Things are quiet, things are moving
…’cause god knows we have smoked the stars,
made wishes on falling ashes.
something’s gotta give,
it may as well be your fingers.
touch me ‘til my ribs become piano keys,
’til there is sheet music scrolled across the inside of my lungs
cause i’m breaking old patterns.
for anyone else i would rhyme and end this line with saturn,
but you are not the type to wear rings,
and i’m not the type to want to celebrate forever
when right now is forever walking down the aisles unnoticed. hold me.
sing me lullabies at dawn
when i’ve been up all night painting the wind
to remind myself that things are moving.
Andrea Gibson
(http://www.andreagibson.org/)
she was referring to my coke and fries, but
that night i ate a dandelion salad,
no dressing.
the next day: nectar and rose petals
for breakfast; my parents
don’t ask questions, you know how
teenage girls are these days
at lunch, i ask for
water in a glass, no ice;
i eat it all and delight in my newfound
transparancy, the way i
flow and ebb
back
and forth.
i have feathers for dinner and you hold me
so i don’t get carried off
by the breeze.
i swallow a firefly by accident
and glow all night long.
(maybe tomorrow, i think,
i’ll drink the wind
and disappear)
(j.c.)
(you are what you eat)
she was referring to my coke and fries, but
that night i ate a dandelion salad,
no dressing.
the next day: nectar and rose petals
for breakfast; my parents
don’t ask questions, you know how
teenage girls are these days
at lunch, i ask for
water in a glass, no ice;
i eat it all and delight in my newfound
transparancy, the way i
flow and ebb
back
and forth.
i have feathers for dinner and you hold me
so i don’t get carried off
by the breeze.
i swallow a firefly by accident
and glow all night long.
(maybe tomorrow, i think,
i’ll drink the wind
and disappear)
(j.c.)
He Loves the Rain
I think we all speak a different kind of language
than each other, but you sound a whole lot like coffee on a
Sunday morning and the rain is falling bitter against the windowpane
and your elbows are making holes in the countertops, and
I only want to tell you that I wish I was as close as the threads of your
t-shirt, and if I can’t be that, then I’ll be content with
drinking my drink beside you, with the rain sloppy open mouth kissing
the roof, trying to dismantle the etymology of a conversation
that falls out of the realm of words.
Shinji Moon
(http://shinji-moon.tumblr.com/)
I think we all speak a different kind of language
than each other, but you sound a whole lot like coffee on a
Sunday morning and the rain is falling bitter against the windowpane
and your elbows are making holes in the countertops, and
I only want to tell you that I wish I was as close as the threads of your
t-shirt, and if I can’t be that, then I’ll be content with
drinking my drink beside you, with the rain sloppy open mouth kissing
the roof, trying to dismantle the etymology of a conversation
that falls out of the realm of words.
Shinji Moon
(http://shinji-moon.tumblr.com/)