Air Aid

Title from Menomena (MySpace)

A pair of stadium lights,
their bulbs vacated from the heads,
stood in the middle of the green field
that glowed dimly blue in the waning light of day
as the fireflies first started to twiddle about,
bounding down and then up
blinking once and then twice
while I sat on the bench
next to the path
next to the fence
next to the old gray shack that heaved in the wind
under the weight of its own support beams
next to the party tents with aluminum supports
that doubled and distorted the fireflies
and the tree nursery beyond them.

Above the nursery
I caught the first star of the night, I think.
It shone bright and white and strong,
never flickering or dancing like the fireflies.
I mouthed a wish with just enough force
that the words formed in the humid air in front of me
and dissipated in the building fog of the evening
and I waited for my wish to come true.

After twenty minutes of crickets and cars,
I decided my star was a satellite.

TKO

I swear, I'm trying to update on time. My computer was recently TKO'd. I'm hoping to have it back up by the end of the week. Which means new postings next Monday. I'm also hoping to post one every weekday next week to make up for the three missing this week. We'll see how that goes.

A Bird Flies By

Title from Port O'Brien (MySpace)

A bird flies by my window
very early every day.
When you wake up, I know
exactly what you'll say:

"I've been dreaming of you
and your smile and your hair,
how they glisten like dew
through the morning's chilly air."

And I've been dreaming of you
and the ninth date that we had.
I misplaced my left shoe
in back of a yellow cab,

so you carried me to your room
and I slept wrapped up in you.
And in the morning when we came to,
I stayed wrapped up in you.

The Start of Something

I'm late, I know. I've become terrible at this the last few weeks. As I've said, though, a little feedback might encourage me to update regularly. :-P

Title from Voxtrot (MySpace)

I felt like a rodeo clown in the moments before the cowboy is thrown
from the tight, muscular back of the thrashing, screaming bull,
with a funnel in my stomach rushing every fluid in my body to my bladder
and tightening my throat under a big red bow tie
when I realized that my hands had a will all their own.

And that will craved the soft bumps of the thick veins that steady your hands
or make them shake
or grip my own roaming fingers
as every instinct in the parts of my body I still control demand, in shrill shrieks,
that I ignore my hands,
like if I acknowledge them with posture, expression, or
--God forbid--
word, they'll go numb and I'll lose that comforting pulse,
the beat to which I showed you in a cramped, humid bedroom that I couldn't play guitar.

So I tighten my lips
and wait for my rider to be thrown
so I can swoop in and distract you from the fact that it ever happened
with silly faces and awkward jokes and that funnel in my belly.

Making Friends

Title from Bishop Allen (MySpace)

You were at the register next to mine all morning,
alternating between helping customers and looking bored,
occasionally spinning the sunglasses rack
and eventually trying on a pair of aviators with white frames.

I spent all morning trying to decide between
"Do you want to go to the movies with me,"
or "Do you want to come to the movies with me?"
I eventually decided to try neither
because while I could go crazy deciding,
I don't think you'd come with me.