Adieu, with love- Paris

"They’ll never know.”
 

These words pounded in my head and out through my mouth.  Like dreams forced under the covers.  And I couldn't deny the feeling of apprehension tearing through my vulnerable skin.  Whoever I was, whatever I was, is gone.  Smoke fills my lungs, love leaves scars in my heart and no matter how drunk I get, alcohol never passes through my blood stream.

 

I would tell you that my blood flows for you.  That my jeans are torn for you.  That my legs ache, and my bones break, and my reality stands still for you.  But love?  No.  I'm not familiar with your toungue.  I would stand on top of the Eiffel Tower and scream your name, but I'd never say I love you.  Those words are my poison.

 

I was handed a pen, and told to give them something to believe in.  No matter how many words I cross out, it can't explain my deepest feelings.  Or how the light at the end of the tunnel shines brighter than the sun.

 

Honestly,

 

You want the truth.  But darlin', your beautiful mind can't handle my truths.  My muse has always been too fickle for your tastes, and my words have never flowed like your thin hair.  But I just want to stay one more night.

 

A sinner asking for forgiveness.  A father praying for his son back.  A gun that never meant to shoot that bullet.  That's all I am.    Poor metaphors and bad choices of words. 

 

So when you told me that you were leaving, I hopped on a train in hopes to meet you there.  But that's not where the angels live.  They live inside notebooks.  And apartement rooms.  And desperate souls, at the end of their road.

 

Paris-never abandon me.  Don't leave me here to freeze.  It's 11:00 at night and you've never left my mind.  Please, just stay. 

 

And after the night when I wake up, I'll see what the morning brings.

Liza

The 20's would have been good to me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We would have been sitting on top of the world.

Listening to that sweet jazz music and smoking the finest cigars.

My pants would be pressed, your lips would bleed red and we wouldn't need a television to do the talking.

 

The streets would shine so bright, it's as if anything you'd ever need in life was right there.

As we walked down the streets we would hear the tapping of feet, and singing.

And of course, the dancing.

 

You'd whisper in my ear "How 'bout it", and the way you were dressed, I couldn't decline.

We took off our coats, set down our drinks and started to move.

You took my hand, I grabbed your waist and no words needed to be said.

When that song came on, I knew it was ours.  It was called "Liza", and life was perfect.

We swung our legs and moved our hips and I don't think we ever broke eye contact.

We spun and dipped and swooned.

 

Love

 

It was funny because we weren't drunk.

We were filled with music. The Roaring 20s were good to us, and we knew that this was not just some old feeling, passed down from lovers.

 

When the song ended, I said "Shine on Liza."

 

I still remember that song, and your blood red lipstick. And I finally know why I lie awake at night and dream all day long.

 

It's because I care.

 

Liza.

 

 





my knees are bent

 

 

 

Last week a man gave me a flower and told me to enjoy life.

later that night I went into the woods and burnt that beauty.

The grass used to be greener and the stars used to shine brighter,

but that was before I let my insecurities flow out through the cracks in my heart.

If street lights shone brighter than the sun, hookers would have their way

and men in suits would have more of an opinion than poets.

Longing for something more.

The sun never really stops shining,

and lovers never lose their touch.

I've been waiting with my arms wide open ready for something to embrace.

Something worth having passion for.

It's a shame I don't lift weights,

so I could hold up all my hopes and dreams.

Blue lights remind me more of the ocean than her eyes

and I wish I could tell her that the moon is more attractive than her low cut neck line.

I've never been one to cry over broken plates

or the smell of wood burning down the road.

I've heard the cries of children in distant countries,

for their mothers,

and my prayers are still forgotten.

But I know that there is enough decency in this world

to enjoy the laugh of a newborn,

or the rising sun

that's waiting to sink into our hearts.



If you really wanna know.

Birthday by Andrea Gibson

At 12 years old I started bleeding with the moon
and beating up boys who dreamed of becoming astronauts.
I fought with my knuckles white as stars,
and left bruises the shape of Salem.
There are things we know by heart,
and things we don't.

