3 minutes.
Why don’t students get what they read?
Because they don’t care
They’re more worried about what they wear
About who is and who’s not checking their hair
Even if you can stop the distraction
Prevent middle school romantic interaction
It’s not a matter of the teacher’s stare
of whether they feel the topic’s fair
It’s not a matter of want or will
It’s a matter of reading ability and skill
Of background knowledge
Of family support for college
Of already knowing some facts
having new places to hang the info like hats
Because if you lack any of that
they can read but they can’t comprehend
They can regurgitate but it’s gone in the end
Monday, September 20, 2010
Highly Qualified (ASU Freewrite)
I really should post these more often - ASU is so much more amusing when I spend 5 or 10 scribbling on request, because we're supposed to "freewrite" or "brainstorm" our ideas in class.
What do I think it means to be highly qualified
I think you need the tools to tear a mind wide
To surprise and stun to make the boring fun
To take the three r’s and make ‘em grrreat
To know how to make students take the bait
You need to be able to think quick on your feet
To stand in classroom take its emotional heartbeat
To connect with the children in and out of the building
To make ‘em buy in to the school bus you’re driving
Thing is none of this can be got from books
None of this can be bought or took
You need an internal burning a yearning for turning
Minds and hearts breaking knowledge to parts
And feeding it, a chunk at a time to young minds
Like syllables separated enunciated in rhyme
Problem is, I don’t think there’s really a test for that
Unions and officials and schools duel and spat
over the expectations for those in education
the requirements to fill the teacher station
but I think they’re always gonna miss the point
I don’t think you can tell in advance who to anoint
Teacher….teacher
Healer helper knowledge preacher
It’s so many caps for a single person to fill
There’s *no* way to predict who can fit the bill
What do I think it means to be highly qualified
I think you need the tools to tear a mind wide
To surprise and stun to make the boring fun
To take the three r’s and make ‘em grrreat
To know how to make students take the bait
You need to be able to think quick on your feet
To stand in classroom take its emotional heartbeat
To connect with the children in and out of the building
To make ‘em buy in to the school bus you’re driving
Thing is none of this can be got from books
None of this can be bought or took
You need an internal burning a yearning for turning
Minds and hearts breaking knowledge to parts
And feeding it, a chunk at a time to young minds
Like syllables separated enunciated in rhyme
Problem is, I don’t think there’s really a test for that
Unions and officials and schools duel and spat
over the expectations for those in education
the requirements to fill the teacher station
but I think they’re always gonna miss the point
I don’t think you can tell in advance who to anoint
Teacher….teacher
Healer helper knowledge preacher
It’s so many caps for a single person to fill
There’s *no* way to predict who can fit the bill
Friday, September 10, 2010
le petit mort
Definitely not safe for work. :-)
they tell me that I talk about death too much
they tell me that I talk about sex too much
the darkness, the blackness, the wackness, and such
the bump and grind, sixty-nine, and two hand touch
but I get vulgar thinking bout sliding inside of the cut
about licking and nibbling and squeezin a beautiful butt
that's why my poems change up and switch so abrupt
I just like to use my tongue, because it's fun
they say that people die when they come
so I like keeping you on the edge where it's fun
so you're tottering, you're screaming, please, please
for that I'll spend hours on my knees til they bleed
so I talk about sex, and I talk about death
you know, I'm obsessed with the final gasping breath
now, my mom says I'm cocky, I say I'm confident
you say my lyrics too complex I say it's a testament
to the way that play with words, 'cause I'm a nerd
but I want you flying high like you're car-bombed Kurds
I'm always pissed that I can't fit in with the herd
so I sit putting sick sex thoughts to rhythms absurd
if I go down, I need you seeing fireworks
if I'm spitting robots, I want you goin' berserk
either way your mind's a blur 'cause I'm so good it hurts
now you want to laugh at this shit
but look out I'm killin it when I spit
and I'm not gonna quit
I'll rip bout the pit with wicked wit
and slit your clit when I (bite) up your leg a lil' bit
man, I've never got the concept of one night stands
I've got kung fu killer skills in my tongue and my hands
I guarantee, I get repeat business
cuz my tongue, my tongue, my tongue has the quickness
and it knows how to lay a slow rhythm inside
wrap it around the metaphors til the tip slips inside
if it's not my name, I don't really know what you said
your legs are wrapped rigor mortis round my head
that's why you always find teeth marks on my aureola
cuz I'm 99.9% fatal, like I'm motherfucking Ebola
but it's all good, because me, I walk a higher path
I admit that I'm weird, bet it's because of my past
but I will take you to task and rock you like Chinese math
hard as hell while I'm sipping back on a flask
cutting up drunk, in the back of the class
and serving up blood at my own mental mass
– maybe;
I am psychotic for sippin hypnotic
scribbling fit to mix death with erotic
but if you're craving sci-fi thoughts I got it
dreaming of hot sex, already taped it and shot it
just please help me find the rhythm – cuz I lost it
I wonder about fucking someone to death
is that even possible?
