When they slept, that second night
She couldn’t sleep, scooted away
To the outskirts, precipice
The edge, her mad desires at bay
As he slept, that second night
She couldn’t sleep, she listened in
To his breathing, watched his lids
Her room too quiet, skin too thin
In his sleep, he stretched out towards her
Seismic shift, or subtle ebb
Til’ his skin, a speck, mere dot of it
Threatened them, their rift, their web
Instead of sleeping, she slipped down to
Where they touched, two points, pin heads
There, the channel, bridged, connected
Kept them flowing, inward led
There she couldn’t pretend he wasn’t
In her bed, her mind, her hair
But all that mighty light and energy
Couldn’t save her darkened lair
Those two points, those dots kept her awake
Til the window broke the shell
Of their delusion, his exclusion
Their separate-but-equal private hells
Once awake the points no longer touched
Bridge was broken, dots dissolved
He got up, got dressed and left her
Goddess of sunny, morning resolve
Neither point could know it was the last
Time they’d touch in just that way
Neither dot could see it coming
No time to ask its friend to stay
Sometimes things, they end with a mere nod
Foreshadowing readily ignored
Sometimes points that touched, that’s all they get
Now they’ll long, having once adored.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Mischief Night
Once upon a time, the second most thrilling night of the year was the night before Halloween. It was recognized by parents and notoriously acknowledged in schools. It had it’s own code and mystique and was as culturally relevant as it was regionally unique. It was called, “Mischief Night,” and we lived for it.
The name alone should give you a clue as to the origins of this All Hallows’ Eve eve. It wasn’t called Terror Night of the Damned or License to Destroy Everything in Sight Night. Back in the eighties it was still aptly named so like lovable movie gremlins, we brain-stormed, strategized, and carried out a single night-- of mischief.
Like it’s well-behaved sibling, Halloween, planning for Mischief Night began many weeks in advance. Tossing around ideas for pranks began concurrently with costume suggestions back in early October, but with one major difference: we didn’t discuss Mischief Night with our parents. No siree, this was our holiday, and we united as one against the whole town, independent of parental supervision or control, left to our own devices and, more importantly, consciences.
My rural New Jersey town, mind you, was small; Mark Twain small. It was three blocks wide and two blocks long and had train tracks that ran along the edge of town with a little used train yard perpetually checkered with rain puddles and a corn field just on the other side. We used one of the vacant railroad cars as our command center and from there, planned every day after school for our mission with the zeal and focus of a Marine task force.
There was so much pre-production and mischief execution to design and stage that every voice counted and I felt part of an exciting underground movement. There were at least four of us—perhaps as many as seven—ranging between the second and fifth grades. There was probably a leader, and various consigliere and lower ranking commanders but it’s foggy. I was only in third grade, so I probably followed orders.
The first phase of our operation prep was to gather resources. If each of us could pilfer between one and two bars of soap from under our bathroom sinks between now and Mischief Night we’d be in good shape. Same went for toilet paper, but we’d need to get at least three rolls each to really make a statement, so better start squirreling them away now. Of course, we’d need to hide our supplies where our moms would never find them. Someone suggested under our beds and we all heartily concurred. They’d never look there.
The corn shucking wasn’t my idea. I’d moved to town late in kindergarten and wasn’t wise to its ways like the other kids who’d grown up there, but I liked the concept. First we crossed the tracks, slipped under the fence and stole a few ears of corn-- okay, more like fourteen. Then we sat for hours discussing the order of which houses to hit with brown supermarket paper bags between our legs as we shucked the hardened multi-colored kernels off the cobs by rubbing the base of our palms back and forth till they were red and tingly.
All that was left to do now was make sure our blackest clothes were washed and ready to wear and wait. We busied ourselves with Halloween costume preparations and when asked by adults about our plans for Mischief Night we always demurred as if we hadn’t given it a thought. But it’s all we thought about and for the final few weeks, kids all over town had to be very well behaved in fear of being grounded on Mischief Night. When someone was grounded, the bleak news spread like wildfire and heads hung low in commiseration.