At 13 my friend Jen tried to teach me how to blow rings of smoke.
I'd watch the nicotine rising from her lips like halos,
but I could never make dying beautiful.
The sky didn't fill with colors the night I convinced myself
veins are kite strings you can only cut free.
I suppose I love this life,

in spite of my clenched fist.

I open my palm and my lifelines look like branches from an Aspen tree,
and there are songbirds perched on the tips of my fingers,
and I wonder if Beethoven held his breath
the first time his fingers touched the keys
the same way a soldier holds his breath
the first time his finger clicks the trigger.
We all have different reasons for forgetting to breathe.

But my lungs remember
the day my mother took my hand and placed it on her belly
and told me the symphony beneath was my baby sister's heartbeat.
And I knew life would tremble
like the first tear on a prison guard's hardened cheek,
like a prayer on a dying man's lips,
like a vet holding a full bottle of whisky like an empty gun in a war zone…
just take me just take me

Sometimes the scales themselves weigh far too much,
the heaviness of forever balancing blue sky with red blood.
We were all born on days when too many people died in terrible ways,
but you still have to call it a birthday.
You still have to fall for the prettiest girl on the playground at recess
and hope she knows you can hit a baseball
further than any boy in the whole third grade

and I've been running for home
through the windpipe of a man who sings
while his hands playing washboard with a spoon
on a street corner in New Orleans
where every boarded up window is still painted with the words
We're Coming Back
like a promise to the ocean
that we will always keep moving towards the music,
the way Basquait slept in a cardboard box to be closer to the rain.

Beauty, catch me on your tongue.
Thunder, clap us open.
The pupils in our eyes were not born to hide beneath their desks.
Tonight lay us down to rest in the Arizona dessert,
then wake us washing the feet of pregnant women
who climbed across the border with their bellies aimed towards the sun.
I know a thousand things louder than a soldier's gun.
I know the heartbeat of his mother.

Don't cover your ears, Love.
Don't cover your ears, Life.
There is a boy writing poems in Central Park
and as he writes he moves
and his bones become the bars of Mandela's jail cell stretching apart,
and there are men playing chess in the December cold
who can't tell if the breath rising from the board
is their opponents or their own,
and there's a woman on the stairwell of the subway
swearing she can hear Niagara Falls from her rooftop in Brooklyn,
and I'm remembering how Niagara Falls is a city overrun
with strip malls and traffic and vendors
and one incredibly brave river that makes it all worth it.

Ya'll, I know this world is far from perfect.
I am not the type to mistake a streetlight for the moon.
I know our wounds are deep as the Atlantic.
But every ocean has a shoreline
and every shoreline has a tide
that is constantly returning
to wake the songbirds in our hands,
to wake the music in our bones,
to place one fearless kiss on the mouth of that brave river
that has to run through the center of our hearts
to find its way home.

And the smiles faded as he passed by

 

 

 

 

All he ever wanted was applause, instead he got dirty looks and hate mail.  He would go to the local bar on friday nights just to feel social.  With every "Hello" and "How are you" his self worth grew, but he knew that the smiles faded as he passed by.

 

He hid his fear and discontent behind alcohol and cigarettes.  He would listen to records in his room alone, staring at the wall, hoping to find comfort in the words of his favorite musicians.  He would have day dreams about running away at night, and night dreams about never waking up.

 

While walking the streets he wore a hat and sunglasses, in an attempt to avoid recognition.  With every step he would shed a tear, wiping it away with his used tissue.  On sundays, he spent the day in his rocking chair with the blinds closed, and an ash try by his side. He never was gregarious.

 

On the night that he got himself more drunk than usual, he lied out on the street in the pouring rain gasping for air, bullet wounds in his chest.  The people passing by stopped to see if he was okay.

 

There were no tributes.  No buildings were named after him.  No biographies were written about him.

 

As he lied out on the street, he looked up at them with a blank stare.  He never found the right words.