from TIBU: Recovery
the other site I write on is shutting down operations, so everything is migrating this way. Brace yo'self.
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on Aug. 12, 2008 at 11:35am
Recovery
I come home and you are drunk and watering
the back porch.
You have the memory of a goldfish
and flowers on your basil.
On Wednesdays, I have
a whiff of passion fruit and
my voice becomes gentle.
I'm turning to porcelain
and I can barely admit:
love ya, mean it,
but you know cement doesn't blossom or fruit,
right?
(This is how to end up wet in work clothes,
in case you were wondering.)
Listen, no harm/ foul.
I see
from behind glazed eyes, that you are
losing elasticity,
but you'll be back in five minutes.
You are distracted by arson and cocktails
and I mildly wonder if you've drank kerosene
again.
You can't decide
if this is a good way to unwind.
I have estimations that I hold
under my tongue,
not wanting to be watered again.
I neither bloom nor fruit.
I do not know what
to do with myself.
So it is an answer, an act of war
and your home-made beer
I swallow,
every season blooming on impact.
Birds fly a littler slower and
you reach forward, with your five second memory span
a shot of tequila
and dusty vinyl,
to offer more peace.
You say
I will continue to drink
and sleep in
and live in sin.
This is my new sport.
And sorry you're drenched.
I realize we may never learn to
swim through hoops, with these magnets
sweeping over our minds.
We might always come in swinging,
we may never find the remote.
So I tell you that it's all good.
This is what the egyptians would do
to build an evening.
We know how to make the world fall away.
We don't need a direction to point ourselves.
We know how to make the walls pulse,
the neighbors wonder,
the speakers die.
We're home
too loud
and I've decided it's okay.
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on Aug. 12, 2008 at 11:35am
Recovery
I come home and you are drunk and watering
the back porch.
You have the memory of a goldfish
and flowers on your basil.
On Wednesdays, I have
a whiff of passion fruit and
my voice becomes gentle.
I'm turning to porcelain
and I can barely admit:
love ya, mean it,
but you know cement doesn't blossom or fruit,
right?
(This is how to end up wet in work clothes,
in case you were wondering.)
Listen, no harm/ foul.
I see
from behind glazed eyes, that you are
losing elasticity,
but you'll be back in five minutes.
You are distracted by arson and cocktails
and I mildly wonder if you've drank kerosene
again.
You can't decide
if this is a good way to unwind.
I have estimations that I hold
under my tongue,
not wanting to be watered again.
I neither bloom nor fruit.
I do not know what
to do with myself.
So it is an answer, an act of war
and your home-made beer
I swallow,
every season blooming on impact.
Birds fly a littler slower and
you reach forward, with your five second memory span
a shot of tequila
and dusty vinyl,
to offer more peace.
You say
I will continue to drink
and sleep in
and live in sin.
This is my new sport.
And sorry you're drenched.
I realize we may never learn to
swim through hoops, with these magnets
sweeping over our minds.
We might always come in swinging,
we may never find the remote.
So I tell you that it's all good.
This is what the egyptians would do
to build an evening.
We know how to make the world fall away.
We don't need a direction to point ourselves.
We know how to make the walls pulse,
the neighbors wonder,
the speakers die.
We're home
too loud
and I've decided it's okay.