After Bukowski went to
Del Mar to shell out dough
at the track by pacific train,
I was born
Long after he could make
it on that oceanliner, I danced
his booze-laden steps
in my size 6 and one half Keds
the Fair would come and go
before the fourth of july and
they would bring it all
plus a bigtop circus tent
with pink elephants
and blue flamingo
dancers in 90s bikini
tops, hulahoops and clown cars
as every painted-face slipped &
burbled out of that mini
car, I knew that I could
be anything, any one of them
the bearded-lady, Mr. Tattooed
Muscles, the Electric-man, the
Lion-tamer, that conductor with
his feet stuck tight to the stand
this was the world, the whole massive
world! the Mongolian horses, and chimps
the eighth wonder and the dog-faced
juggler; giants, twins, children who flew
I knew I could let go of my balloon
from the top of the ferris-wheel
and watch it drift atop the pacific
thermals, so content with its freedom.
Friday, January 29, 2010
As A Young Man
As a young man
I sat up late
infront of a seventeen
inch computer screen and
read and watched and heard
the minds of the powerful
I had hair that smelt
like a stained black couch -
we bought at the goodwill
on consignment, on a friday
with coffee-can change, using
neck-ties to choke it to the car
As a young man
I believed that eyes
many eyes and tongues
and hearts would be washed
in these wine-soaked words
and that I would be something
somebody; my hero's would be me
I had a solemn smile
a theif's grin, the smile
of a dreamer that
had awoken to a
pattycaked promise
broken, ceramic shards
As a young man
I knew very little about
responsibility, obligation,
about the weight of love
the silent breakfasts
or separate bedrooms
I had a simple hope
that the twenty-something
long-haired fuck who takes
those good-looking pictures
with my covered-up eyes
would become a standupstraight man
that filled-up man we all wanna be with.
I sat up late
infront of a seventeen
inch computer screen and
read and watched and heard
the minds of the powerful
I had hair that smelt
like a stained black couch -
we bought at the goodwill
on consignment, on a friday
with coffee-can change, using
neck-ties to choke it to the car
As a young man
I believed that eyes
many eyes and tongues
and hearts would be washed
in these wine-soaked words
and that I would be something
somebody; my hero's would be me
I had a solemn smile
a theif's grin, the smile
of a dreamer that
had awoken to a
pattycaked promise
broken, ceramic shards
As a young man
I knew very little about
responsibility, obligation,
about the weight of love
the silent breakfasts
or separate bedrooms
I had a simple hope
that the twenty-something
long-haired fuck who takes
those good-looking pictures
with my covered-up eyes
would become a standupstraight man
that filled-up man we all wanna be with.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Alchemy
The poet
ranges freely
in the brazen
grass, a gold
world
transforming
reality, form
in the chaos
order in the real
mediating
our judgment
our aesthetic understanding
rooted in divinity
the worship of the word
Sidney says
"Burn my words"
the point is not that
art and the judgment of the
beautiful is potency.
the understanding for Kant
the reason, the approval
the condition, the purpose
satisfaction in representation
instead of satisfaction in it's
existence.
These stolen words have naught
to do with "I," my opinion or
my approval. They are here as
an existing entity -
greater than the translator.
ranges freely
in the brazen
grass, a gold
world
transforming
reality, form
in the chaos
order in the real
mediating
our judgment
our aesthetic understanding
rooted in divinity
the worship of the word
Sidney says
"Burn my words"
the point is not that
art and the judgment of the
beautiful is potency.
the understanding for Kant
the reason, the approval
the condition, the purpose
satisfaction in representation
instead of satisfaction in it's
existence.
These stolen words have naught
to do with "I," my opinion or
my approval. They are here as
an existing entity -
greater than the translator.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Left Right
It's the perfect
time of night
to be correcting
to be righting
all the wrongs
as a metaphysical warrior
as a spirit warrior
It's the itchest time of night
to be coming up with rhymes
and puns about right and write
about knowledge and the idea
that a cliff with no ledge will
kill all the sheep.