On the big night I let down my cool exterior long enough to ask my parents for permission to stay out later than usual. They knew what was up and asked me if I had everything I needed as I headed towards the front door dressed in my darkest dungarees, carrying a bulky pillowcase filled with “nuthin.” Mom slipped me an extra bar of soap as she reminded me that my curfew was 9pm and not a minute later. Then off I went—an eight year old with no chaperone— into the night to join a scrappy band of up-to-no-good elementary school hoodlums, giddy with excitement; over-the-moon with anticipation.
Our targets were neighbors and friends whom we knew wouldn’t get mad, and a few notorious curmudgeons whom we hoped would. We soaped their car windows and rang doorbells and ran. Then we threw fistfuls of corn kernels against windows lit by flickering televisions. The sound created a rat-a-tat racket and we giggled and squealed as we dove behind bushes to the sound of front doors opening on interrupted programs and empty threats.
The true pièce de résistance was the toilet papering of trees. The act itself took the patience and dedication of an artist combined with the depth perception, strength and accuracy of an athlete. The bigger kids hurled rolls of toilet paper up towards the branches of trees, careful to leave long tails trailing behind. The littler kids scrambled to pick up the rolls as they bobbled and fell through the branches to the ground then handed them off to the throwers to repeat this feat again and again until every tree had been transformed into an ethereal weeping willow. Long, white, toilet paper trails flowed like ghostly ballet dancers’ arms back and forth in the night breeze and our little town looked at once eerie, festive and magical.
Then it was curfew and time for bed. In the morning, porches would have to be swept and cars would have to be washed, but that was about the extent of the fall out. The trees, however, would be a reminder of how a band of kids from all different grades could come together with a common goal; to design, manage and execute the transformation of a town-- astoundingly, while working independently of adults. The trees lent our street an air of mystery and beauty until a big rainstorm would come inevitably and washed it all away. Until then, we smiled proudly as we passed under them on our walk to school. The trees, for the moment, were ours.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Ode to Cursive
My first night of graduate school classes went pretty smoothly until a bunch of us were chosen to write our thoughts up on the board. Happy to oblige, I hopped up, grabbed the dry erase marker, and scribbled away with confidence. The first to sit back down, I scanned the long expanse of white board before me. Each student was writing her answer in a clear and bubbly printed hand. I had reflexively, and perhaps mistakenly, written mine in cursive. It was speedy and looked lovely, but it was in script. Could my classmates decipher this strange code? Would my professor think it was Cyrillic?
Weeks before a friend had challenged me to come up with an argument for keeping cursive taught in schools. He’s among an increasing group of cursive detractors who think it’s a waste of valuable time. I was shocked and heartbroken but supposed I could see his argument. Like so many of the seemingly irrefutable bedrocks of my life thus far (cobblers, record stores, The New York Times, books) cursive was ebbing at a maddening pace. As I began my rebuttal, he cut me off at the knees saying, “And you can’t use speed or aesthetics.”
The most rational argument I could come up with was that all Americans should be able to read the Declaration of Independence in its original hand. A bit dry, I know, and flag-waving to be sure, but that was all I could muster at the time. Later on, while putting my favorite brand of black ink pen to a sheet of specially chosen stationery to write a thank-you note, I had another thought. As I wrote in fluid script I focused on the act of joining letters together without lifting my pen from the paper. I paid attention to the experience and how it felt. I thought about a tennis player’s serve and a pitcher’s seamless pitch. I pictured the visual legato of the pole-vaulter’s flight, the painter’s brushstroke and cellist’s steady bow. I considered how they all relied on interconnected movements, whole unto themselves; streams of energy which course through the body then release in a smooth, unbroken flow.
