It Must Be True
You make it up to take apart. No matter what, sometimes you hate your art. You love her like you love your work: she makes you happy when she doesn’t make you hurt.
And so, you carry on this way.
Every day and all at once you tumble farther down inside of yourself. Like driftwood landing on some beach, you’ve ended up somewhere you did not foresee when you were being swept away.
So tear yourself apart and call the pieces art. Though no longer whole, in death you’ll be reborn like autumn’s yellow leaves shaking in the cold, falling from their branches and rotting down below the tree that let them fall, indifferent to their fate. And crouching on the roots I strive to feel the same because everything is right, yes, everything is fine. They have been a part of something that survives.
That’s what everyone says, so it must be true, I guess.
Cut Your Teeth
You cut your teeth, then fell apart at the seams. All busted up you got the fuck out of dodge. You’re hiding from your telephone. It feels good to be all alone. You’re squinting at this box of wood and six strings. You’re frowning out the window at the living. You’re letting out your lungs up at the ceiling. You don’t know what it takes to love somebody. You’re never running out of feeling ugly. You move too slow, and for that you’re sorry.
Lie to Me
I make up the bed after another night spent in dreamless sleep, kicking the sheets. Why must there be such a discrepancy between what there is and what I thought there’d be?
I meet with my friend with the same affliction: white elephants wait by the door. I ask, “How do you know when to give up the ghost?"
He says, “Friend, I don’t know, you just do I suppose. You can trust what you’re told, but it’s best if you don’t.”
I’m trying to sleep, once again, in the din of the noise from the street, but sleep doesn’t find me so I get up to fix something to eat. It’s six in the morning when I wake up on the couch in my jeans feeling tired of all of this stuff.
A few hours pass and I’m making breakfast for my girl, she’s asleep in our bed. I ask, “What do you need?”
She says, “Milk in my tea, and coffee with cream and some sugar, my sweet.” When I ask what she means she says, “Lie to me, please.”
So I do, and it suits her just fine. I pour cream in her coffee so it tastes how she likes. I have pulled the wool over the both of our eyes and we just get on with our lives.
Light spills through Venetian blinds onto my skin and into my eyes, and I wake up from a lovely dream to a cold bed and the sound of the street, and the used mug on the counter says that you were up and then you quietly left me and my body in the arms of sleep with my nightmares waiting up for me.
You could draw the worried look on my face from memory any day.
You said, “Don’t let me down, but if you must, then get it over with now because I love you – but it’s not my fault that I love you – so don’t fuck me up.”
We are parallel lines the way we don’t meet, but we’re side by side. One day it will all be black, and some days I can’t wait for that.
I could draw the worried look on your face from memory any day.
You’ve shown me that all other lines will cross paths only once in their lives and then part.
Show Your Teeth
Lover beware, I flip like a page: another side shows that looks just the same as it turns on you. Lover be warned, I often get low and when I fall down I’ll pull on the rope that I tied to you.
No, I don’t want to drag you down with me, but I’m scared of the bottomless pit in me.
Show your teeth and save your breath because it’s wasted on me. Despite my best of efforts I don’t know what to say to you.
Lover I’m sorry, it can’t be helped. I can’t seem to get outside of myself, even if for you. Lover look back on horses we stole. We’ve others to steal with others, who knows what the future holds?
You’ve got everything you need between these walls except for me. But don’t worry, you won’t miss me like you think you will.
Show your teeth and save your breath because it’s wasted on me. Despite my best of efforts I don’t know what to say to you about me.
The future won’t look like the past: the latter’s glow fades into black. This Indian summer that we have, as lovely as it is, won’t last. I’ve seen the possibilities for the future in my dreams. Some are razor-thin and bleak, others sweet but out of reach. An honest job and honest wage, a picket fence to build and paint, planted trees and growing shade, a yard with yellow leaves to rake.
(it hit me hard and then I knew the vastness of all yet to do)
I hung our horseshoe upside down. I wonder if our luck fell out. Oh honey, you can count on me to overlook the little things.
It’s so easy to forget the lessons you have leaned from mistakes that you don’t accept.
There are dishes in the sink, and closets stuffed with things. There’s nothing left to eat, and hardly room to think about the state you’re in. You wonder how it ends.
You wonder how the days and weeks turn into months, and how the years encircle us just like the walls that hold the roof above the both of our heads, and I am grateful for all of them.
Love, and All of its Opposites
The steam from my cup warms this rented room. I’m just an unlovely ghost haunting its tomb. Flashing TV screens with the volume off make good company. Reading paperbacks; drinking alcohol; disappearing act. You’re fast asleep most nights when I am finally ready to go to sleep and give up on the day.
We’ve got love, and all of its opposites, but we don’t have a clue what will happen next. Don’t be sad if we pass like evening light behind evergreens. I’ll be always yours because I have been once, for what it’s worth.
You’ll see much more of me than anyone else ever will because darling, if I ever am myself it is not when I’m with anybody else.
Foxtrot. Dance around the room. I gotcha, and babe you got me too. What are we doing, Honey?
Wake up. Open up the blinds. The sun’s out, let it in your eyes. We could be happy, Honey.
But all our sins take up too much space.
Speak up. Try to make some sense. It feels good to get it off your chest. I’m trying to be honest, Honey.
Break up. Let’s tear it all apart and maybe get back to where we started because this is getting harder honey. It’s getting so much harder because all our sins take up too much space.
We both feel like paper sheets spread flat across each others’ knees: if crumpled, folded, torn, or creased the lines would last permanently.
Foxtrot. Take me by the hand. I gotcha, I could be your man. What are we doing, Honey?