Month: May 2011

floral couch

When I was, like, five, I was sitting on the floral couch and looking at the old shag carpet that the house we’d moved into came with. The large woodgrain television may have been turned on, and not because I remember it, but because the televisions were always on at our house. But anyway, I was looking at the shag, and I threw up. I left a little pool of vomit nestled between the cushion and the crotch of my shorts. It was vaguely similar to orange cream soda. So, what the fuck am I supposed to do? I started crying. Pop got pissed, of course, and made me feel like shit about it. Mom, though, she came in and cleaned it up so I could stand and go bathe.

That’s about all I remember.

floral couch

When I was, like, five, I was sitting on the floral couch and looking at the old shag carpet that the house we’d moved into came with. The large woodgrain television may have been turned on, and not because I remember it, but because the televisions were always on at our house. But anyway, I was looking at the shag, and I threw up. I left a little pool of vomit nestled between the cushion and the crotch of my shorts. It was vaguely similar to orange cream soda. So, what the fuck am I supposed to do? I started crying. Pop got pissed, of course, and made me feel like shit about it. Mom, though, she came in and cleaned it up so I could stand and go bathe.

That’s about all I remember.

sway

When I watch the trees move I think of the sway of your hips when you dance. In silence we are the rustling leaves, the breeze’s effortless skill at making us feel like sweaty gods. Our heads are those of ancient beasts. My fangs, my bulldog jaw, clamp down on the eternity of every moment. Seven fingers out of ten may touch you. The other three will delve far beyond touch. In every bird there is a silent stare, a prideful pleading. I press fingers into my blubber and think of the ocean and how warm it feels in December. The breeze is drawn there, then submits and is overtaken by the wind, joining its journey from end to end, like sucking toes and pulling hair. When I watch the sky gray I think of you, summer, and how nothing here fits or makes sense. Trying to make sense of things not meant for the thinking brain, just the doing one. This is the physics of heaven, hell, and where we lie in between.

sway

When I watch the trees move I think of the sway of your hips when you dance. In silence we are the rustling leaves, the breeze’s effortless skill at making us feel like sweaty gods. Our heads are those of ancient beasts. My fangs, my bulldog jaw, clamp down on the eternity of every moment. Seven fingers out of ten may touch you. The other three will delve far beyond touch. In every bird there is a silent stare, a prideful pleading. I press fingers into my blubber and think of the ocean and how warm it feels in December. The breeze is drawn there, then submits and is overtaken by the wind, joining its journey from end to end, like sucking toes and pulling hair. When I watch the sky gray I think of you, summer, and how nothing here fits or makes sense. Trying to make sense of things not meant for the thinking brain, just the doing one. This is the physics of heaven, hell, and where we lie in between.

Metallica

I developed an appreciation for all of their earlier albums, but it seems to me that they hit a sweet spot in ‘89. I was 7 at the time and couldn’t have cared less about this music they called heavy metal. In kindergarten I suppose, a naive kid like most others if they were in a good place. Sometimes I get the notion to travel back in time and hand myself some album or another. “Save it.” For what, exactly? Hell if know. Never mind that I’d be some bearded guy approaching a kindergartner with a Metallica cassette. But if I’d listened to the music at that point in time, even just a song, who knows what might have happened. I might not be here now, writing this. When I think of it that way I dismiss the fantasy and return to where I am. Focus. Listen.

Metallica

I developed an appreciation for all of their earlier albums, but it seems to me that they hit a sweet spot in ‘89. I was 7 at the time and couldn’t have cared less about this music they called heavy metal. In kindergarten I suppose, a naive kid like most others if they were in a good place. Sometimes I get the notion to travel back in time and hand myself some album or another. “Save it.” For what, exactly? Hell if know. Never mind that I’d be some bearded guy approaching a kindergartner with a Metallica cassette. But if I’d listened to the music at that point in time, even just a song, who knows what might have happened. I might not be here now, writing this. When I think of it that way I dismiss the fantasy and return to where I am. Focus. Listen.