Decemberist
11/21/09, 04:41 PM
fuzzy lovely intestines,
trace the side-
walk with your warmest intentions,
bellyache through your dorm room talking to literature students
literally with the tongue you paper mached with borrowed, re rotted poetry,
keep it chilled in your mini refrigerator next to
stolen airplane liquor;
manifest your own tragedy leave others to be what they
be, mine a lincoln log house next to lake erie,
mine a shotgun shell made into flowered pottery,
mine a baby asleep dreaming of migrating back into the womb.
you got off the train, i got my ankle strained carrying
suitcases full of the town you last slept in,
arms awake lulling despite coffee veins,
cream and sugar teeth mesh the white skin of your
khaki neck, a patio that i never left where we once wept beneath
cursing stars and
sympathetic moons on floorboards that creaked and crept as we
tree walked through our teenage years;
you were only seventeen so i bought you cigarettes,
you were only seventeen so i brought you home by midnight.
present day its 3 am,
asleep between the windows and the walls debating college credits,
drinking wine out of coffee mugs,
brushing our teeth with birch tree limbs,
here where my cat is clawing at your tangles,
here where my television is calling you, olivia,
olivia,
a cordial invitation to a special gathering,
here where pleasant interruptions come valiantly.
awake now that my cats asleep,
teach me a year of french in just a few hours,
i tell you about sigur ros and dreams i have about the revolutionary war,
manifest your own tragedy and let others be what they'll be,
i see and seam the weave of your cotton figure,
carefully touch the silhouette of who we were a few years
younger,
manifest your own,
you/re own,
don't dream so loudly,
don't sleep so soundly,
don't,
don't.
trace the side-
walk with your warmest intentions,
bellyache through your dorm room talking to literature students
literally with the tongue you paper mached with borrowed, re rotted poetry,
keep it chilled in your mini refrigerator next to
stolen airplane liquor;
manifest your own tragedy leave others to be what they
be, mine a lincoln log house next to lake erie,
mine a shotgun shell made into flowered pottery,
mine a baby asleep dreaming of migrating back into the womb.
you got off the train, i got my ankle strained carrying
suitcases full of the town you last slept in,
arms awake lulling despite coffee veins,
cream and sugar teeth mesh the white skin of your
khaki neck, a patio that i never left where we once wept beneath
cursing stars and
sympathetic moons on floorboards that creaked and crept as we
tree walked through our teenage years;
you were only seventeen so i bought you cigarettes,
you were only seventeen so i brought you home by midnight.
present day its 3 am,
asleep between the windows and the walls debating college credits,
drinking wine out of coffee mugs,
brushing our teeth with birch tree limbs,
here where my cat is clawing at your tangles,
here where my television is calling you, olivia,
olivia,
a cordial invitation to a special gathering,
here where pleasant interruptions come valiantly.
awake now that my cats asleep,
teach me a year of french in just a few hours,
i tell you about sigur ros and dreams i have about the revolutionary war,
manifest your own tragedy and let others be what they'll be,
i see and seam the weave of your cotton figure,
carefully touch the silhouette of who we were a few years
younger,
manifest your own,
you/re own,
don't dream so loudly,
don't sleep so soundly,
don't,
don't.