So I'm a gonna make this poem
stink, I'm a make bad. real
bad. Like a dead fish on the
end of the line ready to real
in and get gutted.
smell that stinking fish
of a poem, that poem
that was born dead
let it get up in your
nose hairs and linger
with a finger of decay
ok, I won't let my little
nightmare cloud your cotton
candy kissimiee saint florida
dreams. your sugar spun silk
whig on a paper cone turned
upside down to dance in your blood stream.
I'll let you sleep and I won't
publish this one. I won't put
it out into the universe. I won't
let it collapse into the singularity
that will crush any faith you had in me
and my ability to keep you interested.
time of night
to be correcting
to be righting
all the wrongs
as a metaphysical warrior
as a spirit warrior
It's the itchest time of night
to be coming up with rhymes
and puns about right and write
about knowledge and the idea
that a cliff with no ledge will
kill all the sheep.
So I'm a gonna make this poem
stink, I'm a make bad. real
bad. Like a dead fish on the
end of the line ready to real
in and get gutted.
smell that stinking fish
of a poem, that poem
that was born dead
let it get up in your
nose hairs and linger
with a finger of decay
ok, I won't let my little
nightmare cloud your cotton
candy kissimiee saint florida
dreams. your sugar spun silk
whig on a paper cone turned
upside down to dance in your blood stream.
I'll let you sleep and I won't
publish this one. I won't put
it out into the universe. I won't
let it collapse into the singularity
that will crush any faith you had in me
and my ability to keep you interested.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Graveyard My Son!
Knowing the title
to this poem as the
title to my collection
of poems, as the first
title to my book of poems
ever,
"knowing" is a daunting burden
an ever-present itch,
that insatiable thirst for
stasis, the place which can
never be returned
that childhood view from
the top of a waterslide
outside our florida hotel
in 1993
or a sequined prom-dress hanging,
the open closet fingered by
the sunday morning light
a wooden toy truck from
my uncle's hands
French praise from my father; translated.
to this poem as the
title to my collection
of poems, as the first
title to my book of poems
ever,
"knowing" is a daunting burden
an ever-present itch,
that insatiable thirst for
stasis, the place which can
never be returned
that childhood view from
the top of a waterslide
outside our florida hotel
in 1993
or a sequined prom-dress hanging,
the open closet fingered by
the sunday morning light
a wooden toy truck from
my uncle's hands
French praise from my father; translated.
'The Cove' Clamp Light
A desk lamp
in a gallery in chicago
from 1932
that sways, metal palm
fronds
a black and white
miro
clouds, leaking
bugs skitter
crushed ink lilypad
propane stovetop,
lit newspaper to
a trash barrel, an
under overpass fire,
heinz bean can
an airplane over
the great lakes
frozen; I felt
ill, a noise from
the citylit bicycle
wheel-spoke below,
the crack of a
new year's black-and-
white firework dream,
our great depression's over.
in a gallery in chicago
from 1932
that sways, metal palm
fronds
a black and white
miro
clouds, leaking
bugs skitter
crushed ink lilypad
propane stovetop,
lit newspaper to
a trash barrel, an
under overpass fire,
heinz bean can
an airplane over
the great lakes
frozen; I felt
ill, a noise from
the citylit bicycle
wheel-spoke below,
the crack of a
new year's black-and-
white firework dream,
our great depression's over.
Friday, January 22, 2010
This is not a Poem. Get Over It.
I made a mistake. I bought the stock at it’s peak and now I should be buying more as I am losing money to makeup for it. I guess I don’t really have that game down right.
