Saturday, May 22, 2010
and listen to some jazz
it's on the radio i love the sound
on a saturday night how we work so hard
can we do it all by doing everything?
lie with me
so i don't lie alone
saturday night seems right for the sound
we can leave the light on you can read if you want
if you still can't relax
maybe i'll rub your feet a while
just lie with me and listen to some jazz
even days like this when we need to make something
why this crazy life running around?
lets make some time
that's why they play jazz
on a saturday night
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
We were strolling along a sunny yet secluded trail with white-petaled blooms and her brother when a sliver from a twig made its way into her foot. She's a bit freaked as I try to fish it out.
We're both in high school, at least she would be soon, as far as I knew anyway. She's kinda tan and really shy and stacked like a cinderblock bunker.
No wonder she's freaked, I should be. Maybe I am. We've been going out for just over a month and we're on our way to where her dad lives.
Although I'd never admit it, our phone conversations are just starting to take on a Muzak quality. She writes me letters that I keep in a 12-inch cake tin.
The splinter is in with a toenail and I'm not even used to the way she smells yet, but her lip gloss tastes like wild cherries.
Her parents split last year and I hear it was pretty nasty, leaving her mom with seven boys and one helluva daughter.
That first night we'd stood in the church parking lot with her AquaNet bangs and the denim jacket she wears with everything. She playfully bites my tongue when we kiss.
I grew up in the township and this is my first city girl since I was four. Damn those brown eyes.
She gets an Anthrax poster for her room because I have one, but she generally goes for a pinup of Kip Winger with some kind of bulge.
At one point during the "surgery" she gets antsy and I playfully smack her on the leg and she playfully makes a big deal about it.
One time we stood on her front porch during the rain and burned cheap incense sticks from some store at the mall.
Her dad was staying in a trailer with her uncle, and come to think of it, she smells somewhere between musk and a basement.
Usually I see her where she babysits, and this fact delays the blow of my parents learning about her home life, where there are always flies in the kitchen and a loaf of bread with the bag left open.
Then again, maybe there was more to that slap on the leg. I just wanted her to calm down, but it could be the discomfort from the tiny fragment is really not as big a deal as she's making it.
Another time we walked by a house that had burned down in her neighborhood. I took home a pair sunglasses from among the rubble, they were way too big for my face and I just threw them in a drawer. Whenever I opened it I got hit with that aroma you can never forget, smoke from materials never intended for combustion, someone's life changed in minutes.
When I meet her father he seems entirely out of phase from how she'd described him. I still have the cake tin.