Then I thought of printing and of the resulting block letters that tell a different story entirely; have a different relationship to the body and its noble staccato slog towards communication. I have nothing against printing’s pursuits. Where would we be without our ability to tourniquet our energy then let it out, piecemeal, in short steady bursts; to chop vegetables or jump rope; to clap or strike keys? The tennis player needs his net game as much as a toddler needs to whack at trees with a stick. But baking and cooking can’t happen without kneading and stirring. And if you’ve ever surfed the wind with your hand out the car window during an afternoon’s autumn drive then you might agree that flow is imperative to our human nature’s ability to release the energy that manifests joy. Just ask any baseball player. Or dancer. Or kid.
So, can’t we hang on to both? I relish bouncing off the walls to The Ramones as much as gliding across the floor to Tommy Dorsey. There is a time and place for a lingering kiss just as there is for a quick, friendly peck. Imagine if we had to choose only one. My argument for cursive is simple yet elusive; it’s unquantifiable and can’t be market tested. It goes against the monolith of rational thought and calls upon the ocean’s tides, calligraphy and Bach. My argument for cursive is one of the tenets of human expression. My argument for cursive is flow.
Weeks before a friend had challenged me to come up with an argument for keeping cursive taught in schools. He’s among an increasing group of cursive detractors who think it’s a waste of valuable time. I was shocked and heartbroken but supposed I could see his argument. Like so many of the seemingly irrefutable bedrocks of my life thus far (cobblers, record stores, The New York Times, books) cursive was ebbing at a maddening pace. As I began my rebuttal, he cut me off at the knees saying, “And you can’t use speed or aesthetics.”
The most rational argument I could come up with was that all Americans should be able to read the Declaration of Independence in its original hand. A bit dry, I know, and flag-waving to be sure, but that was all I could muster at the time. Later on, while putting my favorite brand of black ink pen to a sheet of specially chosen stationery to write a thank-you note, I had another thought. As I wrote in fluid script I focused on the act of joining letters together without lifting my pen from the paper. I paid attention to the experience and how it felt. I thought about a tennis player’s serve and a pitcher’s seamless pitch. I pictured the visual legato of the pole-vaulter’s flight, the painter’s brushstroke and cellist’s steady bow. I considered how they all relied on interconnected movements, whole unto themselves; streams of energy which course through the body then release in a smooth, unbroken flow.
Then I thought of printing and of the resulting block letters that tell a different story entirely; have a different relationship to the body and its noble staccato slog towards communication. I have nothing against printing’s pursuits. Where would we be without our ability to tourniquet our energy then let it out, piecemeal, in short steady bursts; to chop vegetables or jump rope; to clap or strike keys? The tennis player needs his net game as much as a toddler needs to whack at trees with a stick. But baking and cooking can’t happen without kneading and stirring. And if you’ve ever surfed the wind with your hand out the car window during an afternoon’s autumn drive then you might agree that flow is imperative to our human nature’s ability to release the energy that manifests joy. Just ask any baseball player. Or dancer. Or kid.
So, can’t we hang on to both? I relish bouncing off the walls to The Ramones as much as gliding across the floor to Tommy Dorsey. There is a time and place for a lingering kiss just as there is for a quick, friendly peck. Imagine if we had to choose only one. My argument for cursive is simple yet elusive; it’s unquantifiable and can’t be market tested. It goes against the monolith of rational thought and calls upon the ocean’s tides, calligraphy and Bach. My argument for cursive is one of the tenets of human expression. My argument for cursive is flow.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Back to School
My son and I start school on the same day. He’s seven and pretty laissez-faire about the whole thing. Me? I’m a wreck; thank you for asking. First of all, it’s been a while since I was in school (if your definition of “a while” is sixteen years, then we’re in business. Then if you add the four years in college that I didn’t take any math classes because I went to an “arts” school, well, you figure it out.) I was perfectly fine until my sister asked if I would be bringing a spiral notebook and pen to my first night of classes for note taking. Well, yeah, duh, what else would I—oh, right, a laptop. Wups.
So now I’m in panic mode. What else will I learn the hard way? That they’ve done away with desks? That graduate school is now conducted on yoga mats and professors twitter their lessons to a room full of students wearing ear buds? Will I be the only person facing the teacher and do they still raise hands? I’m only half joking.
