Saturday, November 28, 2009

you are for me as you cannot be for yourself

Prodigy. Girl of infinite wonder.
Face hanging open like a broken gate.
Beating the air with prophesies
issued from honey-sticky lips.
It’s a drag because sometimes
no one knows what we’re doing anymore

or what we’re saying, like last Saturday,
when the world was held together
by a pair of jeans
and a milkshake.
Yet you’re still curious about life,

Because I’ve thought about the spots
where you grip the earth in secret,
where you’re adrift in the wind
and signaling.
I keep checking the sky
for some midnight pilot
tracing your name in stars,

oh me,

but I’m still in the thick
of it I guess. I spend so many nights
thinking about you like this—
a curiosity in orbit,
incapable of knowing anything else,
caught up in some cold tract of self-brilliance.
What is it like to be someone else, anyway?

Like the way you are, the big smile
with the copper-glossy hair,
smile like the sun. (The sun
still rises, right?) Like
the sun. Whereas I drive
in my car for hours
with no direction...

sometimes towns look
better that way.
Well, smacking oars on water,
intransigent, incongruent—
I want to worry about what you worry about
and not be a slave to myself anymore.
Like in Berlin, when I was dazed and alone,

wandering the Friedrichstrasse
with my bag and a song in my throat.
Some empty thing’s always taking me
to Paris and Chicago, and I know
there’s a place where those two
don’t fit together,

but my friends
keep telling me it’s OK and
I guess it’s OK because
these days the bars between our
homes seem to be lit better
and better and

someday the streets
will finally be picked clean
by taxis and we won’t have
anything left to fear

except the utmost sincerity