I have always felt like a journal takes someone who has too much free-time and not enough down time. Journals are for the weathly and unhealthy. Well I might just be both of those things. You see, I need to write in a new a way and I can’t figure out what that’s goona be. My father wrote a book once in the 1980s and I saw it on the shelf and I remember when he was writing it, but otherwise I have never seen a page of it. What a silly man he was and is. He brings down houses the way wolves do, huffing and puffing. with hot air.
I have always felt like a journal takes someone who has too much free-time and not enough down time. Journals are for the weathly and unhealthy. Well I might just be both of those things. You see, I need to write in a new a way and I can’t figure out what that’s goona be. My father wrote a book once in the 1980s and I saw it on the shelf and I remember when he was writing it, but otherwise I have never seen a page of it. What a silly man he was and is. He brings down houses the way wolves do, huffing and puffing. with hot air.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
When your Father asks
When your Father asks
you for relationship advice
about someone other
than your mother
do you talk to him
like a locker-room
friend? a chum on
the bus station stoop?
or do you advise him
like he would advise you
in a movie-script. "Just treat
her like the person she is..."
do you tell him to live
like a teenager and text
her up or watch her
on facebook?
or do you tell him to
talk to her like you would
expect a father to talk
to a woman; mono-syllabicly
That's the kind of response
I have been giving him, the kind
that cartoon cavemen give to
their Dad's around black-and-white fires.
you for relationship advice
about someone other
than your mother
do you talk to him
like a locker-room
friend? a chum on
the bus station stoop?
or do you advise him
like he would advise you
in a movie-script. "Just treat
her like the person she is..."
do you tell him to live
like a teenager and text
her up or watch her
on facebook?
or do you tell him to
talk to her like you would
expect a father to talk
to a woman; mono-syllabicly
That's the kind of response
I have been giving him, the kind
that cartoon cavemen give to
their Dad's around black-and-white fires.
Open Tuning
a bearclaw slap
along those sliding
strings
ring fingered tap
atop them rivets
those burntamber rows
Tobacco sun
blemish spit
a copper-kettled
dream (kiss)
drunk on cloudless
wine and backs
covered with
leftover grass
staining
hips and lips
honey streaks
in her grey
headdress
sweet woody notes
and then the
resolve
the resonance, that
weightlessness
of looking-glass milk
rippled with a strum
along those sliding
strings
ring fingered tap
atop them rivets
those burntamber rows
Tobacco sun
blemish spit
a copper-kettled
dream (kiss)
drunk on cloudless
wine and backs
covered with
leftover grass
staining
hips and lips
honey streaks
in her grey
headdress
sweet woody notes
and then the
resolve
the resonance, that
weightlessness
of looking-glass milk
rippled with a strum
Thursday, January 14, 2010
There's No Money in Poetry
There is no Money
in poetry but there's
money in Hiphop
if God is what makes
us and he makes us all
be then why is money
the thing that keeps
us from getting free?
my fear is that my choices
have nothing to do with
a maker but more to do
with where the earthquakes
and who's the shaker of my
twenty four year old head
- dead soon. enough
I will collect words
as stuff, as shelf
folded half-sheet
mole skin chap
booked fires
the mouth's ablaze
let's gaze
lackadaisically
up at the heavens
and pretend the
sun's not watching
or torching innocence
the faithful and
the godless alike,
like lakes of fire
burning gas covered
sirens singing sins
of desire in the night.
(I am the kind of man
that kind of stupid man
who thinks he can get
away with a poem that
inflats a gold balloon
brick and tells you it's
gold, who sells you on
it's goldness, yet hands
you the needle to make
it into a flaccid shell.
Hold
that shell up to your
ear hearing a storm
of golden whispers
of circus by the sea
dreams, that have only
left you its trash
on the oceanside.)
in poetry but there's
money in Hiphop
if God is what makes
us and he makes us all
be then why is money
the thing that keeps
us from getting free?
my fear is that my choices
have nothing to do with
a maker but more to do
with where the earthquakes
and who's the shaker of my
twenty four year old head
- dead soon. enough
I will collect words
as stuff, as shelf
folded half-sheet
mole skin chap
booked fires
the mouth's ablaze
let's gaze
lackadaisically
up at the heavens
and pretend the
sun's not watching
or torching innocence
the faithful and
the godless alike,
like lakes of fire
burning gas covered
sirens singing sins
of desire in the night.