To add insult to injury, I am concurrently studying to take the GRE test. You’re thinking to yourself, “But you must have taken the GRE ages ago, didn’t you?” Now, why would someone-- whom on her graduation day, threw her mortarboard into the air with the greatest abandon because she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she would never step foot in a classroom again as long as she lived-- have taken the GRE test? Well, I’m taking it now.
Why? Because I need to pass it in order to transfer my pre-admit earned credits towards my masters degree. Why? Because I need a masters degree to get the job that will jump start the first day of the rest of my life in my brand new career. Why? Because I can’t return to my former career because I was out of that particular industry for too long and there’s no going back there, trust me. Why? Because I chose to stay home and raise my son and now I’m divorced and missed the career juggernaut that was my supposed destiny and—let’s be honest—alimony is a much shorter stick than it used to be in the good ole days and the judge told me to git back to work. It’s as clichéd a story as the day is long. And now it’s my reality. Say, “Cheese.” Here’s your new student ID.
At graduate school orientation, my fellow incoming classmates and I were treated to four hours of back-to-back seminars on everything from how to use the library (things have, um, changed) to campus health services (cool. free stuff.) The campus shrink did a little twenty-five minute stand-up routine on how to relieve the pressures of balancing one’s current adult life with the coming demands of our scholastic workload. I listened, smugly, thinking that this was one area that I had nailed down. Time management? Bring it. Multi-tasking? Feh. I can multi-task with both hands tied behind my back.
Then she asked the auditorium full of three hundred or so students-- dragooned to be there on one of the last gorgeous, sunny Saturdays of the summer-- for a show of hands as to how many students graduated in June. Thirty or so hands went up. Then she asked, “How many people haven’t been to school in two to four years?” More hands. “And now,” she continued, slowing down, her voice laced with a circus side-show drum roll, “how many of you haven’t been to school in five to eight years?” My smugness let out a whimper.
I watched as people swiveled around in their seats to catch glimpses of the poor saps who hadn’t used vast portions of their algebra-computing, paper-writing, homework-doing, pop-quiz-taking minds in eons. But no one looked at me because she’d stopped at eight years and so I never got to raise my hand. I thought of hopping up onto my chair, waving and shouting, “Hey, Lady! Keep going!” but decided against it.
When I returned home, deflated, crestfallen and certain there was no way I was going to get through this, there was already an email in my inbox from the graduate school head of campus activities. Seems I’d been invited to try out for the cheerleading team. Excellent. Things were looking up.
So now I’m in panic mode. What else will I learn the hard way? That they’ve done away with desks? That graduate school is now conducted on yoga mats and professors twitter their lessons to a room full of students wearing ear buds? Will I be the only person facing the teacher and do they still raise hands? I’m only half joking.
To add insult to injury, I am concurrently studying to take the GRE test. You’re thinking to yourself, “But you must have taken the GRE ages ago, didn’t you?” Now, why would someone-- whom on her graduation day, threw her mortarboard into the air with the greatest abandon because she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she would never step foot in a classroom again as long as she lived-- have taken the GRE test? Well, I’m taking it now.
Why? Because I need to pass it in order to transfer my pre-admit earned credits towards my masters degree. Why? Because I need a masters degree to get the job that will jump start the first day of the rest of my life in my brand new career. Why? Because I can’t return to my former career because I was out of that particular industry for too long and there’s no going back there, trust me. Why? Because I chose to stay home and raise my son and now I’m divorced and missed the career juggernaut that was my supposed destiny and—let’s be honest—alimony is a much shorter stick than it used to be in the good ole days and the judge told me to git back to work. It’s as clichéd a story as the day is long. And now it’s my reality. Say, “Cheese.” Here’s your new student ID.
At graduate school orientation, my fellow incoming classmates and I were treated to four hours of back-to-back seminars on everything from how to use the library (things have, um, changed) to campus health services (cool. free stuff.) The campus shrink did a little twenty-five minute stand-up routine on how to relieve the pressures of balancing one’s current adult life with the coming demands of our scholastic workload. I listened, smugly, thinking that this was one area that I had nailed down. Time management? Bring it. Multi-tasking? Feh. I can multi-task with both hands tied behind my back.
