I am going to name the songs that wrecked me into the night and made me a decent kisser. The good parts of the Clash Discography, thatsweetroadtriptocalibro!, 6 weeks driving a minivan full of Iraqi refugees in the all-star broke heat of July and the lyrics to “When a Man Loves a Woman” blown through half a car stereo system in Laytonville, CA 2003.
Outside pulled together in holyshitit’sfuckingcold on early holiday mornings.
Things in the air moving to blue,
feel it like deep creation.
Every Christmas I read the first 40 pages of Moby Dick and it never goes anywhere.
Most of my resolutions are on being a better lover,
a more active runner.
I am the one picking up Chinese food from down the street on Christmas eve.
Sesame Chicken Don’t Read Your Fortune Before You Eat The Cookie Blues!
Tradition. Heavy rain.
I want my dad to tell that story about the homeless dude with
the white beard, the cops, and how my grandfather cried out,
“Santy Claus, Santy Claus, whaddare they doin’ to ya?!”
We wait in anticipation for a punch line we’ve heard like
a million times before -
“Be quiet or I’ll shit in your stocking.”
I am in tears.
My love is a product of the people who have torn through my heart with purpose.
It’s a wrinkle that adds poems to my face,
stretch-marks that give verses to my stomach.
I take my brother to the airport.
We talk girls, about how Hall & Oates
taught us everything we know about making out in the 70’s.
“She’s loud and explosive like the history of love songs
and next year I am bringing her home”.
I watch him get caught up in the skyline,
shiny metalliclikewaterfromthesinkgrey that vanishes into faded blue
and it never goes anywhere.