how bad could it be

if it were only you and me

with our hands on the table for everyone to see?


how bad could it be

to take your glance and run

with nothing else on my hands but the burn of the sun?


how bad could it be

to look nice in the dress

with silver on my fingers and a swell inside my chest?


how bad could it be

for you to look at me

and only want for your hands what your eyes would see?


would it be so bad to laugh a little louder,

let my hair grow long, and let my self stand prouder?


would it be so bad to only kneel when i pray,

after tripping over the guilt and the awkward things i say?


would it be so bad to look at me and then

be satisfied in knowing what it truly could have been?

through white and blue
your airplane flew
leaving me in a heap at your throne

my fingertips bled
thick drops of red
trying to make a crown of my own

through rocky mountains
and florida fountains
i can hear freedom ring

but underneath it all
with my back against the wall
i cry out, “Long Live the King!”

after choking on fumes
my life will resume
grayer than the smoke and the screens

when it’s finally clearer
i’ll look in the mirror
and pray, “God, Save the Queen.”

i’ve tried to breathe life into us so many times
you’d think i was playing god himself
i’ve blown all the rust off the curves of my shoulders
i’ve blown all the dust off the books on my shelf

i saw the world in the way you walked
you saw the lipstick on my teeth
you are all things bright and beautiful
and i’m just the current beneath

i will try on everything in my closet
i will shine all of my shoes
i will go to the store and spend 15 bucks more
if i don’t have the right shade of blue

because **** it, i like it when your arm touches mine
so long as i stick to water and avoid any wine
i want you to think, “there she is!  there’s my perfect ten.”
but i’ll be growing out my hair and growing old until then.

you are a man. but i am a ghost of what is in between
the salt of the earth and way of the wind, evident but unseen
you’ve shown me that it’s real, and it’s rocked me to my core
and if you turned off the lights, i could be everything you’re looking for

I spin my threads in gold

and give every fiber of them to you
in good intentions
with all my attention.

Your shell is beautiful…
glittering blue and gold and topaz and
I swear, you were born from a painting.
In the gallery I’m waiting and
watching as you put Gabriel to shame.

Has anyone ever told you?
(To be the first to proclaim…)

However there is nothing in your veins.

Shallow are your waters and bare are your trees
The shell is all you have shown to me
and I prefer to throw you back to the sea.

how nice it must feel to just simply wake up refreshed
after umpteen years of innocent sleep
where you were blinded by passing headlights as you took the long way home
drunk off milkshakes and water bottles and german cologne
and you wake up fresh faced in wrinkled white sheets
and the neighbor lady’s wind chime is calling your name
and the sun shakes your hand and welcomes you in
and pours you a drink as the next dream begins
how nice it must be to just simply turn around
to run your hands over pictures of your past and smile
to wave at your decisions, laugh at your consequences
clean as summertime white picket fences
how nice it must be to breathe in a breeze instead of bleach
to admire the etches in your palms instead of hiding them with yellow rubber gloves
to spend what’s left of your young years free of regret
and not scrubbing a split second out of the carpet

please tell me i’m beautiful
just once, in any language, and i can carry it with me
i can carry it with me in the lines of my hand
that once pushed paper with a beautiful man
conventionally beautiful.  there’s no interpretation.
you’re a mother-in-law’s dream and a teen sensation
—-
please tell me your secrets
just one of them, in any language, and i can carry it with me
i can carry it with me in the back of my mind
remembering dress shirts and forearms and nickles and dimes
i’ll guard the gate as you send me to sleep
with tall tales of the shamans, your spirit i will keep
—-
please pray for me
just a prayer, in any language, and i can carry it with me
i can carry it with me in the valves of my heart
stained with india ink and dynasty art
my christianity is calligraphed in confusion and sin
stand at my threshold.  let me color you in.
—-
i want you more than currency can borrow
i want you more than i want tomorrow
but not with the linen on the bed.  
only the libretto inside your head
of montana roads, memos hidden on the run,
and doorknobs shining like the sun

The LORD is my shepherd.  I shall take it or leave it.
He watcheth me maketh my bed and then maketh me lie down in it.

He prepares a table before me in the presence of everyone I hated from high school
He has anointed my head with a migraine
And my cup runneth over

Onto my hands
All over the floor
Underneath the fridge

Surely anxiety and self-loathing will follow me all the days of my life
And I will dwell in the house of my past mistakes forever

—-

I shouldn’t be afraid of your guiding hand.
Why don’t you look down upon me and help me make a stand.
(James Taylor too if you’ve got enough for the band)

In short, I think you’re a really great guy
And I’ll be telling you that until the day I die
But never out loud because I’m too **** shy
It’s nothing that a nervous laugh can’t hide