Then she asked the auditorium full of three hundred or so students-- dragooned to be there on one of the last gorgeous, sunny Saturdays of the summer-- for a show of hands as to how many students graduated in June. Thirty or so hands went up. Then she asked, “How many people haven’t been to school in two to four years?” More hands. “And now,” she continued, slowing down, her voice laced with a circus side-show drum roll, “how many of you haven’t been to school in five to eight years?” My smugness let out a whimper.
I watched as people swiveled around in their seats to catch glimpses of the poor saps who hadn’t used vast portions of their algebra-computing, paper-writing, homework-doing, pop-quiz-taking minds in eons. But no one looked at me because she’d stopped at eight years and so I never got to raise my hand. I thought of hopping up onto my chair, waving and shouting, “Hey, Lady! Keep going!” but decided against it.
When I returned home, deflated, crestfallen and certain there was no way I was going to get through this, there was already an email in my inbox from the graduate school head of campus activities. Seems I’d been invited to try out for the cheerleading team. Excellent. Things were looking up.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Mister Lobster Man
My mom said, "Honey would you mind,
run and errand for me, would you be so kind?"
We'll need a coupla lobsters to fill the pot
'Cause butter, bread and Jersey corn is all we got.
So I grabbed my keys and got into my car,
Drove to Point Lobster, didn't have to go far
I couldn't decline, although I was kinda busy
Thank goodness I din't, 'cause what I saw made me dizzy
*** (Chorus)
Hey there, Mister Lobster Man,
If you can't do it no one can
Haul those overalls over here
I'll drop my guard if you drop your gear
The gods have gently kissed you,
A-don-is wishes he were you
There outta be a law against your face
Whadayasay we get outta this place?
***
He had to work, no, he just couldn’t leave
So I paid him and left and I must say I grieved
Driving home I fantasized about what might have been,
Dropped the lobsters off with Mom and then went for a swim
There up at the beach on the lifeguard stand,
Sat a dazzling, tanned specimen of a man
A wave sent kids squealing which made him smile
My ‘magination had me reeling, so I said with some guile
*** (Chorus)
Hey there, Mister Lifeguard Guy,
Please don’t think me crazy, I’m really quite shy
I hope that what I have to say won’t make you bristle
Just jump down off your chair and put down that whistle
The gods have gently kissed you,
A-don-is wishes he were you
There outta be a law against your face
Whadayasay we get outta this place?
***
His shift wasn’t over, he graciously tried to tell me
Something about keeping watch over all the swimmers’ safety
But I had stopped listening, was looking past his shoulders
At the fella on the surfboard who seemed a little older
He paddled towards the break then stood up with such ease
He took the wave so easily, perhaps if I said please
He could teach me how to surf, he could give me a start
And I could ride a killer wave right into his heart
*** (Chorus)
Hey there, Mister Surfer Dude,
I sure don’t mean to come off rude
But is there more to you than your board and this beach?
Come on, climb out of that ocean to within my reach
The gods have gently kissed you,
A-don-is wishes he were you
There outta be a law against your face
Whadayasay we get outta this place?
***
Mister Surfer Dude said he had no job
And he sure did like Jersey corn-on-the-cob,
So he picked up his board, all dripping wet
And he followed me home to his one sure bet
He said he liked lobster, was polite to my Mom
And after dinner helped us move a couch, he was so strong
We hugged and kissed right into the night
And then I looked at him in the full moon light (and thought)
*** (Chorus)
Hey there, Mister Surfer Dude,
You sure are polite, not the least bit crude
And who’d have thought you’re a PHD
Teaching physics on sabbatical at MIT
The gods have gently kissed you,
A-don-is wishes he were you
There outta be a law against your face
Thanks for coming over to my place
Yeah, thanks for coming over to my place.
***
run and errand for me, would you be so kind?"
