1. |
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1.
When you’re riding your red Magna two-wheeler,
don’t tighten your shoelaces.
Let the occasional tug
from your clumsy heels
ease the friction in your bunny knots.
Kick off with your right foot;
wobble the left
so you find your
balance.
Push hard.
Feel the burn in your calves
like your mom’s
boyfriend’s
sculpted deltoids.
Keep pushing— just long enough
to feel elated.
When you find your butterflies,
aim for the brush on the side of the road
and remember how it felt
when mom grabbed your seat
the first time
but couldn’t catch you.
Fall with your hands first.
Look at your hands.
Pick the gravel from
the creases in your thumbs.
Don’t pick your skin.
It doesn’t need to hurt
worse than
it looks.
Go inside.
Don’t fuss too much.
Just knock and pretend
that it still hurts.
2.
The moment you realize
you’ve started your first period.
You’re anxious about it.
Wad up two feet
of toilet paper and
tuck it between
your legs.
You know there are tampons under the sink.
Turn on the television.
Keep the volume at 8.
Find Rocket Power,
but don’t sing along this time.
You’re too old
for that shit now,
and your mom is still
sleeping.
If you wake her,
she’ll get all mom-like
and tell you about that time
in high school
when she smoked weed once
and met your dad
in a walk-in pantry
and how nice sex is
but you shouldn’t have babies
until you’ve found a man
who deserves you.
You smirk at the thought.
Go outside
and avoid clichés
of your recent
fruitful womanhood.
Steal the keys.
Practice parking the car
in the driveway
and never leave.
Discover politics on AM radio.
You’re too young
for that shit.
Realize that you are a poet
and compare the colors on the dashboard
to the rainbow assortment
in your freezer.
Go back inside
and write down what you saw.
Stay quiet. She is still sleeping.
3.
You’re ashamed.
Your mom married
in Vegas
to the man you loathe.
You sneak a Gran Marnier
miniature
from their hotel room.
You cannot stay
in their hotel room.
You’re forced to stay
with your grandmother
who passes gas
when she steps on the brake pedal
too hard.
You open up to her
about your dream
of one day playing
the guitar.
You listen to The Smiths too much
and write fake proposals
to Johnny Marr.
She says the guitar
is a feminine instrument
and that
Papa played a hummingbird.
You suddenly don’t mind the gas
and show her how you like to
ease the brakes.
You think you’re drunk,
but you’re just thirsty,
so you ask to go
to a gas station.
You buy her a popsicle
with leftover Easter money,
even though you don’t
celebrate it.
Suddenly,
you notice
how the Vegas strip
matches the dashboard.
4.
You think you’ve found a man
who deserves you,
so you pierce your ears.
You spend your spare change
on making out with him
and his stale gum
at the Edwards Cinema.
You start thinking about
strawberries
and how they are always the brightest
in Santa Maria.
Perhaps the sweetest
but you would never know.
You hate strawberries.
You realize you are still making out
with that boy
and he didn’t even buy popcorn.
You go to the bathroom
and call your mom
to tell her about the man
who might deserve you
but never buys popcorn.
She says he’s no man
and that you should get home
right now.
You take the bus home
and find her on the couch.
You sit and
she puts her arms
around you.
She tells you she’s proud,
you’re important,
her world.
Her eyes are puffy
neck— purple.
You look around and see
empty corners.
You get up and walk to the kitchen.
You pour her a glass
of ice water
and reach into the freezer.
You pull out two purple
Otter Pops
because they are
your favorite.
You hand one to her.
You teach her how to fall
with her hands first
and how you discovered
poetry
in the driveway
and how you got drunk
with Grammie in Las Vegas.
She smiles.
Squeezes your hand.
And you fall asleep.
credits
license
all rights reserved
|
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2. |
Cliché Sad Song
03:09
|
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So I’m an asshole
and I’ll bet you know it
but I never stopped digging
my nails into your skin
every time we kiss.
And I’m an asshole
for loving the taste of your spit
when you’re drinking.
And I’m an asshole
who might write you a slow song
but I’ll bet you’d find me sinking
into a melody I’d rather hear you sing.
And I’m an asshole
who looks at old photos of you
smiling and maybe wasted
off whiskey
and tasting my eyelids at 3 am.
And I’m an asshole
who “doesn’t deserve you”
or the words you bend around my neck.
And I’m an asshole
who can’t pick a movie
or pick up a bar tab
or choose what to eat,
who steps on your toes
when you try to dance with me,
who picks fights and throws things
out of jealousy,
who can’t stand not to be seen
by you.
But I’m the asshole
who brings you coffee,
creates a shield when you sleep,
pictures you in music magazines,
and loves the way your hair does itself
in the morning.
Who also loves the taste of your spit when you wake.
Who traces the hurricane on your nude leg.
Who plans mystery candlelit dates
in bedrooms
on floors
in trailers
on the beach—
and falls apart, comes undone at the seams
when nothing works out perfectly.
But I’m the asshole
who will never get you
no matter how much
my liver can take.
And I’m the asshole
who can’t stop trying
to tell you what it means
to be your whiskey
and lilies
and everything in between.
Who won’t stop sobbing
and making everything about me,
afraid you’ll never feel anything.
I’m the asshole
who just keeps saying
“I’m sorry.”
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3. |
Wizard Wishes
01:10
|
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“You are impossible.
I could give you maniacal sex
and homemade peanut butter cups.
You won’t let yourself love,
and I am adequate at least.
Here, on this concrete bridge.
Do it.
I won’t tell anyone
if you want to indulge in me.
I know your body.
No one else knows your body
for its constellations.
They’d rather play
dot-to-dot on your shoulders.
I am not asking for forever yet.
I’m asking for the opportunity.
Yesterday, on the train,
you bit my lip.
Tonight we are fighting in Grant Park.
My roommate is in love with me again.
You are selfish and envious.
You are everything I want.
You are the frozen waves at Ohio St. Beach—
polluted and brittle.
You are the syncopation in a jazz song—
forced and stunning.
You are the heart of an artichoke—
tender with slivers.
Why won’t you love me?
Why won’t you love me?
Our imperfections
are not coincidental.
They are jigsawed,
the way our ears hook
when we press our breasts together.
Like what we are doing now.
I am ductile,
the way I am spun around you.”
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4. |
Liability (cover)
02:43
|
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