(I am the kind of man
that kind of stupid man
who thinks he can get
away with a poem that
inflats a gold balloon
brick and tells you it's
gold, who sells you on
it's goldness, yet hands
you the needle to make
it into a flaccid shell.
Hold
that shell up to your
ear hearing a storm
of golden whispers
of circus by the sea
dreams, that have only
left you its trash
on the oceanside.)
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Mt. Baldy
I took half a day
off work to drive up
to the top of mt. Baldy
the december afternoon
with the california sun
and a mountain road
that my city car
was trying to get used to
like spike heals on a race track
the windows partway
and pines, eagles
curves, cascades
freezing cascades
frozen cascades
blind corners turned
past the white wooden motel
over and down the icy ravine
and up to the base of the snow
stopped, parked, crunching under
the tires, door, shoes, t-shirt
slacks, outside outdoors standing
my little chatter becomes a simple
smile
above the weight and below the clouds
beside, removed, all-one
I breathe in the bed-bath-and-beyond
air, that real fake forest air smell
and - bling - I get an email on
my phone from my boss, who may
never notice I was gone, or there at all.
off work to drive up
to the top of mt. Baldy
the december afternoon
with the california sun
and a mountain road
that my city car
was trying to get used to
like spike heals on a race track
the windows partway
and pines, eagles
curves, cascades
freezing cascades
frozen cascades
blind corners turned
past the white wooden motel
over and down the icy ravine
and up to the base of the snow
stopped, parked, crunching under
the tires, door, shoes, t-shirt
slacks, outside outdoors standing
my little chatter becomes a simple
smile
above the weight and below the clouds
beside, removed, all-one
I breathe in the bed-bath-and-beyond
air, that real fake forest air smell
and - bling - I get an email on
my phone from my boss, who may
never notice I was gone, or there at all.
all dogs speak a foreign language
I'm writing this on my laptop
from a Starbucks in Bend,
near the columbia river in Oregon
been away from my computer
for a few weeks because I haven't
had internet access; I'm just emailing
to say that I'm sorry I left without
a phone or any notice, I'm ok I just
needed some space. I bought an old
72 terry travel trailer and hooked her
to the hitch on my honda and took it
up here near the river and got hook-ups
and water and everything
It's not so bad being alone because
I got a scraggly dog from the shelter
on the way out of LA
He's a frisky little mutt
I lock em in the trailer
while its raining
Well I hope you got your
deposit back on the apartment
and on the chapel
I guess I'm just not
the marrying type
I'll be home before the
fourth of july and if
you want to write me just send
me a postcard or something
I'll be here with Shakey
till then: PO box 718
Bend OR 97701
I won't be collecting
checks and I'll move quick
if the collectors come
but I won't run if you
treat me like a chinese finger trap.
from a Starbucks in Bend,
near the columbia river in Oregon
been away from my computer
for a few weeks because I haven't
had internet access; I'm just emailing
to say that I'm sorry I left without
a phone or any notice, I'm ok I just
needed some space. I bought an old
72 terry travel trailer and hooked her
to the hitch on my honda and took it
up here near the river and got hook-ups
and water and everything
It's not so bad being alone because
I got a scraggly dog from the shelter
on the way out of LA
He's a frisky little mutt
I lock em in the trailer
while its raining
Well I hope you got your
deposit back on the apartment
and on the chapel
I guess I'm just not
the marrying type
I'll be home before the
fourth of july and if
you want to write me just send
me a postcard or something
I'll be here with Shakey
till then: PO box 718
Bend OR 97701
I won't be collecting
checks and I'll move quick
if the collectors come
but I won't run if you
treat me like a chinese finger trap.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Harvest
with a flashlight
under the dog-print sheet
I see your silhouette
flip the plastic pages
of people magazine
the outfits, the dresses
the blue-satin sashes
a handbag, some pumps
and vintage sunglasses
the dance of the page
and the flick of your light
your ten-year-old toes
tickle the tenuous night
and as your father, I grumble
"you should go to sleep son,
it's too late for comics..."
