Sunday, February 8, 2009

The Hallie and Jordan Masterworks

Chapter VIII: Counterculture. Counterattack. Attack on my soul.

Your love is a runaway train
Your hate is a plane going nowhere
My pain is a scooter.
Let’s go back to better days.
Picking daisies in the sunshine
Lieing in the grass
There’s a bug in your hair
There’s love in the air
There’s love in—
Daddy roasting hotdogs on the grill
The way he handled that meat
If only he had been so tender with me
If only—
Why the long face Daddy?
Why the big belt Daddy?
Why that choice of facial hair Daddy?
Who’s my real Daddy, Daddy?
I cant’ sleep at night
The sound of an ancient vroom
The smell of fresh cut grass
The taste of your lips—
Perhaps if we had sat two feet to the right
If you had moved your two feet from the blade
Would you still have feet to move?
If you did…would you dance?
Now, it’s just a solo number
Me, moving sadly to the music
The beat of my longing
The rhythm of my desire
The tempo of my passion
The karaoke of compromise
Such a sweet word
Such a sour word
A little tangy
A little tango
The tango inside my heart
The tango we’ll never dance Maria
The tango we’ll never—
Mira! Ten Cuidado!
Can’t you hear the vroom approaching?
Can’t you smell the grass burning?
Can’t you feel our love dying?
Can’t you feel the scar deepening?
If I could I’d paint you a portrait of this day
The yellow of the sun
The green of the trees
The white of the fluffy clouds
The RED of the blood as it splatters
The BLUE of your tears
The MAHOGANY of the hot dogs
The ORANGE of that guy’s shirt who was just hanging out near us I don’t even know who he is—
But I can’t Maria.
My fingers aren’t what they used to be.
They aren’t.
They were chopped off in father’s angry buzzsaw
Useless—like a frankfurter
With no Frank.


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