how does that happen?
and … could it be fun?
for her, I mean
not in a Serbian, Rwanda-style
you got gang-raped to death
but in a
died of happiness
brain short-circuited
in a grand-mal seizure
composed entirely of orgasm
so powerful
your heart just stops
I wouldn't want to be the survivor
but that
could be hot
they tell me that I talk about death too much
they tell me that I talk about sex too much
the darkness, the blackness, the wackness, and such
the bump and grind, sixty-nine, and two hand touch
but I get vulgar thinking bout sliding inside of the cut
about licking and nibbling and squeezin a beautiful butt
that's why my poems change up and switch so abrupt
I just like to use my tongue, because it's fun
they say that people die when they come
so I like keeping you on the edge where it's fun
so you're tottering, you're screaming, please, please
for that I'll spend hours on my knees til they bleed
so I talk about sex, and I talk about death
you know, I'm obsessed with the final gasping breath
now, my mom says I'm cocky, I say I'm confident
you say my lyrics too complex I say it's a testament
to the way that play with words, 'cause I'm a nerd
but I want you flying high like you're car-bombed Kurds
I'm always pissed that I can't fit in with the herd
so I sit putting sick sex thoughts to rhythms absurd
if I go down, I need you seeing fireworks
if I'm spitting robots, I want you goin' berserk
either way your mind's a blur 'cause I'm so good it hurts
now you want to laugh at this shit
but look out I'm killin it when I spit
and I'm not gonna quit
I'll rip bout the pit with wicked wit
and slit your clit when I (bite) up your leg a lil' bit
man, I've never got the concept of one night stands
I've got kung fu killer skills in my tongue and my hands
I guarantee, I get repeat business
cuz my tongue, my tongue, my tongue has the quickness
and it knows how to lay a slow rhythm inside
wrap it around the metaphors til the tip slips inside
if it's not my name, I don't really know what you said
your legs are wrapped rigor mortis round my head
that's why you always find teeth marks on my aureola
cuz I'm 99.9% fatal, like I'm motherfucking Ebola
but it's all good, because me, I walk a higher path
I admit that I'm weird, bet it's because of my past
but I will take you to task and rock you like Chinese math
hard as hell while I'm sipping back on a flask
cutting up drunk, in the back of the class
and serving up blood at my own mental mass
– maybe;
I am psychotic for sippin hypnotic
scribbling fit to mix death with erotic
but if you're craving sci-fi thoughts I got it
dreaming of hot sex, already taped it and shot it
just please help me find the rhythm – cuz I lost it
I wonder about fucking someone to death
is that even possible?
how does that happen?
and … could it be fun?
for her, I mean
not in a Serbian, Rwanda-style
you got gang-raped to death
but in a
died of happiness
brain short-circuited
in a grand-mal seizure
composed entirely of orgasm
so powerful
your heart just stops
I wouldn't want to be the survivor
but that
could be hot
Monday, August 30, 2010
40s
A character sketch.
