I look for you in every passing car, and with every passing car I want an end. I'm finished drinking your cold water but I need to know how your story ends. So please, story time at nine for the sick childrens who've behaved well in their beds. I doubt that it very well went, or that it went or should have gone by. They will not let me leave? Maybe I'll settle in and sit this one through.
This boy, calls himself Crash Blizzard, has been sending me written messages, tells me how he used to know me as a child, tells me I'm his future and he is mine. He walks me through a hurricane at night to the apparition of a blue house that is but a swelling of the ground, cut in half by an earthly oak, with dim flickers inside. I can't see anything though, the rain's too heavy. He'll send me pictures of Nintendo machines and dusty carpets and Christmas lights and stained ceilings.
I love the Dirty Projectors. Their insane rhythms and beautiful melodies/harmonies have boroughed their way into my head.
Arabic coffee is keeping me sane, sunrise. I've been vandalized hanging there, my parents can't walk in because the press is taking pictures of the bloody scene. It's sad. Mr. Dunthorne's quavering voice as he makes the announcement, I've been hit by a car and I need assistance. You would be in my thoughts if I had any more to give. Hillary Clinton needs a song sung and maybe I can be chauffeured around in those black limos that take you all the way to Sea Isle City to dine finely with Caesar dressing all over. There is an answer. They delay me, wrapping me in red tape so I can't possibly be pulled from the wreck, blue depth. Nope, not a feeling. Some fool's been putting blindfolds around my head. Is that you, Michael? Is that you, Mommy? So, I've been calling the same number and knocking on the same door for years, my hands have gone numb and my ears have rung night and day from dial tones. I'm looking up in the morning, yelling about how I had to be the kid who fell through the cracks, but even I can't hear myself anymore so no one comes to help. I should just take this down and hang it on doors that hold in babes that can be saved who will grow up with toys of plenty and loving mother hens and chanticleer's arms around them before bed. Tuck me in.
I would love to sit and talk with you one day to figure out why you are or ever were thought to be someday a person of interest in and/or around the perimeter of my heartbeat and the meaning of this northern peak staring down and up before us.
"I have given you my soul, leave me my name!"
No comments:
Post a Comment