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our time...this is our time to waste away.
when you came stepping in with balloons and bent spoons and blue clouds. in this bedroom, the sharp corners of the world are smoothed and sanded by a cut so soft and a chilly touch. let them say ‘here be monsters.’
their antiquated assumptions.
while outside newspapers pile high, there are damp towels on tiles
and dirty dishes in the sink. (let them lay and come dance with me)
honey, show ‘em your fangs. you live in syringes i huddle in bottles and that’s why we get along. claustrophobically entombed, we’ll lay in this bedroom until we’re brain dead and in love. as the years pass by, i’ll decay by your side through fit and through foam. so come with me love, understood and above, and we’ll make us a home.

he came back dressed in pressed clothes. he says he’s a changed man,
from his head down to the ground. a name i heard one thousand times but never spoke.
still, if he’s parched, i’ll lend a cup. and if he’s starved, a loaf.
but some dirt just don’t come off.
saying that he wouldn’t be home late, he ends up drinking and he’s crouched behind the eight. trying to clean it up but spreading it around. so if you’re parched i’ll lend a cup, and if you’re starved a loaf...but some dirt just doesn’t come off.

on one of those days when gravity pulls so hard, Hennepin is painted
with people in their cars. never mind alarm radios, deadlines, and debates; i pick up the pace to a well-worn bar-room chair. there i talk with the ghosts that haunt between these beams and posts. ‘tell me all about yourselves!'
raise them up. here’s to the ones that are dead and are gone.
raise them up because here’s to the ones that we love.
that one lays brick, and this one walks the steel.
(these friendly phantoms make this city move)
the one hovering at the end of the bar is confined in a cube with a computer. and he
has a postcard within reach, of a sun setting on a beach that he knows he’ll never see.
raise them up. here’s to the ones that are dead and are gone.
the young ones stir, wake up, and grow their memories. as they wait patiently to hear those front door keys. so if this is what it takes to bring home the pay then that’s what i’m going to do. raise them up because here’s to the ones that we love.
(its ok, you don’t have to save the world today)
now all that we ask, is this one night in reprieve; drinking, laughing, and forgetting. then i will forgive my enemies in the morning, and may God forgive me. you tried your best now it’s fine to say one more time boys: raise them up, here’s to the ones that we lost along the way. raise them up because here’s to the ones that remain.

i am not just a family friend. can’t you see that you are the hand and i am the glove?
i only love what i can’t have, and we only hurt the ones we love.
yeah, i got your picture and i’m so glad that you called.
did you get my letters? you know, i’ve been hurt as well.
years ago the newspaper comes, as always with only half the story.
“little boy ran away from his grandparents place.”
they always seemed so loving.
son, if i could just hold you down, you’d see you’re under my skin.
i wouldn’t disagree with me in this situation.
i said, “age is just a number.”
she said, “i guess you’re right.”
i told her that i loved her, and she told me to get a life.
and the newspaper comes. again, with just half the story.
“predator strikes again with inhuman intent.”
he must have just been born mean.
hon, if i could just hold you down, you’d see you’re under my skin.
i wouldn’t disagree with me in this situation.
“don’t call me” she screams; even though i know she’s losing sleep over me.
so now i made sure she sleeps peacefully beneath the floor, with all the other girls i have
loved before. i am the shadow of a lesser kind, and i’ll show you how to love. do not
blame me; i am the product, not the drug. i am the shadow of a lesser kind, and i’ll teach
you how to love. do not blame me; i am the product of the glove.

 

every thirteen-year-old thinks they’re going to be famous someday.
she slams the door to all the shouting in the hallway, and dreams of hollywood
and afternoons floating under a bundle of balloons. one day he wakes up an old man,
the moment has gone. happy-hours and hangovers last just so long. because, living ten years
in the past or future can lose you right where you are. while the winners are chosen and the
others must be as content as stepping stones or as symbiotic smiling doormats.
if that’s the grand plan, then next time leave me out of it and pass the punch.
(let’s put this heretic to bed)
they are the ones whose attention is so hard to keep, because
crippling depression seems to dull one’s taste to dinner parties.
“what a glorious living room!”
“what a dangerous dinner set!”
custom built to separate.
all the while, she lies in a hospital with echoes of machines beeping.
“these sanitized sheets are sure nice, but it’s just not my own bed,”
“just leave me, i don’t want to be fixed,
i just want to be heard...maybe next time i’ll try deeper.”
my cutters, my burners, my lovers, my sinners, my strays; let’s march on the gates
and set fire to these edict estates. because we are stronger in numbers and no
longer ashamed. we are not quiet, and we are not going away.

 

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