Feels more like an epitaph for a friend, at this point.
40s
a man on furlough
sliced in two
40s
Glenn Miller and the Army Air Force band
blaring out of his record player
lifeguard fatigues in a foot locker
at the head of his bed
he aches for a time when
men were men
chivalry and vinegar
piss and honor
cigarettes were homerolled
and men drove ships and sticks
he's got the annotated Sherlock Holmes
bleeding dust on his chest
muted trumpets bluesing
to the rhythm of his snoring
while his Droid charges
Droid does
and he loves it
forty more years
he'll Google it in his forearm
a man cut in two
40s
one in each hand
he laughes
smashes them on the ground
real men drink Black Velvet
on the rocks
freezer-chilled
in tight jeans
and a fist-pumping black muscle T
foot on the bumper
of his '65 Ford Fairlane
this is a bass player
the rhythm and soul of a punk band
he will kick your ass backstage
then take his girlfriend
to a nice lobster dinner
to talk Casablanca
and genetic replication
he's old school
it's not that he can't do one night stands
he just like to cuddle
sex with girlfriends
just feels better
this is the old man
who never met the nursing home
he and the old lady
still shoot geese
from their cabin on the lake
they go to church on Sundays
they get down after Bingo
and move at two miles an hour through Costco
so, so carefully
holding each other's hand
they block the entire aisle
but you smile
when you're stuck behind them
fuck it
they're too cute
this is that guy
in the 40s
kickin ass on a Saturday night
the airman on weekend leave
killing Jack and his friends
his beard
his lifejacket
his knapsack
his swimsuit
straight 40s
his cellphone
his soundsystem
his laptop
straight 40s
a century apart
and from what lies between
he kept only the best music
to jump around
because he stays in shape
he swims sprints --
and runs 40s
Feels more like an epitaph for a friend, at this point.
40s
a man on furlough
sliced in two
40s
Glenn Miller and the Army Air Force band
blaring out of his record player
lifeguard fatigues in a foot locker
at the head of his bed
he aches for a time when
men were men
chivalry and vinegar
piss and honor
cigarettes were homerolled
and men drove ships and sticks
he's got the annotated Sherlock Holmes
bleeding dust on his chest
muted trumpets bluesing
to the rhythm of his snoring
while his Droid charges
Droid does
and he loves it
forty more years
he'll Google it in his forearm
a man cut in two
40s
one in each hand
he laughes
smashes them on the ground
real men drink Black Velvet
on the rocks
freezer-chilled
in tight jeans
and a fist-pumping black muscle T
foot on the bumper
of his '65 Ford Fairlane
this is a bass player
the rhythm and soul of a punk band
he will kick your ass backstage
then take his girlfriend
to a nice lobster dinner
to talk Casablanca
and genetic replication
he's old school
it's not that he can't do one night stands
he just like to cuddle
sex with girlfriends
just feels better
this is the old man
who never met the nursing home
he and the old lady
still shoot geese
from their cabin on the lake
they go to church on Sundays
they get down after Bingo
and move at two miles an hour through Costco
so, so carefully
holding each other's hand
they block the entire aisle
but you smile
when you're stuck behind them
fuck it
they're too cute
this is that guy
in the 40s
kickin ass on a Saturday night
the airman on weekend leave
killing Jack and his friends
his beard
his lifejacket
his knapsack
his swimsuit
straight 40s
his cellphone
his soundsystem
his laptop
straight 40s
a century apart
and from what lies between
he kept only the best music
to jump around
because he stays in shape
he swims sprints --
and runs 40s
she II
On one of the summer camping trips, I had a rather me moment - we were lying around, talking in our sleeping bags. The campfire embers were long gone. But one of my friends had an aura that I had to try and capture, so I ended up in Tiny Car, scribbling the first draft by the dome light in my car.
