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03 June 2012 @ 05:24 pm
There are ten million people all
riding bikes in different colors
that I dream about each night.
And they don't wear helmets and they never worry
about crashing.
There are ten million people all much
braver than I am, riding their
bikes down the junctions and avenues
in different shades of fuscia
and lavender
and I want so badly to join them.
But each time I end up looking down,
to find my feet are made of icecubes,
and I become too scared to move,
for fear that I may slide
right into
the middle.
And then all ten million bikers in their lavender and chartreuse,
with nothing but sunglasses on their skulls,
all ten million would swerve
and skid
and scramble
and I would be stuck, the central cause,
without the legs to escape
and the wit to be ashamed
that I had brought on
the whole dilemma.
03 June 2012 @ 05:13 pm
There is a certain promise in
the way the sky glitters at night
like angels with their Christmas lights
in a city never sleeping.
And I will take his hand sometime
and we will dance through the avenues
and we will twirl in the street.
We will spin, graceful, like dradle tops,
and collapse upon the beach.
The half moon will smile softly,
and the stars will nod their heads,
and all the children, fast asleep,
will dream dimensions in their beds.

But until the sun's done sinking,
until we reach the rocky shores,
I'll raise my sails much higher
and beckon him aboard.

Here's to another voyage,
Here's to the vacant sea
So full of vast unbrokenness,
so beautifully empty.
Here's to the both of us,
and something borderline invincible.
My armor and my orders are but a state of mind.
13 May 2012 @ 01:20 pm
Lately I've been thinking a lot about the twin towers
and the desks and paperwork and office people all going up
in smoke, and that giant plane with the 
engines melting, and you've got to wonder 
if, just for a second,
that hijacker was ever like,
"holy shit I'm gonna fucking die here"
and thought about turning around.
But, I guess,
when you're a hijacker, 
and you go through all this trouble of breaking into 
airports and stabbing pilots, 
when you've already kissed your wife and 
kids goodbye, 
I guess it'd be almost sickening to back up,
wouldn't it?
I guess he owed it to those people, to smash into
that building, because once you've already scared
the shit out of all your passengers, 
it's only fair that it's for a good reason.
18 April 2012 @ 08:45 pm
what if there was a switch 
in the back of our heads
(all the heads, everyone's head,
your head, my head)
what if there was a switch
that with a single flick
could turn on or off
our consciences, our minds?
and what if, perhaps,
our entire life,
we've been walking around
not thinking?
perhaps then i'd have an excuse
for making you cry
or telling her lies
or waking him up far to early
to ask silly questions,
like where the keys are
when i had them last.

what if everything so far
has been just a joke
and, with the flip of a switch,
we could fix this reckless
disaster in the making
that they call "humanity"?
we could tighten a few screws
and tap rewind
and suddenly like magic,

the bombs would fly back into the planes

the skin would sew itself shut

the tears would float back to the sockets

and i would be honest again
and you would never be broken
and she would laugh
and he would grin
and there would be no more wars
and no more hate
and this ship would no longer be sinking
all with the flick of a switch?
Current Music: Oxford Comma - Vampire Weekend
14 April 2012 @ 04:38 pm
"it doesn't have to be eternal,"
she said, and there's the secret in all of this.
it's the one's that aren't trying,
when it's effortless
that we continue to remember
14 April 2012 @ 04:27 pm
(blue, brown, black, and green)
let's decide to be something, someday
where the world is as it is after
the snowfalls,
when everything is silent and it's like
the planet is empty, except for your breath.

(blue, green, brown, and black)
we could give it out
we could take it back
but let's just decide to be something, someday,
where the world is just another ocean wave
and we're two pelicans
riding the current.

when you close your eyes, what do you see?
(is the world just blue, or green, or black?)
sometimes i see flowers, sometimes i seen rain
sometimes all i want to do is forget.

we could run to the woods, we could run to the sea
we could run to the very last edge of the earth
of course we could
but now, let's just decide to be
something, somewhere,
where i can wave to strangers and you
can make faces back and laugh
green, brown, blue, and black.
14 April 2012 @ 04:03 pm
"I'm going to teach the world a lesson one day,"
you said simply - a lesson, you say?
I'd teach them to laugh and I'd teach them to cry
I'd wave to the birds as they all flutter by
but in the end, I don't think it'd matter much.

