(no subject)
Caroline
the air is thin here
nothing moves.
your clothes are exhausted
your eyes closed.
you're too tired to argue about when it was
that phone calls became a quarter.
what happened to you, Caroline?
where was I when it happened?
at nightclubs you dance to the beat of the death rattle
and throw your head back screaming isn't this great?
you want to be magnificent, jazzed and wanted.
all you are is broken filthy and lost.
you swim in the romance of laundry and cigarettes
weekly sex and notebooks.
futons are for sleeping
and reading and talking and drinking
and watching and staying
and staying.
stay on the floor
listen to the sink drip
and the cat cry.
tell him to shut up.
throw a shoe.
you will start a band.
you will start a magazine.
you will start a family.
you will finish nothing.
you're angry that no one's scare of you, Caroline.
hey just feel sorry or distant.
you'd rather talk than move.
you sigh and say everything worth doing has been done.
when you think you're alone
I see you
licking the television screen
looking for the reflection.
hometown knows what you're doing
scared in the cave of someone else's car.
twenty is too young for this.
sometimes wishes get away from you.
strangled by furniture and checkbooks
you pare down
give books away.
say nothing when your drunken roommate
fondles you as your pretend to sleep.
after cutting coupons you hold on to the scissors too long.
you press your fingertips against the windowpane
when you're supposed to be out looking for a job.
miscarriage comes between moving and Christmas
and goes unspoken.
you spend the rest of the weekend inside
alphabetizing CD's and feeling unsafe.
eleven hours of silence for lack of something better to do.
your skin skims the surface of datebooks
pretty and unused.
just like you.
you have nothing to lose because you don't have anything
--anything you want, anyway.
when your give your number out to guys
you leave off the last digit.
you think they should have to work for you.
measuring days until the jackpot job arrives.
now your 26
have nothing to show for it.
you wait to be surprised.
you're still waiting.
(I am walking past your window, Caroline.
I am passing you by.)
you're hungry but you don't know what to eat
so now you just drink.
now you're west of where you were
--the part of your mind where memory and ambition
live, hang out and crash cars.
sometimes your pres the button
on the police call box on the corner.
you say you need somebody to talk to.
the last time we spoke, you turned to me and said
everything I love will leave
and close your mouth as clean as a cat.
you throw parties for smart friends
hoping some of their hope rubs off on you.
you always end up in the kitchen crying.
friends offer kleenex and cigarettes
wishing you'll say you just want to be alone
that you'll be all right.
you always end up in the kitchen crying.
doesn't matter what it's about.
you always end up in the kitchen crying.
the air is thin here
nothing moves.
your clothes are exhausted
your eyes closed.
you're too tired to argue about when it was
that phone calls became a quarter.
what happened to you, Caroline?
where was I when it happened?
at nightclubs you dance to the beat of the death rattle
and throw your head back screaming isn't this great?
you want to be magnificent, jazzed and wanted.
all you are is broken filthy and lost.
you swim in the romance of laundry and cigarettes
weekly sex and notebooks.
futons are for sleeping
and reading and talking and drinking
and watching and staying
and staying.
stay on the floor
listen to the sink drip
and the cat cry.
tell him to shut up.
throw a shoe.
you will start a band.
you will start a magazine.
you will start a family.
you will finish nothing.
you're angry that no one's scare of you, Caroline.
hey just feel sorry or distant.
you'd rather talk than move.
you sigh and say everything worth doing has been done.
when you think you're alone
I see you
licking the television screen
looking for the reflection.
hometown knows what you're doing
scared in the cave of someone else's car.
twenty is too young for this.
sometimes wishes get away from you.
strangled by furniture and checkbooks
you pare down
give books away.
say nothing when your drunken roommate
fondles you as your pretend to sleep.
after cutting coupons you hold on to the scissors too long.
you press your fingertips against the windowpane
when you're supposed to be out looking for a job.
miscarriage comes between moving and Christmas
and goes unspoken.
you spend the rest of the weekend inside
alphabetizing CD's and feeling unsafe.
eleven hours of silence for lack of something better to do.
your skin skims the surface of datebooks
pretty and unused.
just like you.
you have nothing to lose because you don't have anything
--anything you want, anyway.
when your give your number out to guys
you leave off the last digit.
you think they should have to work for you.
measuring days until the jackpot job arrives.
now your 26
have nothing to show for it.
you wait to be surprised.
you're still waiting.
(I am walking past your window, Caroline.
I am passing you by.)
you're hungry but you don't know what to eat
so now you just drink.
now you're west of where you were
--the part of your mind where memory and ambition
live, hang out and crash cars.
sometimes your pres the button
on the police call box on the corner.
you say you need somebody to talk to.
the last time we spoke, you turned to me and said
everything I love will leave
and close your mouth as clean as a cat.
you throw parties for smart friends
hoping some of their hope rubs off on you.
you always end up in the kitchen crying.
friends offer kleenex and cigarettes
wishing you'll say you just want to be alone
that you'll be all right.
you always end up in the kitchen crying.
doesn't matter what it's about.
you always end up in the kitchen crying.