Random Thought: Augmented

Current Jam: “Family and Genus,” Shakey Graves

If,
If I,
If I ever wander on by
Could,
Could you,
Flag me down and beg me to
Drop what I’m doing and sit beside you

Few things matter more to me, than
when you send a song my way,
something you heard in passing that
made you think of me.

or, even better, the moment it cued on
your pandora or
your spotify or
your google play –
perhaps a spark lit, a twinkle nicked, and I came
smiling into view.
Maybe a slight skip dropped into your step, because
you thought of us suddenly sharing the same strip of sidewalk.
Sharing a memory as it’s born before us.

I’d do the same – connect to you,
wave across that tight rope of time and space and
bring you closer to me, even if it’s only for 3:23.

 

Music > Poetry?

This started out as a haiku and then it just kept going, idon’tknow. ❤

Poems are stark, when
they don’t have notes to hold on-
to, don’t you think?

Lonely little words,
stuck dancing stag, without a
partner to waltz with.

You could say it’s sad,
phrases forced to soldier on.
Heartbreaking, really.

But then again, I
can’t read poetry without
humming in my heart.

Not so solo, then
are they? Supporting instead
a “silent” partner.

Leaves on wind, floating
on an invisible high
they’re singing inside.

Muses

 

trueromanceheader

 

I could look at pictures of you all afternoon or
videos. Maybe it’s
The way you stare at the camera, bare or
even when you look away. You’ve got some kind of smize and

Sinewy arms and
stark tattoos and
dimples beneath beard hair and
time ticks away and still I could
crawl over every millisecond of your exposure.

I keep thinking of Patricia Arquette in
True Romance (you know the movie, with
Christian Slater and
Elvis and
Gary Oldman – I know I never recognize him, either)
and she coos at Clarence,
“You’re so cool. You’re so cool.”

Widow peaks and
combat boots and
knuckles, wrinkled and worn despite your youth and
dirty and beautiful.

And I keep humming Tigers Jaw, that one song that Ben
sings and he coos at me
“It’s a cruel world / but it’s cool” and

You and I I think we think the
same but somehow sometimes things get trapped in the
space in between and it’s like
we talk in different dialects, but still that’s ok –
it’s cool

because you radiate in my world and I can’t explain why but
I think, I don’t know, but I think I don’t know if I could handle more of you.

Sunday Morning

“You are the leaves at my feet.
You are the hum of electric heat.”

Current Jam: “Hum,” Tigers Jaw

I’ve been craving attention. Emotional, yes, but physical too. I’m not even talking about sex, per se (though that would be nice). I’m talking about intimacy. Lying on the couch with an arm slung around me. Someone to come up behind me while I’m poring over whatever, to rub my shoulders and ask how my day went. Watching shitty TV together. I miss those little moments.

So I dunno here’s a poem about mornings and breakfast:

Wake me up gently,
quietly.
Whisper my name with your
fingertips
sliding
leisurely
down
powdered slopes.

Smile into my neck,
make me stretch.
Lengthen my limbs, pull until they
push into yours.

Skate through my hair.
Stare
at that freckle, the one
you love. The one that’s always
flirting with you,
coyly catching your eye,
winking.

Slowly sink,
drink me in.
Make a river out of me.
Make me
rush –
Gush –
Eruptme –

Good morning, my love.
How did you sleep what did you dream?
Tell me as we
come back to earth.

I’ll make us breakfast hot coffee pressed
black just how you like it,
black as that night that snuck past us,
left us unawares, tucked, until the sunny side eggs sizzle up.

What was that?
Oh of course I recall
what you like and how.
Tit for tat, mon deux,
you give to me I’ll give to you.

Front Porch

 
Each night I venture out, I bring my heart in my hands,
cocktail and smoke too; they make room for the
beating, wounded bird.
Near death but she resiliently persists.
I’m not sure how.
I don’t know why, after all
you’ve yet to show.
 
Each night, I don’t realize the candle’s still lit.
Burnt so low it’s nearly gone, a pathetic puddle of a swan song.
But still I stand, I sit, I exist
somewhere in between 
the sides of my head, while my thoughts serenade me with empty lies,
about love, and longing, and lust — I don’t cry, not anymore, but I take
 
Drag after drag, watching the cars pass by,
wondering which one holds the idea of you.
Maybe you’ll stop this time? Maybe you’ll finally see
what stands, who sits, patiently awaiting an alibi.
 
I imagine what I’ll say–
something righteous? Gracious? —
when you come back my way.
A joke? A curse? A stoic silence as 
Our eyes meet,
when the smoke rolls over my cheek, slips out my empty lips,
parted, ready to speak?
 
I think I’ll say, “You’re late.”
 
….
 
Or not. Because what remains true–
You’re not really you. And besides,
I have plenty of time
to refine my line(s).
Until then,
Until then…
I sit, smoke in hand. Breathing out… 
 

Current Jam: “Bleeding Out” Imagine Dragons

Memories Cocktail Lounge

 
Yeah, I’m here. Drinkin’, smokin’,
It’s a wednesday.
What’ll They say when they see I’ve fallen again?
‘What’s wrong with her,’ 
They’ll judge and consider and break down
The details; pinpoint when I broke,
A crooked spoke that threatens the entire apparatus.
 
I been thinkin’, thinkin’ way too much –
over men, me and trust – ‘no good’, They’ll say,
‘To fret and pray darlin’ – these things
‘Aint to be helped.
They fix on their own, unless they
Don’t.’
 
No “us,” I know,
I’m left quite clearly with nothin’ to show
for all I’ve done – but what’ve I done? Really, truly?
Nothin’ but smokin’ and drinkin’ at a bar on a Wednesday night.
 
I’m fed up, it’s cool,
Just sittin’ all alone on this stool.
I’m holdin’ it together for
the Masses, though this frazzled spool threatens
To unravel all over the gravel my off-tempo steps travel
Into the night – to another bar where
Vodka promises to eliminate my scars.
Those lil’ cracks n knicks
They insist on stickin’ around.
‘FUCK OFF!!’ I scream – Isn’t it
A scream to see the desperate stream of slurred pleas –
Absurd, and left unheard.
 
‘She’s in a loop,’ They’ll dismiss,
‘This is what happens when the exterior muscle eventually
Gives way to – to a puddle o’ piss
Weeping from a heap of determined defeat.’
 
‘Miss?’ I’ll hear – head down, muffled sounds beseech me.
‘Call you a cab?’ says a bedraggled dude in a lecherous mood,
he beckons me.
 
With what energy left I cleft my hands –
Those tiny, insignificant, mangled palms.
They shout, ‘FUCK OFF!!!’ – though I doubt 
He’ll heed the warning.
 
‘It’s the best she’ll get, I expect,’ the Crowd whispers,
Determinedly distant.
 
The crescent moon falls and
I follow in suite, into a 
Stranger’s arms – the Broken Girl
in pearls – all heart no head
Makes for a disappointing thread. 
 
‘She’s spread thin, too thin’ – They’ll shake their heads
While they slowly doze away.
As the room spins she’ll sigh
beaten, defeated, ready to die.