocturnal
The beast in the depth of the night
Collecting strangers and fingers for my own
sadistic, selfish reasons
Because you know, in the core of you,
I am everything you've ever wanted.



Friday, January 4, 2008

Warning: Smoking Causes

death to your ideas
A vicious circle feeding and eating
Nicotine shakes
Yellow nails
More more more
It is the thin line seperating me from
the third floor
Sanity or madness
Which do you prefer?
I bow down to the ashtray while
you bow down to your stupid, pathetic Gods
Warning
I will acquire cancer either way
It is in my blood
It is pounding at my door
So come in
let's have a talk about the future.
Death and dust, my friend

Lies Are The Best Lubricant

Here goes one foot in front of the other.
The graffiti under my toes says "move along, you
are not wanted here"
I cock my spine and walk in false pretense
I never loved you, you know.
I just spouted like a cherry red fire hydrant whenever you
came around

And we slowly watched the words melt into summers

I never wanted you, you know.
I was just eager to finger your bluff
I sting your eyes.
And you fuck my heart with lies because its easier to
swallow then the vulnerable truth.
And so
one foot
strengthens the other by
placing them in sequence
one in front of the other

Thursday, January 3, 2008

A Killer Metaphor

"And I think of your letters as love letters, which is how I think of songs, in that it is the writing of them that tends to carry us along"

I am a clown in a dunking booth. They want me to fail. They pay for it. The little kid with the big glasses wants to be just like his daddy, so he throws at the target. He doesn't know I have feelings. He doesn't realize that I'm broken and afraid of falling. One ball, two... good.. he misses. But his father, oh his father, who's breath I can smell from inside the cage... bourbon...and tons of it. He nudges his son and asks if he wants to see breasts. He wants to expose me, and we both know he won't miss. I fold my arms and pretend to not notice their eyes searching for my nipples. I am humiliated. It is the world...the stupid, silly world.

A killer metaphor.

Anyhow. I grabbed a shovel last night and started digging in clay. See the difference between clay and mud is: mud is sloppy, loose. Clay is smooth, stronger. Clay has a mind of its own. It can be molded and shaped into whatever it damn well pleases. Patient hands are needed for this one. So, I'm digging and cutting this orange matter, and I notice every once in awhile a slight redness appears. I open a conversation with it. But as soon as it open its mouth, the redness blends back into orange. My lips curve a smile, because I have now caught its bluff. Now I cut the shovel deeper into the clay. The red comes back. I throw down the shovel and surrender my anxious hands. I tell it, please... stay. Talk to me in your true form, you look like a sunrise when you use words like that. It says, I'll talk, but I cannot possibly stay.

But what if I take you from here, and hold you...dry you...with my fingerprints all over you? My friend, you will still be free....but at least you will be mine. And I, yours. We could mold each other, we could make shapes unheard of. I could make you wings, or arms. We could fly together, or hold each other. We could be a part of beauty, or we could make it. It is the silent, never faltering connection of art and the artist.

But who's to say I could take care of you? You may melt all over my dresser. You may lose your color, and then I would lose my interest. You are clay, and you belong in nature. You don't belong in between chests and ribs. But God....the smell of you....the feel of you between my fingers.... how can I not want to keep you?

And I was afraid that clay, was merely clay. It told me it cannot be kept. Regardless the intensity, the passion, the admiration. And I told it, I'm not asking to keep you. As always, I am read in the wrong tone. So I got down on my knees and whispered my intentions to it this time, as if I were a ten year old girl trying to keep the "bestest best secret ever." You see, clay, it's not about keeping you. It's about you knowing who you could be. It's about you knowing what we could create together. See hands are nothing, if they have only empty space inside them. Clay is nothing, if it doesn't have a pair of hands to revive it. I want there to be an understanding, dearest clay, that the one is in need of the other. And vice versa. Of course there are millions of hands out there, and miles of clay...but there is something so special about the way you feel.... inside my hands. And I know, just as you know deep in your clay heart, that my hands are the only pair of hands that truly appreciate who and what you are.
No, I do not wish to keep you. Not on some dresser, or some shelf, or some mantle. I wish to make love with you, I wish to make hate with you. I want to create chaos, grief, desolution, desire, mirages, and even definitions with you. We could go beyond "beauty" itself.
But you have to be ready. You are already lovely, in your orange/red shell....but if you're not ready then you cannot hold form.

And the problem with clay is, you won't know it's ready until you put your hands on it and try it out. It either is, or it's not...it either bends or it flops onto the wooden floor.


And I am terrified of the possibility that clay is merely clay.