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Beautiful photo. Beautiful band.

Even Marilyn bit her nails....

One day, I'll get back to you. (c/o: lonelyplanet.com)


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I <3 love poems

Lame, right?  Well go fuck yourself if you don't.  I've been in the mood to post one- or as close to one as I can muster.  This was written a while ago- 3, 4 years?- I don't know, but I'm gonna pretend like I don't care who sees it.  (P.S.- In addition to a thousand better love poems, there have been many "time" poems done far better than this attempt, too, of course.  See: Hoagland's "The Time Wars,"  or even Eliot's "Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock."  You dig?)




It isn't right that I'm beginning
to feel the years
about to pile in front of me
like bones
on a plate. That makes it seem
as if we have control—
just eat slower.
As if time is three dimensional,
malleable as gold;
we can make time fit;
tailor it.

But that's not right.
I begin to form a sentence about
the clock being a fallacy,
but at this rate it's best
to keep things simple, just say:
we can’t even see time passing, let alone
touch it.

Yesterday I wished you and I
could have taken that trip we'd talked about.
Afterwards, I'd ask you “How long
do you think we'll be this happy?”
I worry no length of time is enough.
We'll be gluttons for time.
Lust for it.
But who’s ever been happy
as long as I'd like us to be?
And though your being away
is cutting into the years,
erosion has created
some beautiful things.
Ten percent of the moon
is still a crescent.



Once we'd been driving for a while,
through state after state, hill after hill,
I was hoping somewhere, along a road,
among the trees, we might come across
a big clearing, an old battlefield, and have our own
gentle war.   This morning during breakfast
I decide the best part would be—
not the travel, not the seeing, not the consumption
of space and land and time, but—
the perfect silence we'd hear upon waking
in the middle of the field. 
Yet in that moment,
around the lonely kitchen table
is the perfect white noise
of the air conditioner blowing, the familiar sound
of cars driving by, an airplane
moaning overhead.  And there is a certain calm about them.
Maybe, after all those years have piled
into a tall but steady tower, our hearts
will have begun to beat for each other like powerful engines;
nothing inherently pretty anymore
about the heavy steel parts;
nothing more than practical
about the freight they carry;
but the hum they make while flying
will be enough to remind us why we're still here.


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