The Road

I miss the road

and all that's along it 

I barely got to see,

Barreling toward you

through pitchdark tunnels,

the country's streaming veinworks--

Drained now as even 

the leaning cargo trucks on sloping shoulders

seem to sleep. 

Pumping gas alongside

pale weird wakeful strangers

not quite real;

All wild thoughts flying, 

Stretching wings through so many

unfettered hours;

And the relief of light

When you're tired enough

To believe it'll never come,

the waking of the world

you were just getting lonely enough

to believe all drained and died.

The gray huge aching monumental tired you almost couldn't beat until--

you did

fell into bed

felt so nearly dead and

more vast-alive than ever. 

Vibrate

When they would talk she used to take

The cellular phone from her jean pocket

And cradle it under her chin in bed

Clutch it to her cheek like a little hard pillow,

Lay it like a chilled little hand against her neck

Tuck it into her shirt:

Pressed hard to her heart,

or close under her breast,

or waiting on her sternum,

so his bored text could pretend to be

Some remote touch,

Some tangible thing to shake through her sad skin

But tonight facedowndefeated her ear pressed to the mattress; the thing

lays out of reach, sends vibrations through the metal springs.

They echo like a strange sea creature, low.

Far away mourning in some deep black place.

Out loud, she says the word "no"

And sleeps.

Bullshit-bits and poem-pieces.

(1)

You could have lived in those old magnolias,
Every crispy crunchy sticky furry part of them
Is all you'd need. The leaves would
Make rooms around you, spindly branch-columns
Leather-leaf lining
Sun-spotted wallpaper
Bloody-kneed cousins unafraid to climb higher and
tell you how the world works when you're 12
As opposed to 10.

And oh
How I wanted to take you there one day.

(2)

I wonder,
How wrong is it to use poems
as weapons?

If I write them on tiny curls of paper
And sneak them into your sight
will they snake between your eyelashes
and take you down from the inside?
And can I carry your tired body
back there where it's safe,
where we belong?
I'll protect you from what made you
In our sweet magnolia rooms,
We can stay a long, long time.
And bloom out on the terrace
Where my parents gave me wine
And they realized I loved you,
In all your loud bravado. You,
My tragic hero,
You, my poorly-timed.

(3)

I haven't let myself
have a key to this old hall yet.

Not because I keep forgetting,
But because I fear
the hours I may spend here,
trying to talk to ghosts.
I'd spread candles and a Ouija board
Out across the floor,
Exhaust myself with spells and
Plea 'til I fall asleep,
Face down in leather cushions where
We both know what happened,
Dreaming of dying
And haunting all of you,
Me and Bobby T.

(4)

I'll go away. But
You can't stop me writing poems in my head about you,
Bad poems for a bad man.
You and I both know
We drive because we're in control
Of something bigger than ourselves
of something powerful
of anything.
We drive because it makes us feel like we're
Getting somewhere.
Getting away.
I'll go away.
But you can't stop me.

Something I put up here a while ago and then took down and am now putting up again...?

It was a classic I hadn't heard before; you said it reminded you of me. Back then, the sadder second half seemed irrelevant, but eventually you made it all true. So right now, to me, this song is everything. 

It's the perfect theme, the summary, the movie montage. How pretty it is, to wrap it all up in pre-packaged meaning. It happens every time: the cliché seduces me with its powerful comfort, and I can't resist. Indulge guilt-free in the cheesy similes, because the perfect song is like a blanket, it's like a long embrace, it's like a bittersweet symphony or a warm gun or a shot through the heart. Pain and complications condensed into a digestible dose; a bitter, soothing medicine that will wear off by the next morning when I'll wake up aching and need to find a new one.

Right now Tom Petty sings about me. He flatters and pities me; I am his tragic heroine and his guitar rings out in agreement. That electric D, in endless repetition, knows my naivety and persistence. Tom Petty knew. He wrote this for your mixtape, our late night joyrides, my crying for broken things.

When people make stories and songs they know that to venture outside a clean plot line is distracting; the heartbreaking awkwardness of real life is set aside for clarity's sake. Our memories do the same thing, and to me, our theme was the music. It's a cliché I can't resist. We shared it and it had so much meaning, said every tender thing we couldn't. It sang through us when we were free and happy; when I was yours, finally. We lost it, and fell apart. A beginning, a middle, and an end. Themes make things so easy. Themes make so much sense.

Tonight I will go out with my friends in the town we used to own, together. The lights will flash and dull in my half-drunk haze, and we will ramble down the streets, shoes in our hands and laughing. For a while I will forget everything, and I will be so happy. 

But with your bed so close, it's bound to happen. When the music pulses through my chest and I move with the hot, thick crowd, all I will wish is to keep that one little promise. "I'll pull you out of the darkness and into the fire, onto the dance floor." It is dark here too; no one will see our faces, no one has to know. And we can dance here like we said we would, just for a while, to the music.

Brief meditation on the collegiate male/note-taking in art history class

-Freestanding,

-open form,

-contrapposto stance,

-oratorical gesture.

Here we see the figure depicted in the ceremonial drapery,

Right arm raised, the eyes cast heavenward,

We are meant to assume he commands a crowed of plebians

(Most likely,

some rite or festival declared in his own honor)

Having proclaimed himself most exalted,

He would continue to garner his titles:

Divi filius,

Pontifex maximus,

Shared blood and godly make-up with Venus;

Rome will take its fall, of course,

But if he orders his immortalization

enough in bronze casts and marble,

perhaps no one will note his.

Can I tell you everything?

If you are an animal who roars in my face 

or shrinks and cowers like a mouse;

If you paint rose gardens, 

or uncover bones with tiny brushes,

or mow lawns;

If you drink and curse and rage like a monster

or tenderly love, and fear your God;

I could even hate you,

It won't be hard:

Can I just tell you every sorry, sparkling thing?

And then--then you tell me

every single little thing,

All your joy and every darkness.

Everything, everything, everything, and I will listen hard for days

Until your lungs run out of breath.

Our throats exhausted,

Bedridden tangles in our hair will explain our mission 

when they find us locked in a sad, silent spell 

of the only thing left to do: care.

Blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah, insomniac crappy poetry theater.

I'm to live in the city

That was built here for me,

Each brick laid by hand and warmth

Breathed into rooms.

I'm to sleep here where I

Was laid down in a bed

That held and contained me and was almost home.

I am to drive the roads you paved.

Every day, I am to live in this city

That you painted with me,

Splashed red, 'cause it hurt.

But we lined the streets with lanterns to hide in the shadows,

And tore down the walls to make love in the rubble.

I am to live in this city

Left smoking, in ruins.

Its architect off to more lucrative offers:

Paper skyscrapers and Styrofoam homes.

I will live in this city, 

And will sleep through its crumbling

And let it burn down

And grow back on its own.