"But Dad!"
"Yer done!"
We pretend I don't know that
you're in love with fashion,
but the real secret is
I don't care about your passion.
under the dog-print sheet
I see your silhouette
flip the plastic pages
of people magazine
the outfits, the dresses
the blue-satin sashes
a handbag, some pumps
and vintage sunglasses
the dance of the page
and the flick of your light
your ten-year-old toes
tickle the tenuous night
and as your father, I grumble
"you should go to sleep son,
it's too late for comics..."
"But Dad!"
"Yer done!"
We pretend I don't know that
you're in love with fashion,
but the real secret is
I don't care about your passion.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Ready to Bury Word on Death
I'm up to the gills
in the notion of chest-heavy
oxygenlessness
a coral cave with no light
I want to slice off
his skull-head and put him in
a box for guppies to consume in
thousands of mouthfuls
homemade applesauce on a picnic
or chocolate cake for breakfast
with a glass of egg nog and toast
for fiber; that's what I want in his place
just a moment of pure sublimation
innocent bliss before nonexistence
a cartwheel that ends right
before the notice of a broken-leg
a world where legs are made
of reinforced carbon-fiber rods
and we are not afraid to live
young forever
a quiet world where our maker is unmade.
in the notion of chest-heavy
oxygenlessness
a coral cave with no light
I want to slice off
his skull-head and put him in
a box for guppies to consume in
thousands of mouthfuls
homemade applesauce on a picnic
or chocolate cake for breakfast
with a glass of egg nog and toast
for fiber; that's what I want in his place
just a moment of pure sublimation
innocent bliss before nonexistence
a cartwheel that ends right
before the notice of a broken-leg
a world where legs are made
of reinforced carbon-fiber rods
and we are not afraid to live
young forever
a quiet world where our maker is unmade.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
remembering to forget
Driving into your
Your childhood home
Town there is 3 feet of snow
On the Saturday morning ground
And from the backseat of this
Rental car in boston
You slow down on the iced
Morning road to point out friends
Homes and the old places
In this old new england town
And I don't know how to cope
So I type away at my phone
Trying to speak to something beyond
This heart of hurt, this all night flight
Of sunlite hurt, this car full of california
Citrus family still asleep with frosted snow
Atop our orange capped heads
Just point out one more landmark
One more house, another first kiss
So we can miss and forget this trip
Your childhood home
Town there is 3 feet of snow
On the Saturday morning ground
And from the backseat of this
Rental car in boston
You slow down on the iced
Morning road to point out friends
Homes and the old places
In this old new england town
And I don't know how to cope
So I type away at my phone
Trying to speak to something beyond
This heart of hurt, this all night flight
Of sunlite hurt, this car full of california
Citrus family still asleep with frosted snow
Atop our orange capped heads
Just point out one more landmark
One more house, another first kiss
So we can miss and forget this trip
Friday, January 8, 2010
Robin: Don't Give Us So Much
