Jack of Hearts
11-05-2010, 12:35 PM
Two in the Shoe
Gifts from an old shoebox.
1. Fall
"Whenever I see crinkled leaves floating down toward cold earth my mind immediately moves to evoke other more rampant imagery, such as the red inferno of a wild fire or moonlit nights under sheaths of icy rain because the first thing does nothing for me and the second is as easy as fast food or the ugly twin sister. It's my muse to blame, and she won't listen to my pleas of acknowledgment or pay heed to my acts of insolence.
Granted, I've raised my hand to her several times- I've beaten her and made her ugly when no other words would flow like heaven stream onto cheap reams of poor binder paper, but for the love of god, she won't take to Fall. Clearly bustling with vivid and hurried imagery, Fall is an auspicious hunting ground for the poetic soul and this is a proven fact- unless, of course, the soul in question belongs to me, in which case a lackluster response of blank stare is all that is granted. My muse never did take to Fall.
But I did indulge to seduce myself within swirls of the browns, blacks and oranges, and on a nightly basis as I walk my dog through empty streets and cold air. It feels good and it feels fresh but it feels empty. Fall could never love me waxing poetic. She's too pristine and out of reach; she does not care that I want her on paper, simply brushes the lushness of her satin hair against my cheek and dances away behind that curiously yellow moon, to the enigmatic phantom that could ever do her justice."
2. The Modes
To really taste defeat is to lose the lesson, I’m told- but what about those times when you’re left holding nothing but a big bundle of hurt, across which my name is inked in big bold letters? How meaningless, how halfhearted are the maxims that you… that is, that I whisper toward my own ears when the anguish comes like a morning rain?
And I was left standing as I sunk in the chair with my head perched upon my palms, finding no relieve from her brown eyed pair or heavy heart felt songs. “To touch me is to be me,” she said and I’d just as soon get a long to the final fade, but she grabbed my hand to stay.
The other time, when I was looking in the mirror and I wiped away the smoke… finding identity in every angle of me- but something wasn’t there and I might have walked around as nothing but a big black hole. There were other names for me, sometimes, that borrowed much from the word ‘hole’, but if I’d ever thought I had a chance, you wouldn’t have let her go. You are a dirty room and unfolded laundry and you are unprepared for life and class, but she is not, and you cannot have her. You can always have me.
Don’t mistake it for love, it’s not about love. It’s being loved and wondering who could love us and why. Don’t they know I forget to vacuum? Don’t they know that you get so mixed up in my head sometimes and stumble my way through morally dark rooms? Don’t tell her those things and maybe she’ll come back. Tell her I’m you and she’s gone.
I relaxed my lips when she kissed my forehead and pet my hand before she left. Before she left, she melodied into my ear, “Lace undergarments fall apart faster than pages.”
“I love you,” you said, “and I want to be you.”
Gifts from an old shoebox.
1. Fall
"Whenever I see crinkled leaves floating down toward cold earth my mind immediately moves to evoke other more rampant imagery, such as the red inferno of a wild fire or moonlit nights under sheaths of icy rain because the first thing does nothing for me and the second is as easy as fast food or the ugly twin sister. It's my muse to blame, and she won't listen to my pleas of acknowledgment or pay heed to my acts of insolence.
Granted, I've raised my hand to her several times- I've beaten her and made her ugly when no other words would flow like heaven stream onto cheap reams of poor binder paper, but for the love of god, she won't take to Fall. Clearly bustling with vivid and hurried imagery, Fall is an auspicious hunting ground for the poetic soul and this is a proven fact- unless, of course, the soul in question belongs to me, in which case a lackluster response of blank stare is all that is granted. My muse never did take to Fall.
But I did indulge to seduce myself within swirls of the browns, blacks and oranges, and on a nightly basis as I walk my dog through empty streets and cold air. It feels good and it feels fresh but it feels empty. Fall could never love me waxing poetic. She's too pristine and out of reach; she does not care that I want her on paper, simply brushes the lushness of her satin hair against my cheek and dances away behind that curiously yellow moon, to the enigmatic phantom that could ever do her justice."
2. The Modes
To really taste defeat is to lose the lesson, I’m told- but what about those times when you’re left holding nothing but a big bundle of hurt, across which my name is inked in big bold letters? How meaningless, how halfhearted are the maxims that you… that is, that I whisper toward my own ears when the anguish comes like a morning rain?
And I was left standing as I sunk in the chair with my head perched upon my palms, finding no relieve from her brown eyed pair or heavy heart felt songs. “To touch me is to be me,” she said and I’d just as soon get a long to the final fade, but she grabbed my hand to stay.
The other time, when I was looking in the mirror and I wiped away the smoke… finding identity in every angle of me- but something wasn’t there and I might have walked around as nothing but a big black hole. There were other names for me, sometimes, that borrowed much from the word ‘hole’, but if I’d ever thought I had a chance, you wouldn’t have let her go. You are a dirty room and unfolded laundry and you are unprepared for life and class, but she is not, and you cannot have her. You can always have me.
Don’t mistake it for love, it’s not about love. It’s being loved and wondering who could love us and why. Don’t they know I forget to vacuum? Don’t they know that you get so mixed up in my head sometimes and stumble my way through morally dark rooms? Don’t tell her those things and maybe she’ll come back. Tell her I’m you and she’s gone.
I relaxed my lips when she kissed my forehead and pet my hand before she left. Before she left, she melodied into my ear, “Lace undergarments fall apart faster than pages.”
“I love you,” you said, “and I want to be you.”