We'll need a coupla lobsters to fill the pot
'Cause butter, bread and Jersey corn is all we got.
So I grabbed my keys and got into my car,
Drove to Point Lobster, didn't have to go far
I couldn't decline, although I was kinda busy
Thank goodness I din't, 'cause what I saw made me dizzy
*** (Chorus)
Hey there, Mister Lobster Man,
If you can't do it no one can
Haul those overalls over here
I'll drop my guard if you drop your gear
The gods have gently kissed you,
A-don-is wishes he were you
There outta be a law against your face
Whadayasay we get outta this place?
***
He had to work, no, he just couldn’t leave
So I paid him and left and I must say I grieved
Driving home I fantasized about what might have been,
Dropped the lobsters off with Mom and then went for a swim
There up at the beach on the lifeguard stand,
Sat a dazzling, tanned specimen of a man
A wave sent kids squealing which made him smile
My ‘magination had me reeling, so I said with some guile
*** (Chorus)
Hey there, Mister Lifeguard Guy,
Please don’t think me crazy, I’m really quite shy
I hope that what I have to say won’t make you bristle
Just jump down off your chair and put down that whistle
The gods have gently kissed you,
A-don-is wishes he were you
There outta be a law against your face
Whadayasay we get outta this place?
***
His shift wasn’t over, he graciously tried to tell me
Something about keeping watch over all the swimmers’ safety
But I had stopped listening, was looking past his shoulders
At the fella on the surfboard who seemed a little older
He paddled towards the break then stood up with such ease
He took the wave so easily, perhaps if I said please
He could teach me how to surf, he could give me a start
And I could ride a killer wave right into his heart
*** (Chorus)
Hey there, Mister Surfer Dude,
I sure don’t mean to come off rude
But is there more to you than your board and this beach?
Come on, climb out of that ocean to within my reach
The gods have gently kissed you,
A-don-is wishes he were you
There outta be a law against your face
Whadayasay we get outta this place?
***
Mister Surfer Dude said he had no job
And he sure did like Jersey corn-on-the-cob,
So he picked up his board, all dripping wet
And he followed me home to his one sure bet
He said he liked lobster, was polite to my Mom
And after dinner helped us move a couch, he was so strong
We hugged and kissed right into the night
And then I looked at him in the full moon light (and thought)
*** (Chorus)
Hey there, Mister Surfer Dude,
You sure are polite, not the least bit crude
And who’d have thought you’re a PHD
Teaching physics on sabbatical at MIT
The gods have gently kissed you,
A-don-is wishes he were you
There outta be a law against your face
Thanks for coming over to my place
Yeah, thanks for coming over to my place.
***
Friday, July 30, 2010
Still Smokes
She still smokes.
"All the best people do," Mom says
huddled together like anarchists
outside the party perimeter
before the big fight.
She says they're more interesting
her fellow counter-revolutionaries
steadfast to the death
which, incidentally, is more imminent
perhaps, than yours and mine.
"Don't worry about me,"
she says, "I'll live forever."
Then reminds me she's half Danish.
"We smoke into our nineties."
Which is true, except when it's not.
Down to one every hour and a half
down from two packs a day,
she notes the time like code
in tiny columns on a post-it note
in 2 point font, so she won't forget
Because she knows her memory is crap
like mine and my sisters'
we blame it on the tin foil
that wrapped our sandwiches
cut corner-to-corner all those years.
But she still does the Times crossword
every Sunday, knows the tricks.
"Where's my puzzle?"
she's been known to shout
before her coffee and voice have arrived.
She still buys waxed paper
and insists on twist-tie baggies
single-handedly supporting the industry
the last consumer hold out;
it's rogue.
She sneaks cigarettes to prisoners
who put up the tents
for the big bi-annual rummage sale
she's worked at for twenty-three years
as head of Household; it's leader.
She runs a tight ship
her systems have systems
from the department's wrapping station
to home hospital corners, she's defiant.
Everything has purpose.