Norwegian for travelers, Mont Blanc and Chamonix Valley painting, Toby's two landscape paintings, Robin's Parents, Great grandfather J.M. Andreassen's ship, World War I English Battalion panorama, Greg & Lisa Pecknold wedding photos, ancient snowshoes, Remington-Rand typewriter, Kodak Motormatic camera with flash, Jesy's quartz crystal, Lisa Pecknold's childhood rock collection, Harmony Banjo, Japanese newspaper from Thanksgiving Day 1967, Curran brand archery bow, Phil Ek's old globe lamp, Evan Armstrong's The Songs of Bob Dylan 1968-1975 chord book, Spencer's old record player, 1976 wildlife calendar, Swedish postcards, Mahalo toy Ukulele, Olivia's patterned scarf, Map of the San Juan Islands, photo of Craig's parents in the throes of youth, Fox hunting painting, another Fox hunting painting, Lisa Day Valaas as a young girl, Ancient American flag, Klemt Echolette S, Super 8 and 35mm film, Bob Valaas' very very fancy old music box, cowboy scarf, cork lamp, old silver tea kettle, old white and green Washington license plate, plastic binoculars, 1900's parlor guitar, assorted records and books from the family collection, Denim shirt, and five young gentlemen, mildly pleased
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Just a Tuesday
Staying up late,
after the kids
are tucked in,
to pay the bills
to sign the checks
I pretend I'm
a moviestar
like viggo mortenson
signing an autograph (swoop swoop)
with a nonchalant look
that callused gaze like
a man who answers to
the name "poet" or
"artist" The kind
who wears aviator sunglasses
So I take out my mirrored rusty
ray-bans from the eighties
sliding them on, I clap
my teeth together like the
iceman in top gun
I turn into the kind
of fighter pilot you see
in a gillette razor commercial
the kind with his shirt off,
perfectly formed nipples
and there's my reflection
in the office window
bald, fat and fifty-five
my nipples are used silver dollars
and the eighties seem like an old joke
where all I can see is the punchline.
after the kids
are tucked in,
to pay the bills
to sign the checks
I pretend I'm
a moviestar
like viggo mortenson
signing an autograph (swoop swoop)
with a nonchalant look
that callused gaze like
a man who answers to
the name "poet" or
"artist" The kind
who wears aviator sunglasses
So I take out my mirrored rusty
ray-bans from the eighties
sliding them on, I clap
my teeth together like the
iceman in top gun
I turn into the kind
of fighter pilot you see
in a gillette razor commercial
the kind with his shirt off,
perfectly formed nipples
and there's my reflection
in the office window
bald, fat and fifty-five
my nipples are used silver dollars
and the eighties seem like an old joke
where all I can see is the punchline.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Blue Bayou
what would a california girl
know about the south other than
the racist representation of it in a
theme park?
Do I know about the way you
make your grits or about
what to wear on a friday or a sunday;
where in the house you keep your gun
I shouldn't question the smell of
cigarettes and alcohol on your dirty
south collar or that taste of her cinched
strung to your tongue, a freshwater-delta taste
instead, let's make love on the cast-iron stove
heating up this slickwood swamphouse and
let the fireflies in the masonjar
light our broken roof, to battle the north star.
know about the south other than
the racist representation of it in a
theme park?