I met this girl
with Ving Rhames eyes
see
he's the archetype of bad-ass
at that level of incredible
Zeus is a nobody
you're Mount Olympus personified
you can't really get mad
so much as reshape a gigantic smile
watch Pulp Fiction
even with the gimp
his eyes give him away
they're always laughing
I'd seen those eyes once already
but
it was a glowing green forest sprite
imagine that level of self-confidence, self-control
make it feminine
Blackberry-sized
you've got the tiniest, floating Triceratops
wrapped in a Tinkerbell suit
with manicured, slender fingers
the capacity to flatten Scandinavian forests
and the self-satisfaction
to have not even tried
the simple delicate flick
required
I found her
floating in mid-air
caught in a moment
a half-smile on her face
wings in the middle of a heartbeat
and such serene eyes
you know those fingers
could turn you to dust
the king of the jungle
sits brazen, with few predators
the queen of the forest
has the sly implacability
that comes from having none
she doesn't go medieval
she surpasses Hiroshima
at that point
you are a cloud
she never comes down
you can see it
in her Ving Rhames eyes
she has a Cheshire cat grin
and the James Brown version of funk
that belongs to 20 something women
the trademark of the international traveler
the small, tasteful, silver nose ring
a reply
to Cheshire Cat's question
“where are you going?”
the obvious answer
her natural habitat
sunshine, smiles, stories, somewhere abroad
where days start
with afternoon cookouts
on Mediterranean apartment rooftops
sun drenched, full of tomatoes and wine
they run through midnight bar crawls
dancing on a boat
that floats from bar to bar
on a river somewhere in the Czech Republic
and races to the train
to catch deep desert sunrises
this
is where she's going
all in the same orange sundress
simple
sweaty
artfully, perfectly confident
if the Cheshire cat dare ask
how will you know when you get there
she'll reply
that's hardly the point
and less than half than that
in the getting there
I met this girl
with Ving Rhames eyes
see
he's the archetype of bad-ass
at that level of incredible
Zeus is a nobody
you're Mount Olympus personified
you can't really get mad
so much as reshape a gigantic smile
watch Pulp Fiction
even with the gimp
his eyes give him away
they're always laughing
I'd seen those eyes once already
but
it was a glowing green forest sprite
imagine that level of self-confidence, self-control
make it feminine
Blackberry-sized
you've got the tiniest, floating Triceratops
wrapped in a Tinkerbell suit
with manicured, slender fingers
the capacity to flatten Scandinavian forests
and the self-satisfaction
to have not even tried
the simple delicate flick
required
I found her
floating in mid-air
caught in a moment
a half-smile on her face
wings in the middle of a heartbeat
and such serene eyes
you know those fingers
could turn you to dust
the king of the jungle
sits brazen, with few predators
the queen of the forest
has the sly implacability
that comes from having none
she doesn't go medieval
she surpasses Hiroshima
at that point
you are a cloud
she never comes down
you can see it
in her Ving Rhames eyes
she has a Cheshire cat grin
and the James Brown version of funk
that belongs to 20 something women
the trademark of the international traveler
the small, tasteful, silver nose ring
a reply
to Cheshire Cat's question
“where are you going?”
the obvious answer
her natural habitat
sunshine, smiles, stories, somewhere abroad
where days start
with afternoon cookouts
on Mediterranean apartment rooftops
sun drenched, full of tomatoes and wine
they run through midnight bar crawls
dancing on a boat
that floats from bar to bar
on a river somewhere in the Czech Republic
and races to the train
to catch deep desert sunrises
this
is where she's going
all in the same orange sundress
simple
sweaty
artfully, perfectly confident
if the Cheshire cat dare ask
how will you know when you get there
she'll reply
that's hardly the point
and less than half than that
in the getting there
synesthesia
Sitting in Adam's when he started bumping Summertime, I had to write the first draft a few weeks ago. It all went from there.
