How to put this
how to keep this
cleaning the childhood
out of mind
but keeping it
as I pull
up my shirt,
letting you feel
from my youth
and I'll be
seeing you soon,
I'll see you there
in our hair
If I could have my way
we would only
and not as strangers
undoing all we know
cleaning the dust
off the shelf.
I know you better
in my chest,
girl as beacon
in the past.
When you leave me
do it slowly,
keep me dark
keep me waiting.
Only the dirt
what you're thinking,
as you sink
into the fever
of the season.
lay on your back
with the tv
it lights up your dress
and turns your distress
into a million
in a small town
but you are
made up of the world
in your short skirt
and honey skin
when the sun touches
your window again.
In your old Buick,
crashing down in
in the heat of this town.
A dream in which
I am turned around,
breathing in color
and looking for you
The aftermath of Great world wars,
Smoldering ruins of grand clocktowers,
Peppered with foreign bombs,
From different far off places,
Ghosts of war wander the wastes,
Searching for lost loves,
For homes no longer standing,
For places that scarcely resemble themselves,
From where lovers kissed and dreamed of far off places,
To the stores and homes of families,
Now turned into smoking rubble,
The remnants of our town,
The ruins of our memories,
Now echo through the empty streets,
Reminding us of a time,
When the city was alive.
The dark skies of the night are a canvas on which I paint my dreams and imagine us together.
Meeting my best friend whose first identity was my neighbor
A (friendly) doggo on every corner full of excitement and perhaps joining you on your walk
Feeling so confident that you know how to drive by age 13
The school, YMCA, and grocery store all down one street and up a left or down to the right
Friendly hellos and sweet compliments from fellow town members
The only thing brighter than street lights are the stars on a clear dark night
The smell of a wood stove or campfire burnin in the summer night air
The dirt roads behind the town roughed by dirty ole trucks and four-wheelers
It's not paradise but it's home to the heart
Somewhere down in the deep
where he keeps his bullets and gun
there is a light that has never seen the shining sun.
And he hides his happiness in a brown paper bag
stained with a residue that drips from the bottom.
Oh, it makes me sad that he wants to leave
but a part of me cannot bear to see him grieve.
I am the homebody,
the girl who doesn't want to leave the town
and he is the musician who travels with the shining sun.
But I shall swallow my pride,
and try to keep up with his every stride
just so that maybe I can cling to his hips
like his smoking and aching gun.
A glorious hstory of jew in his array of spirit today
that rose on a dream where bona fide with proprietorship it posted its golden way in a suburban place near the bay.
This glorious monument of her time with mayoral sublime
and a museum grew a Buckminster Tavern extemporizing resound
she lie in midst of my siren that denizen Yankees.
I'm fond of thinking of
Little towns I never knew more of
Than a name, a blooming of meaning
For someone else
Wandsworth, for example
Where is that?
What root colour does its name bring up
Through ink and rising yeast of
Mucky history, what
Legends roam there, who tells the stories in
Such a place?
My questions lie in courtesy
For I expect no wonders from a place such as Wandsworth
Nor would I expect my own beginnings
To tingle much whiskers
But I know
Every corner and straight of my hometown
Every cranny and nook of where I'm from
Every thought of deflated or ardent home grown hope which springs
From every river I know my place
And someone knows Wandsworth
Some lover is leaving there now
Some legend is lacking a purpose there
Some houses are filled with public displays
Of memories made, of remembrances paid
Who calls that place home?
I know they're out there,
Thinking of something
And looking up hoping
Perhaps writing of me
As I ponder what life read to them
And had me read back
Curious love for knowing of others
And the sleep which follows
To forgetting such things
I forgot the name
of my old town,
spoken by the
skin was leathered
by the Sun.
on their faces
got lost somewhere
on the renovated
to trick kids into
had gobbled its
last can of sardine
long ago, yet
its languid yarn
still faintly lingers
in my memory.
I see those old