Do I know about the way you
make your grits or about
what to wear on a friday or a sunday;
where in the house you keep your gun
I shouldn't question the smell of
cigarettes and alcohol on your dirty
south collar or that taste of her cinched
strung to your tongue, a freshwater-delta taste
instead, let's make love on the cast-iron stove
heating up this slickwood swamphouse and
let the fireflies in the masonjar
light our broken roof, to battle the north star.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Letting Me Babysit
your son cries
I will feed him
your son smiles
I will hold him
your son shits
I will change him
your son sleeps
I will watch him
your thin son needs
I will feed him
your army son kills
I will hold him
your empty son hates
I will change him
your jailed son weeps
I will watch him
your banker son speaks
I will feed him
your brisked son marries
I will hold him
your broken son leads
I will change him
your bookish son walks
I will watch him
I will make mac and cheese
and we will go to the park
and I will write checks
we will walk to the fair
and shoot water into the clown's
circus mouth until the balloon
above his colored hair bursts
like a dead supernova sun
in space. time will tell
that my care for you
like any uncle would do
is temporary and staying
a christmas card two
months late or the supplier
of a condom on your first
night out with that girl
dressed like a lady
crazier things have happened
but I am no marry poppins
I'm just a young man from
england, a white man
from that ocean sea and I
can dream up something special
and I can talk alright
so close up your eyes
and lets make believe
that the fair is still
in town and we can get you
that candy floss and win
that big stuffed panda
at the ring toss, or what
did I say, oh; the water
game where you spurt into
the mouth of the ceramic
painted clown. that fucken
happy clown that could be
anything
someone made that clown
just like I made you
imagine the day where
I watch after you
and the clouds are pink
next to the del mar fair
look down from the top
of the seaside ferriswheel and
squeak your little five
year old heart
like the carrot chewtoy
in the mouth of a Labrador
I will feed him
your son smiles
I will hold him
your son shits
I will change him
your son sleeps
I will watch him
your thin son needs
I will feed him
your army son kills
I will hold him
your empty son hates
I will change him
your jailed son weeps
I will watch him
your banker son speaks
I will feed him
your brisked son marries
I will hold him
your broken son leads
I will change him
your bookish son walks
I will watch him
I will make mac and cheese
and we will go to the park
and I will write checks
we will walk to the fair
and shoot water into the clown's
circus mouth until the balloon
above his colored hair bursts
like a dead supernova sun
in space. time will tell
that my care for you
like any uncle would do
is temporary and staying
a christmas card two
months late or the supplier
of a condom on your first
night out with that girl
dressed like a lady
crazier things have happened
but I am no marry poppins
I'm just a young man from
england, a white man
from that ocean sea and I
can dream up something special
and I can talk alright
so close up your eyes
and lets make believe
that the fair is still
in town and we can get you
that candy floss and win
that big stuffed panda
at the ring toss, or what
did I say, oh; the water
game where you spurt into
the mouth of the ceramic
painted clown. that fucken
happy clown that could be
anything
someone made that clown
just like I made you
imagine the day where
I watch after you
and the clouds are pink
next to the del mar fair
look down from the top
of the seaside ferriswheel and
squeak your little five
year old heart
like the carrot chewtoy
in the mouth of a Labrador
A New Year; A New Apartment
Hello.
We've found eachother again.
I'll give you a little smirk
and then a smile
all the while, we will make
eye contact and I will try
to give you a hug and you
will jut out your hand to
shake it, and it will lurch
into my belly and then
we will laugh
heh heh; heh heh
wow you've lost weight
did you get a new haircut
I found this book I though you might
like
how's your time at chiropractic college
I knew there was something different
I hate new media, but I'm young and that's
what they hired me for
isn't it funny how we say we should meet up to get
coffee but we don't even drink coffee
what does new media mean anyway, it's an old man's box
you know I have had this ring for 7 years but I just
wear it to remember
and your parents finally got married
then we will hug the right way
and I will hold you a little longer
than you'd might expect or feel comfortable with
because you suspect I'm breathing in your hair
but I'm not
I just forgot we were still hugging
and
the next time we meet, we will just shake
hands.
We've found eachother again.
I'll give you a little smirk
and then a smile
all the while, we will make
eye contact and I will try
to give you a hug and you
will jut out your hand to
shake it, and it will lurch
into my belly and then
we will laugh
heh heh; heh heh
wow you've lost weight
did you get a new haircut
I found this book I though you might
like
how's your time at chiropractic college
I knew there was something different
I hate new media, but I'm young and that's
what they hired me for
isn't it funny how we say we should meet up to get
coffee but we don't even drink coffee
what does new media mean anyway, it's an old man's box
you know I have had this ring for 7 years but I just
wear it to remember
and your parents finally got married
then we will hug the right way
and I will hold you a little longer
than you'd might expect or feel comfortable with
because you suspect I'm breathing in your hair
but I'm not
I just forgot we were still hugging
and
the next time we meet, we will just shake
hands.
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