I'm synesthetic
when I hear certain things
especially music
I see colors dancing in the air
Katy Perry
I Kissed A Girl, and I Think I Like It
when I hear it
I'm seeing the Great Pyramid of Giza
in flying, speeding wallpaper patterns
colored in bright, vibrant Lisa Frank colors
neon pink, yellow and green unicorn style
I was driving when I first heard it
almost drove off the road
took almost a whole verse
before I realized
it was only a song
I see colors when I hear music
it's beautiful
I wish I could share it with you
Thrice
an alternative thrash band
they have a song
Dont Tell and we Won't Ask
spiraling, looping, speeding guitar
drawing abackground of deep purple
smoke on the water skies
granite verses written in 12-bar canyons
darkly lit
while another guitar dances
a burning pixie
leaving a glowing electric trail of yellow
tangled with the liquid light counterpart
of the singer's voice
scribbled bright green
they do a complex duet
leaping off of the cliffs
to float
dancing fire
through that deep purple dark night
until the white supernova of the chorus
comes crashing in
to bathe you in pure, white hot fire
in that moment
it feels like recognizing one of your own
that is a feeling
I wish I could share with you
synesthesia brings you so much beautiful
sometimes, nothing happens
but when it does
anything everything always beautiful
even, especially, the surprises
Sublime
Summertime
and the livin's easy
it's the colors of Louisiana nights
a purple convertible
slicing down muddy roads
through caves of golden brown stone
and dark green vibrant jungles
melancholy masochistic in the moonlight
blended in dark vinyl palette
flowing liquid in LP
slow funky bass-driven rotation
this is a scene shot in low contrast
like colors dancing
at the edges of an early Nintendo game
and I want to share it with you
because these colors swagger
they move from the hips
this is the mix
that's Buddha and Balboa
grown sexy sittin' confident grinning
Topgun of Tonight Hill
it's feeling male jaguar
just looking for some panther
knowing you'll find it
because broken people will find a way
to smash their jagged edges together
and pretend they make a whole
it's so easy to slip
when you feel like shit, 'cause
my girl spreads her lovin' all over
so you slip
and you slide
jukebox songs cost two quarters
but not the ride
on the riverboat barges
straddling the Mississippi
on this Louisiana night
the Bourbon street bars are closed
but you haven't had a last dance with mary jane
you know the cruise sinful
scandalous and evil
all the people in the dance
are young hungry sexy and hurt
it makes them dangerous and wild
it makes them fun
and Summertime
is not the soundtrack to all this
it is this
in audio video surround cerebral sound
it takes the dark cancerous yellow
the cowardice you feel
when you bury self-pity in false pride
and try to lose yourself deep inside
you say no but you know
you'll hear someone cry
desperate and eager, eager and desperate
there's a twisted power
in that dirty yellow streak
when you're sharing someone with someone
and you don't want to share
but sharing is the only way to keep someone
you've already lost
in the taking the making the pretending
the pregnant green jealous pain
turns a dirty yellow streak of confident cowardice
synesthesia
can make even that beautiful
I wish I could share that with you
I'm synesthetic
when I hear certain things
especially music
I see colors dancing in the air
Katy Perry
I Kissed A Girl, and I Think I Like It
when I hear it
I'm seeing the Great Pyramid of Giza
in flying, speeding wallpaper patterns
colored in bright, vibrant Lisa Frank colors
neon pink, yellow and green unicorn style
I was driving when I first heard it
almost drove off the road
took almost a whole verse
before I realized
it was only a song
I see colors when I hear music
it's beautiful
I wish I could share it with you
Thrice
an alternative thrash band
they have a song
Dont Tell and we Won't Ask
spiraling, looping, speeding guitar
drawing abackground of deep purple
smoke on the water skies
granite verses written in 12-bar canyons
darkly lit
while another guitar dances
a burning pixie
leaving a glowing electric trail of yellow
tangled with the liquid light counterpart
of the singer's voice
scribbled bright green
they do a complex duet
leaping off of the cliffs
to float
dancing fire