So I kneel at the lower foot corner
of the bed, my elbow enveloped
by sheets that may be untucked
to be turned the right way, her way
we'll see. Time will tell.
I never smoked or drank coffee
so as to be nothing like her
and I'm a zip-lock girl and your bed is just fine
but I, too, like the anarchists
and crave purpose.
"All the best people do," Mom says
huddled together like anarchists
outside the party perimeter
before the big fight.
She says they're more interesting
her fellow counter-revolutionaries
steadfast to the death
which, incidentally, is more imminent
perhaps, than yours and mine.
"Don't worry about me,"
she says, "I'll live forever."
Then reminds me she's half Danish.
"We smoke into our nineties."
Which is true, except when it's not.
Down to one every hour and a half
down from two packs a day,
she notes the time like code
in tiny columns on a post-it note
in 2 point font, so she won't forget
Because she knows her memory is crap
like mine and my sisters'
we blame it on the tin foil
that wrapped our sandwiches
cut corner-to-corner all those years.
But she still does the Times crossword
every Sunday, knows the tricks.
"Where's my puzzle?"
she's been known to shout
before her coffee and voice have arrived.
She still buys waxed paper
and insists on twist-tie baggies
single-handedly supporting the industry
the last consumer hold out;
it's rogue.
She sneaks cigarettes to prisoners
who put up the tents
for the big bi-annual rummage sale
she's worked at for twenty-three years
as head of Household; it's leader.
She runs a tight ship
her systems have systems
from the department's wrapping station
to home hospital corners, she's defiant.
Everything has purpose.
So I kneel at the lower foot corner
of the bed, my elbow enveloped
by sheets that may be untucked
to be turned the right way, her way
we'll see. Time will tell.
I never smoked or drank coffee
so as to be nothing like her
and I'm a zip-lock girl and your bed is just fine
but I, too, like the anarchists
and crave purpose.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Delaware
Would you believe it if I told you that
I didn't truly sleep in the middle
until I was
legally divorced?
And I could lob myself into shoulders
for chemicals, inching a little,
but morning might be
painstaking and forced
***
Oh, I'll never move to Delaware,
presume the lead, or grow my hair
Because I've resigned myself to my face
And I can dance the Ode to Joy and
harmonize with the boys
So, maybe I've returned to that place
***
No, we'll never know the royal we because
you'll never call and I won't either
and that's because
it's the right thing not to do.
But life is long and folks get hit by
pianos dropped, avoiding ether,
and change their minds
and hearts to name a few.
So cowboy up the herd's 'a running and
take no guff 'cause it takes cunning
and fortitude,
but I know you knew that.
With bass guitars and ballet dancers,
movie stars, I'll take no chances
until you ask me straight,
for less hat
And I'll tell you...
***
That I'll never move to Delaware,
presume the lead, or grow my hair
Because I've resigned myself to my face (It's my only face)
And I can dance the Ode to Joy and
harmonize with the boys
It may be I'm already in that place
I think that I'm already in that place
***
I didn't truly sleep in the middle
until I was
legally divorced?
And I could lob myself into shoulders
for chemicals, inching a little,
but morning might be
painstaking and forced
***
Oh, I'll never move to Delaware,
presume the lead, or grow my hair
Because I've resigned myself to my face
And I can dance the Ode to Joy and
harmonize with the boys
So, maybe I've returned to that place
***
No, we'll never know the royal we because
you'll never call and I won't either
and that's because
it's the right thing not to do.
But life is long and folks get hit by
pianos dropped, avoiding ether,
and change their minds
and hearts to name a few.
So cowboy up the herd's 'a running and
take no guff 'cause it takes cunning
and fortitude,
but I know you knew that.
With bass guitars and ballet dancers,
movie stars, I'll take no chances
until you ask me straight,
for less hat
And I'll tell you...
***
That I'll never move to Delaware,
presume the lead, or grow my hair
Because I've resigned myself to my face (It's my only face)
And I can dance the Ode to Joy and
harmonize with the boys
It may be I'm already in that place
I think that I'm already in that place
***
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
