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.

Blawg

http://haleycrain.tumblr.com for everyday thoughts and bullshit. 

Dead Love Song*

Well my baby's a zombie,

I hit him ten times in the face

And he didn't feel a thing.

We knew we were dying,

Decided to fight it

But he up and walked

and I still feel the sting.

Where's all your peacocks and 

teacakes and teapots?

When you fall, your chin hits the ground.

I know in the end everything will get broken,

but we could still sit back and 

enjoy the sound.

He rose, well he rose up

From grandaddy's grasses

Decided that he oughta be a man.

But these days he's stirring  

his tea with the ashes 

Of all the things he thought he'd

play by the plans.

Where are your elephants,

Lions and ivory?

When you fire, your shot hits the ground.

I know in the end everything will get broken,

but we could still sit back and 

enjoy the sound.

It's better than rotting away,

it's better than rotting away.

You can't dance with a zombie, but baby believe me,

I would have tried anyway.

My babe was a zombie,

I hit him ten times in the face

And he didn't feel a thing.

We knew we were dying,

Decided to fight it

But he up and walked

and boy, I felt the sting.

It was better than rotting away,

better than rotting away.

I'm sorry you're sad and I'm sad you're not sorry,

But maybe it's best you don't stay.

*Or, "Haley attempts to write something resembling a song and probably makes a fool of herself in the process but oh well it's just a dumb blog"

Angels fall short of all that we could make this life

And they're all assholes anyway;

your heroes and your poets

are dead.  

We right here right now are alive 

and will live forever 

and we will have known our own names. 

"There are 6.7 billion people in the world," 

she said,

"And I tonight I will dance with every one of them." 

can'tyouseethat

we are only the monsters we make ourselves, that

we are only smashing our skulls with rocks from the inside, but 

we are only human, but you say

we are only beasts, but

we are only the beasts we become. 

All You Are

You and Charles Bukowski would slam your heads on a wall till you shatter apart.

But to be a flowering vine

pushing through time would 

ease it down so sweetly.

And to 

slow-dance with it, 

explore

every crack

and 

float your leaves out to touch the night, to stretch, 

and curl, 

and relish in your decay because 

you are all 

you are.

Just an observation.

Romance and mystery are scarce in a world where even the redneck boy who works at the corner store has a damn Facebook. 

I don't think I like this decade. Can I have another? 

Fools

We have concealed us in paper walls.

We have bled and cried and made them wet with fervor,

And you were careless to leave the door ajar,

But I happily singed the place in ardor.

Let it be no surprise, then, 

When the whole place falls in and we are found,

Redfaced, in the center.

222

I dreamt she was a gymnast,

flung her pale limbs around 

squeaking silver poles, performing

frantic and impressive flips

forty feet above an audience of five or six;

but they are just done with their practice,

tying their shoes on the gymnasium floor.

Now she vaults, lands hard, breathes hard.

Hands on hips and eyes cast down,

She paces, murmurs, tallies--

Cold-faced and coaching herself like the girls I used to see

when the Olympics were on TV.

She's always been so tiny. Not frail,

but stubborn and bruised,

like when we were six and flung our skinny limbs around

in shorts, unaware that there

could be shame in skin and bones, 

or a need to conceal.

Now the nurses mistake her for his baby sister,

in her shorts and pigtails.

Blue vein-ghosts trail her pale legs 

as the cold keeps the blood near her skin.

We are visitors, and her smiles and gestures are frantic,

but impressive:

A story of a number that will keep him alive and okay.

She was pacing, murmuring, tallying,

And there it finally was: Their number, 

the call after the crash.

And there is no fear in his blood, she explains,

No shame in his skin and bones. She swears,

She'll bathe in it 'til her baby comes home. 

Prince Charming

She tried to move that morning with mystery, but the door just swung and clicked decidedly, so she vowed to replace them all with beads, or blankets, or tapestries;

and by tapestries she meant Wal-Mart sheets, but if she cut the tags her baby wouldn’t know.

She tried to scent her hair like India, but her shampoo smelled like red no. 4, blue no. 12 and fake gardenias, the cheap perfumes that make you sneeze. So she would pour the necessary liquids of clean living into jewel-toned vessels and glass decanters stopped with cork;

and by jewel-toned she meant the green glow that bottles of long-drunk grocery store wine hold, but if she hid the plastic and tore off the labels her baby wouldn’t know.

Her man’d hit her face and left in a rage with all the romance and tragedy of a Nascar race, but that was okay. If her cheek purpled it was just from eating too many grapes off the stems, then she’d held them out to him; her little prince, charming in Batman underpants, grinned and grabbed and let the juice run down his chin. And if she had it her way, it’d never be “just another day” again.

‘Cause if I can’t find my way, she thought, at least you’ll have broomsticks and candles, my baby, my baby boy. We’ll nab you a little cinder-princess, isn’t that right? She may be wearin’ rags but you’ll never let her think she means less than the brightest smile I ever saw on your face, the day I fed you grapes, the day I decided to let the damn fairy tale begin.

a concocted conversation concerning not conversing

"It's all about kids like you and me, honey. We don't need answers, we need the lion's den. We don't need someone to talk to, we need someone to make NOISE with. Don't tell me, I don't want to know. I want to figure you out by the sound of your steps in the attic when I'm asleep in the basement, I want to know you by the way you breathe right before you pick up the phone. Every second could stretch out and be a little longer--this could last forever. But people have to talk and talk and talk and date and drink wine and figure it out and lay it all on the line. And you know, I always thought figuring sounded like something you should save for math...you know?"

"Ye--"

"But I'll study you, baby, like the night before a final, I just won't figure you out. I was never good at math and answers don't mean shit, ya know?"

"Yeah...I know."

"Perfect. Even then you were talking too much. Now hush."   

Walking

Walking out to my car at night

My heart picks up speed. I don't know why.

Love is divine, 

And parties are fine, but I 

Delight most in just walking.

Dull parking lot ground; it could just be

A routine route to engagements mundane

No special thing, no crown awaits

Or kiss, or promise, or fame--

Just moving my legs to the

Buzz of my brain.

It is not an adventure. But I misunderstand. 

And my teeth taste the air, and I think something grand

Must be happening.

And it is, 

because my feet

can feel diamonds in the soil,

And it is because my hair can feel 

colors in the air, and it is because the wind

Wraps the back of my neck like a lover's cool hand and says:

This second is reason

Enough for a party.

An aside

If I say I'm doing one a day for 70 days, I should probably not begin by writing 5 in one day. But sometimes these things can't be helped. And they really were all written yesterday. So it's cool, right?

Yes, right!

Okay, thanks Self, I knew you'd be cool about it.

Back to poemy thingies next entry.