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Chicken Sessions
24 November 2013 18:40A reworking of the three latest pieces. Still a bit frankensteiny but the good parts really worked. Need to make it more cohesive.
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I have Picasso’s blue period all over my tongue and all I do is lick barber poles until they stop being candy canes and start being the glowing electric bug killers that hang out in front of lonely bars in hot provinces. I have a helmet made from dreams rolled flat and lacquered into a carapace that protects me when I rush headlong into stupid, stupid intersections. It doesn’t occur to me that there is a shorter way to the destination. I still try to get recipes by seducing shoe stores. I airplane my shopping lists into blue skies that I can’t come back from.
To say that my heart is a parachute would be accurate. It only opens when it’s falling and it doesn’t stop the descent, it only slows it down and makes the landing safer. I wish I could get taken away by aliens and brought back a better person. But if you judge a peacock by its ability to explain particle fusion, you will disappoint the road map and learn to speak in crutches.
The bedsprings of your lips leave me wanting to test the tensile strength of honesty. You bend me like sound waves through a speaker. I’m a frat party balancing on a stool in a closet and you’re the avalanche pinned behind the starting gun. If this is a staring contest, I’m all out of eyes. Because I’m old.
Sometimes, the ghost of me arrives. I’ll be sitting in a coffee shop, hanging out in a bar with friends, even reading a book by myself at home and there’s a feeling I get when I know that that guy, that yesterday me who really knew me would know how much fun I’m having and then it makes me sad because now I’m the only person who knows. It’s like rocking out to Sabotage and then remembering that one of the Beastie Boys is dead. But this isn’t about my sadness or the idea that I’m lonely. Because I’m not. I’m not.
It’s just that when young me breezes in, it’s unexpected. I’m happy to see him but I feel a little tainted that he chose such good times to show up again. I miss him so much. I miss him to the point that I wish I’d never been him but only for a second. He crosses my mind and it’s a stroke across my heart from a cold, mid-life crisis paintbrush. Younger me was a douchebag and I am trying to be less of one but I miss his fire. And this is where I live sometimes. At this crossroads of memory and reality. A yearning for a greener-grass past that was never actually as good as this present.
But back to you. You’re a time before coffee. You’re a land before space. Deep within the lungs of God you awaken. You have no complaints department because you have no complaints. Duct tape holds together the model airplane of my soul but you, you’re a classical violinist on vacation here. You’re a piano-string-puppet and there’s a blue fire in your heart. You’re a key. People put keys in to unlock things and turn keys to wind things up and pull keys out to make things explode. Cats run wild on your farm. Your teeth float to the top like your mouth is made of cream. You’re limber cause you’re good at limbo. You’re weightless cause you’re good at waiting. Lighting doesn’t kill because you’re a better conduit than the rest of us.
You remind me that barbers used to be doctors which means that barbers used to bleed their customers
to make them feel better. You remind me that genies are a euphemism for hubris and that our greed is a lying telescope to another world where nothing bad exists. Our fantasies are a forum for untruths that only speak to us in paper lanterns and lovers that never say the wrong thing.
All I know is that a scorpion’s claw can’t hold a pen and that I’m happy that I know you.
tags
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I have Picasso’s blue period all over my tongue and all I do is lick barber poles until they stop being candy canes and start being the glowing electric bug killers that hang out in front of lonely bars in hot provinces. I have a helmet made from dreams rolled flat and lacquered into a carapace that protects me when I rush headlong into stupid, stupid intersections. It doesn’t occur to me that there is a shorter way to the destination. I still try to get recipes by seducing shoe stores. I airplane my shopping lists into blue skies that I can’t come back from.
To say that my heart is a parachute would be accurate. It only opens when it’s falling and it doesn’t stop the descent, it only slows it down and makes the landing safer. I wish I could get taken away by aliens and brought back a better person. But if you judge a peacock by its ability to explain particle fusion, you will disappoint the road map and learn to speak in crutches.
The bedsprings of your lips leave me wanting to test the tensile strength of honesty. You bend me like sound waves through a speaker. I’m a frat party balancing on a stool in a closet and you’re the avalanche pinned behind the starting gun. If this is a staring contest, I’m all out of eyes. Because I’m old.
Sometimes, the ghost of me arrives. I’ll be sitting in a coffee shop, hanging out in a bar with friends, even reading a book by myself at home and there’s a feeling I get when I know that that guy, that yesterday me who really knew me would know how much fun I’m having and then it makes me sad because now I’m the only person who knows. It’s like rocking out to Sabotage and then remembering that one of the Beastie Boys is dead. But this isn’t about my sadness or the idea that I’m lonely. Because I’m not. I’m not.
It’s just that when young me breezes in, it’s unexpected. I’m happy to see him but I feel a little tainted that he chose such good times to show up again. I miss him so much. I miss him to the point that I wish I’d never been him but only for a second. He crosses my mind and it’s a stroke across my heart from a cold, mid-life crisis paintbrush. Younger me was a douchebag and I am trying to be less of one but I miss his fire. And this is where I live sometimes. At this crossroads of memory and reality. A yearning for a greener-grass past that was never actually as good as this present.
But back to you. You’re a time before coffee. You’re a land before space. Deep within the lungs of God you awaken. You have no complaints department because you have no complaints. Duct tape holds together the model airplane of my soul but you, you’re a classical violinist on vacation here. You’re a piano-string-puppet and there’s a blue fire in your heart. You’re a key. People put keys in to unlock things and turn keys to wind things up and pull keys out to make things explode. Cats run wild on your farm. Your teeth float to the top like your mouth is made of cream. You’re limber cause you’re good at limbo. You’re weightless cause you’re good at waiting. Lighting doesn’t kill because you’re a better conduit than the rest of us.
You remind me that barbers used to be doctors which means that barbers used to bleed their customers
to make them feel better. You remind me that genies are a euphemism for hubris and that our greed is a lying telescope to another world where nothing bad exists. Our fantasies are a forum for untruths that only speak to us in paper lanterns and lovers that never say the wrong thing.
All I know is that a scorpion’s claw can’t hold a pen and that I’m happy that I know you.
tags