through that deep purple dark night
until the white supernova of the chorus
comes crashing in
to bathe you in pure, white hot fire
in that moment
it feels like recognizing one of your own
that is a feeling
I wish I could share with you
synesthesia brings you so much beautiful
sometimes, nothing happens
but when it does
anything everything always beautiful
even, especially, the surprises
Sublime
Summertime
and the livin's easy
it's the colors of Louisiana nights
a purple convertible
slicing down muddy roads
through caves of golden brown stone
and dark green vibrant jungles
melancholy masochistic in the moonlight
blended in dark vinyl palette
flowing liquid in LP
slow funky bass-driven rotation
this is a scene shot in low contrast
like colors dancing
at the edges of an early Nintendo game
and I want to share it with you
because these colors swagger
they move from the hips
this is the mix
that's Buddha and Balboa
grown sexy sittin' confident grinning
Topgun of Tonight Hill
it's feeling male jaguar
just looking for some panther
knowing you'll find it
because broken people will find a way
to smash their jagged edges together
and pretend they make a whole
it's so easy to slip
when you feel like shit, 'cause
my girl spreads her lovin' all over
so you slip
and you slide
jukebox songs cost two quarters
but not the ride
on the riverboat barges
straddling the Mississippi
on this Louisiana night
the Bourbon street bars are closed
but you haven't had a last dance with mary jane
you know the cruise sinful
scandalous and evil
all the people in the dance
are young hungry sexy and hurt
it makes them dangerous and wild
it makes them fun
and Summertime
is not the soundtrack to all this
it is this
in audio video surround cerebral sound
it takes the dark cancerous yellow
the cowardice you feel
when you bury self-pity in false pride
and try to lose yourself deep inside
you say no but you know
you'll hear someone cry
desperate and eager, eager and desperate
there's a twisted power
in that dirty yellow streak
when you're sharing someone with someone
and you don't want to share
but sharing is the only way to keep someone
you've already lost
in the taking the making the pretending
the pregnant green jealous pain
turns a dirty yellow streak of confident cowardice
synesthesia
can make even that beautiful
I wish I could share that with you
Friday, July 30, 2010
stolen treasures
I saw her at Reunions, it sparked a line that stuck in my head. Two days of professional development - sitting in a chair all day, bored shitless - was exactly what I needed to give it birth. Also, hella shorter - mad editing has been going on.
In the beginning
God said
let there be light
I believe in evolution
but you had me seeing God
believing in the wonder of creation
I saw proof in your smile
you were sunshine
feeding me energy
to wrap the world in flowers
love blooming in stop-action photography
you were oxygen
fueling our growth as we built lush worlds
fueling solar flare fires
burning my skin pure in your presence
cleaning cleansing
constructing starshine universes
in every moment we spent together
our kisses shone champagne supernova
the Big Bang sparking
in every molecule where our lips touched
we had heaven in our footsteps
lightning in our fingertips
we never shocked each other
– just the world
with everything we made together
the life the love the light
we brought, we made
we built stars
playing at being God, we put lightbulbs in the sky
they could burn for a million years
and scarcely scratch the surface of our fuel
and every time we kissed a star was born and flew
so an hour in your arms built universes anew
maybe that's why our sex was the way it was
holding each other close, matching breathing because
grinding sliding screaming laughing
left us lying intimate, clutching gasping
we would lie twisting to unite our light
and with our shine kill the night
so what the uneducated would call a passionate screw
was me grinding to find the light deep inside you
now, turning each other out wasn't all we were about
I just have to use sex to explain, because
that's the only way you can understand the way it was
the bliss, magnetism, Bonnie and Clyde
you feel after hours of animal sex
--twenty-six consecutive orgasms
is the feeling we had
every time we saw each other
every time I saw her eyes
every time I heard her laugh
and then I slipped.
