fallen from...a work in progress.
But there’s something about being in the back of a cop car that makes me want to break the law more then on your average 3:10 am adventure away/to home. When he tells us its dangerous walking Santa Cruz streets at night being two females because of criminals and drunken drivers turning corners with out care…because no one, not even he drives the speed limit on Bay St. I want to tell him I grew up were it wasn’t safe to be on the streets at night because it was just as easy to get clipped by a Crypt for wearing the wrong color, as it was to get caught being the wrong color at 3:10am by a cop. But instead I just thank him for giving us a lift, leaving out the fact that I am bitter that all my friends have paid over 50 bucks in parking tickets on Bay St. based on hidden traffic cops who play hide and seek in nearby bushes with cars when he just admitted it’s a law he never bothers to fallow.
…and this is your poem should be I think. Not hidden in café’s designed for choir preaching or slams sustained by liberals who love to get drunk and score themselves for agreeing shit sucks. Your silent wailing sirens belong here in the back seats of reality at four in the morning, were cop cars are unrequited taxis home, in lines at LA convenience stores were workers count the seconds before they can leave wile laughing at you in funny pink glasses spitting verse like sunflower seeds, and in hospital hallways when Chris couldn’t speak for himself.
But there’s something about finding out someone you respect can’t respect themself yet. When talking has quelled itself into awkward slurred silences interrupted by random questions at 3:10 am, there’s nothing to do but answer. So I say guess, because I have to wonder why you do. Numbers are tossed off like my clothes before a shower and I add them all up and give them the real sum divided by explanations that will never be enough. “No just five” I say and I cross my fingers they wont dig deeper for names because that means I will have to stop pretending I don’t remember you, you, you, you, or you. (And if it weren’t for technicalities you and you as well) I turn the conversation quick back on you so I can deflect more bullets with bullets. You tell me to guess and I hit the nail right on the head setting you off sailing on the possibility that I am omniscient and read your guilt in numbers like scores. 7.5 because your performance was good, but you’re content was disgenuine and your timing was all off.
…and this is were your poem should be I think. As the barrage of tens around your face in my mind fall into themselves like dominos experimenting with smack. I see the chip on your movements shoulder and a box were your revolution holds its eventual shape as if progress has caged itself so as not to seem too overwhelming. She has always been a theory to you existing in books and you cant see her in the 7.5 who didn’t understand why a freedom fighter couldn’t face his own carefully plotted out facts, she’s only ideology in chapter 7 section 5. Here she can be contained by spirals bound to be closed when the assignment is done, no need to tell her your leaving for a new book.
But there’s something about waking up in the suburbs of a city you’ve never seen in a van you don’t own with people who aren’t yours and wonder if hating your destination is enough to make home look appealing. When the sun comes up after your head hit a lack of a backseat pillow a few minutes earlier, it doesn’t phase you if your simply glad to have gotten into the van via AAA instead of a crowbar. I get up and walk half a mile and piss in the jack-in-the-box because its too early and I’m to hung over to try and shmooz my way into the next door catholic church’s bathroom. My boys are still passed out after a long night of drinking games and confessional “I never” sore fingers. But you are gone and I’m guessing its not because of the reasonable reasons, I know its because of your preconception that I wouldn’t be able to process this. I wish you’d just tell me who you are when your not preaching pacifism outside, but instead waging war on your own self guilt and attempting to balance privilege and power with greed behind tears you didn’t cry yet.
…and this is your poem should be I think.
…and this is your poem should be I think. Not hidden in café’s designed for choir preaching or slams sustained by liberals who love to get drunk and score themselves for agreeing shit sucks. Your silent wailing sirens belong here in the back seats of reality at four in the morning, were cop cars are unrequited taxis home, in lines at LA convenience stores were workers count the seconds before they can leave wile laughing at you in funny pink glasses spitting verse like sunflower seeds, and in hospital hallways when Chris couldn’t speak for himself.
But there’s something about finding out someone you respect can’t respect themself yet. When talking has quelled itself into awkward slurred silences interrupted by random questions at 3:10 am, there’s nothing to do but answer. So I say guess, because I have to wonder why you do. Numbers are tossed off like my clothes before a shower and I add them all up and give them the real sum divided by explanations that will never be enough. “No just five” I say and I cross my fingers they wont dig deeper for names because that means I will have to stop pretending I don’t remember you, you, you, you, or you. (And if it weren’t for technicalities you and you as well) I turn the conversation quick back on you so I can deflect more bullets with bullets. You tell me to guess and I hit the nail right on the head setting you off sailing on the possibility that I am omniscient and read your guilt in numbers like scores. 7.5 because your performance was good, but you’re content was disgenuine and your timing was all off.
…and this is were your poem should be I think. As the barrage of tens around your face in my mind fall into themselves like dominos experimenting with smack. I see the chip on your movements shoulder and a box were your revolution holds its eventual shape as if progress has caged itself so as not to seem too overwhelming. She has always been a theory to you existing in books and you cant see her in the 7.5 who didn’t understand why a freedom fighter couldn’t face his own carefully plotted out facts, she’s only ideology in chapter 7 section 5. Here she can be contained by spirals bound to be closed when the assignment is done, no need to tell her your leaving for a new book.
But there’s something about waking up in the suburbs of a city you’ve never seen in a van you don’t own with people who aren’t yours and wonder if hating your destination is enough to make home look appealing. When the sun comes up after your head hit a lack of a backseat pillow a few minutes earlier, it doesn’t phase you if your simply glad to have gotten into the van via AAA instead of a crowbar. I get up and walk half a mile and piss in the jack-in-the-box because its too early and I’m to hung over to try and shmooz my way into the next door catholic church’s bathroom. My boys are still passed out after a long night of drinking games and confessional “I never” sore fingers. But you are gone and I’m guessing its not because of the reasonable reasons, I know its because of your preconception that I wouldn’t be able to process this. I wish you’d just tell me who you are when your not preaching pacifism outside, but instead waging war on your own self guilt and attempting to balance privilege and power with greed behind tears you didn’t cry yet.
…and this is your poem should be I think.