All the times ya’v painted up y'r face.
And the other ones when an unnecessary apology was THE ONLY transport bound y'r next direct.
The click click clacks yu'l need to delete the draft. And re-word the draft and--better off, cancel on that draft.
When you hear yourself talk to a new boyfriend through your oldest girlfriends ears that very first time.
God the googling of dim movie references and the microdose-al measuring of non-offensive nibbles to share at a time.
Each tired tally mark etched in the ledger of whether-er not yu’l be loved.
The chip chip chap of the parts,
best off to hide--
pitching against the point chisel.
Til self-worth shards crunch under some sagged boot and your best-loved secrets just but dust up your lash.
Lord if it ain’t time then--
to scrub up
and paint on that face.
I’m on the rag. Im on the mend. I’ve been writing on this thing all the languid week long.
I wish I were sitting on top of the bathroom sink inspecting my pores in the mirror. Or on the porch with the neighbor’s magazines. Failing to notice feeling stoned ‘cuz there’s nothing in particular in needing of doing. I want to be back at the farm and I want there to be a thunderstorm on the metal roof.
Anywhere but here
I want to be already done with the things that I don’t want to do alone. Like learning guitar or waking up tomorrow. But then again, if I were under some blankets, I’d probably definitely feel better. If I were just on to the next thing I’d have finally arrived. I’d be a big success. The whispers would quiet. The blue feelings would disappear for good. Those mf feelings that are the same murky blue of high traffic office carpeting but somehow never at all like the sea or my old love’s eyes. I still picture the way he looked at me almost every time I come. It’s been nine years.
Anytime but now
I’d like to be someone who cares much less. Oh to switch places with the curly headed, bubbly spirit blonde that’s at every danged concert, every time in cowboy boots. I wish I could be of the tribe who has the same brunch plans every week. Or that I could shake hands with bizarro universe me. The girl I obsess over. The one who accomplished all the things we dreamed up when we weren’t busying ourselves in the abyss of survival.
Anyone but me
Sara has been sober for 53 days. Matt & Jenna have date night
I’m on the farm
Playing records, wishing I wasn't on the farm
This song is about how simple it is to fall in love
Everyone has turned so adult. So I started exercising
Only it leaves me exhilarated. Which makes me crave tequila
Beck’s in bed already. Curt's got the kiddo this week
Maggie would but she’s awfully far away
I’ve got a new book of low cal recipes
and time enough to dissect the logic of the one navy in the white beans
on the counter
I play with the dogs. Smoke dope in the tub.
The chorus: It never takes;
It never took
Do you gals want to get together two weeks from Wednesday?
After yoga, but before the girls go down
I can’t wait to see you
It helped to picture herself on a dirt road.
An incline, where the precipice was always just beyond "those" trees. This road had tire grooves on either side to assure her that she was not the first, and on it she could just goddamned walk. Her slick double French braids could be stagnant in the breeze-less atmosphere. She was in no danger of any loco weeds noticing her as shapely or different. Which was, decidedly, too uncomfortable anymore.
On the road the edges were finite. This divot was where she could be human and fallible and that patch of grass was where married men went home to their wives. The two were always mutually exclusive at best. In this way it was never daunting. If rest was called for, she could lay in a 'x' shape, and touch it all. Digging her toes into a patch of mud, she could feel every strand of words, which she had ever heard formed, disconnect until they were all just tiny, manageable bits. Not that she had any desire to administer a thing. She only aimed to goddamn walk and walk.