I had one little thought
one blasphemous idea
you disappeared, guaranteed to return
asked me, “wait”
all I could think was
could I build worlds
could I create stars
with other girls?
I wanted to keep shining light into the world
I had lost faith that you were the truth
maybe I could burn heaven with other people
--I should've seen that you wouldn't stand
for me keeping false idols before you.
Now I can't sleep
I lie drowning in barren worlds
choking on nothing in empty riverbeds
except once a year
when the sun shines soft again on my skin
and the breeze touches my lips
you're the reason
it's always sunny in Philadelphia
but every single moment I spend in your presence
is a stolen treasure, and I can count those seconds
Hell is an existence apart from God
you can see Her, just out of reach
you burn frozen, knowing what you're missing
with your hand in mine, I used to play God
now we don't even speak
my hand has a full dance card, but
I only go to church to steal the wafers
I pity people who chase rainbows
pots of gold are nothing
I used to ride the dawn
to plant diamonds and platinum in the sky
I go camping
so I can lie back
and count the memories
I don't need a map
to find our golden stolen pirate treasures
-- they’re the reason you can see at night
In the beginning
God said
let there be light
I believe in evolution
but you had me seeing God
believing in the wonder of creation
I saw proof in your smile
you were sunshine
feeding me energy
to wrap the world in flowers
love blooming in stop-action photography
you were oxygen
fueling our growth as we built lush worlds
fueling solar flare fires
burning my skin pure in your presence
cleaning cleansing
constructing starshine universes
in every moment we spent together
our kisses shone champagne supernova
the Big Bang sparking
in every molecule where our lips touched
we had heaven in our footsteps
lightning in our fingertips
we never shocked each other
– just the world
with everything we made together
the life the love the light
we brought, we made
we built stars
playing at being God, we put lightbulbs in the sky
they could burn for a million years
and scarcely scratch the surface of our fuel
and every time we kissed a star was born and flew
so an hour in your arms built universes anew
maybe that's why our sex was the way it was
holding each other close, matching breathing because
grinding sliding screaming laughing
left us lying intimate, clutching gasping
we would lie twisting to unite our light
and with our shine kill the night
so what the uneducated would call a passionate screw
was me grinding to find the light deep inside you
now, turning each other out wasn't all we were about
I just have to use sex to explain, because
that's the only way you can understand the way it was
the bliss, magnetism, Bonnie and Clyde
you feel after hours of animal sex
--twenty-six consecutive orgasms
is the feeling we had
every time we saw each other
every time I saw her eyes
every time I heard her laugh
and then I slipped.
I had one little thought
one blasphemous idea
you disappeared, guaranteed to return
asked me, “wait”
all I could think was
could I build worlds
could I create stars
with other girls?
I wanted to keep shining light into the world
I had lost faith that you were the truth
maybe I could burn heaven with other people
--I should've seen that you wouldn't stand
for me keeping false idols before you.
Now I can't sleep
I lie drowning in barren worlds
choking on nothing in empty riverbeds
except once a year
when the sun shines soft again on my skin
and the breeze touches my lips
you're the reason
it's always sunny in Philadelphia
but every single moment I spend in your presence
is a stolen treasure, and I can count those seconds
Hell is an existence apart from God
you can see Her, just out of reach
you burn frozen, knowing what you're missing
with your hand in mine, I used to play God
now we don't even speak
my hand has a full dance card, but
I only go to church to steal the wafers
I pity people who chase rainbows
pots of gold are nothing
I used to ride the dawn
to plant diamonds and platinum in the sky
I go camping
so I can lie back
and count the memories
I don't need a map
to find our golden stolen pirate treasures
-- they’re the reason you can see at night
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)