Saturday, March 7, 2015

record (throwback.)

December 15, 2011 at 5:32pm

the machine just went grey when it started,

and out through the window, the sun fades

and you could turn yourself in -

what you did to us, it made us sense

in each and everyone, something awful -

a tiny voice, precarious and muffled

when we want, we can halt the static

and start the record again, down from the attic

from vinyl, into the air

to hear again, the voice - what wasted,

what uncherished smiles and eyes and

what a repeatedly breaking heart,

when the machine comes on.

it hiccups through tracks and bounces

through the boundaries, what a polar

and uncommonly unholy way to bound

through this devastation, but keep it

keep the record playing.

keep the machine on.

what a difference the sounds would

make to some one that would believe

in the stuff, this love. what rasping

breaths of young love, but it's still

it's so wasted, the melody,

the time it keeps, no more matter,

it doesn't matter. it's the same sad

song. but keep it playing it.

for our sake,

keep the machine on.

Friday, March 6, 2015

renaming the stars.(we call the dog Golgotha)

[This, really, is only the suggestion of something that's real.
We are both illusory.]

It's not about worrying where to begin, it's about just where we'll go from here.
We shift from some platonic embrace to holding hands beneath a canopy of twilight,
Staring up at the tiny pinpricks of light above our horizon, all the tiny little flecks
Of diamond dust revolving around us,
We're the smudged and ambiguous center of some stained atlas, the fulcrum
of some stampede of forgotten destinations that shine on us from unfathomable distances.
She digs unpainted, manicured fingernails into the webs of my hand, each one
The individual summit of a long and railish ringer.

Somewhere, in the sickly velvet half-glow of the night, the distance between us grows
And thrives in the margins, waiting to pounce again.
The near silent swish of the fabric, all these moments passing,
The beat of my heart and the gentle rise and fall of her breath
Pushing her clavicle up, only to fall again, like empires of man.

There are times when I'd like to know exactly what she's thinking,
It's Friday and we're all drinking,
All celebrating something, and I know, off in that dark distance,
There are flooded fields of brown and gold and pink thriving in her mind,
I want to know what turns, what's motivating
That pretty little head of hers.

She looks at me and says,
You will never find me,
You'll never cross me,
To lose me,
Under these skies,
And she's screaming from the sight of me,

She says
Believe me babe
It won't make this any easier
We could have been so close,
And no
It never made a bit of sense,
It won't make it any easier.

You will never find me.

We call the dog Golgotha.