You see, there's the trick behind all of this
The cement at our feet, the chains at our wrists
If we could learn the art of waving goodbye
Perhaps we too could be birds in the sky
And in this, I'd be happy not to matter.
Current Mood: chipperchipper
Current Music: Decemberism - Man Overboard
14 April 2012 @ 03:50 pm
I wonder how she wakes up every day
with her hair falling so perfectly
and curling up at the ends like that.
And I don't think her lips are naturally red,
and I don't understand
how she can wear white every day
and not feel like
she's been stuck in a drier three cycles too long.

If I had a job like hers,
and wore white all day like her,
and smiled and spoke and dreamt like her,
I get the funny feeling I
would wake up each day
Current Music: Driveway - Man Overboard.
14 April 2012 @ 03:43 pm
Today, I decided that it would be nice
if I could grow old one day and write
poetry like William Carlos Williams.

They would look at me and say
"Now, here's a fine thing done today!"
Holding it to the light endlessly
To read to themselves before bed time.

And then, what a nice turn of events!
To be always original, forever lament
on words now spoken,
no longer spat back!
Current Music: Control Alt Delete - A Day In The Life
25 March 2012 @ 07:28 pm
For at least two hours, we sat on my driveway with a box of sidewalk chalk.
We sat there and scribbled, in reds and yellows and whites and greens and blues and oranges - in pastel shades of every color imaginable.  We covered the entire stretch to my house with words and only the finest of them, until the sun began to slowly dip behind the horizon.  Now, we're standing at the edge where concrete meets blacktop, with your elbow on my shoulder and your hand on your hip, and we're admiring our work.

They're quotes - all of them, quotes, from mostly our beloved late literary stars.

"I think it's grand," you say simply,  tilting your head to the side.  "Sassy."

"Oh, I agree. I think people all over town should make special trips just to drive by and gawk at it."

"I don't think there'd be much gawking."

"I'd be gawking."

And we're quiet for a second as the wind caries on the conversation, lifting all the words we've ever spoken, all the words we'll ever speak, up past the clouds and far far away, and I wonder if that's why they say the wind whispers.  I wonder if all that so-called whispering, all the voices heard by the nature gurus and the especially intuitive are really just carried on conversations from somewhere far away, if we're all just unknowing eavesdroppers.

"Of course you would be."  And then you skip a few steps forward, twirling and twirling towards my driveway, and this is how I want to remember you forever, hopping over Kafka and landing in Fitzgerald, skipping through Vonnegut and spiraling between Huxley and Neruda, over Dickinson and around Nabokov.  I go dancing after you then, and a part of me hopes that these things are eternal.  A part of me hopes that by spinning barefoot through the beautiful wisdom of the geniuses before us, their words somehow become absorbed through the soles of our feet.  That they're somehow now a piece of us, and that through this we'll always be connected, through this we'll always have some sort of guidance, even after the rain has come and washed the pavement clean and the world is bleak and grey again.  

"I hope someone stops to read it," you say, spinning slowly around and around with your face tilted back and your palms outstretched to the sky.  "All of it.  I think they'll be astonished at our wisdom.  They'll think we're so deep.  They'll drive past your house, and they'll say 'wow, look at all those quotes.  Look at all that Nabokov.  He's so deep.  Some deep people must really live there!' and they'll just be amazed.  They'll be so, so amazed."

"And they'll totally know who Nabokov is, too, won't they?" I smirk at you, and you stop spinning and stare at me, hazel eyes mock-serious.

"Nabokov is forever, Sydney," you say flatly.  "Humbert Humbert is forever.  Child molesters are forever."  And then the facade breaks and you're smiling and spinning again.

This is how I want to remember you forever, dancing around my driveway, hopping over Kafka and landing in Fitzgerald.  I grin to myself, because this is how we were meant to be, skipping through Vonnegut and spiraling past Huxley.  "Wanted, wanted, Dolores Haze?"

The response is instantaneous.  You almost scream it.  "Hair brown, lips scarlet!"

"Age: five thousand, three hundred days!"

"Profession: none, or starlet!"

And now we're both laughing, twirling through Dickinson and grazing Neruda.  

"I hope someone stops to read it," you say simply, after a while.

"Me too," I say, and you rest your elbow on my shoulder again, staring down at the smudged lines of poetry and the bleeding pastel prose, as the sun sinks past the horizon and your bike rests against my garage door.  "Me too."

That is how I will remember us forever, for that is the way youth was meant to be.  
Current Location: booo!! my driveway.
Current Mood: happyhappy
Current Music: Let's Do Everything For The First Time Forever - Of Montreal