Monday, November 30, 2009
I can hear light switches and doors and dog tags that sound like sleigh bells but without the heavy weight and familairity, almost like a ball gown that isn’t gone, a grown up gown that used to be behind doors and behind doors only but Amelia Earhart started the trend of bloomers with her transatlantic nap until we all wake up to find dinner on the table, chinese again, extra tofu and hold the msg please, we have to make it ‘til Dog-Scaring Friday.
I eat a cookie before the road, a bus with strangers and others and sweatpants. Two auroras later and we meet up to hide under a neon martini glass, to hide from the First Avenue crowds until a full moon helped us find our way t Green Bay – this being a sign of warning but with friendly help, we found our way home to where my grandfathers’ name is embedded in the sidewalks, where his Mother found an occupied gallows knot, where we first met under a bridge until, full of pancakes and monkeyshines, where we parted ways with care packages
Ξthree rolls of film Ξhis shirt that he wore on our last night together Ξ
Ξ three flashlights Ξone pocketsized notebook Ξone nude photograph Ξlychees Ξ
But we wish for Minneapolis again so we can make champagne cocktails out of yeasty rivers, prosecco and seasonal bite size bottles of amaretto, butter on the side until we can go where? The No Name Bar? Into the cirrus clouds? A city named Normal? No, for now we will just stay in tangerine chairs until I know I have a heart because it’s breaking.
I can hear light switches and doors and dog tags that sound like sleigh bells but without the heavy weight and familairity, almost like a ball gown that isn’t gone, a grown up gown that used to be behind doors and behind doors only but Amelia Earhart started the trend of bloomers with her transatlantic nap until we all wake up to find dinner on the table, chinese again, extra tofu and hold the msg please, we have to make it ‘til Dog-Scaring Friday.
I eat a cookie before the road, a bus with strangers and others and sweatpants. Two auroras later and we meet up to hide under a neon martini glass, to hide from the First Avenue crowds until a full moon helped us find our way t Green Bay – this being a sign of warning but with friendly help, we found our way home to where my grandfathers’ name is embedded in the sidewalks, where his Mother found an occupied gallows knot, where we first met under a bridge until, full of pancakes and monkeyshines, where we parted ways with care packages
Ξthree rolls of film Ξhis shirt that he wore on our last night together Ξ
Ξ three flashlights Ξone pocketsized notebook Ξone nude photograph Ξlychees Ξ
But we wish for Minneapolis again so we can make champagne cocktails out of yeasty rivers, prosecco and seasonal bite size bottles of amaretto, butter on the side until we can go where? The No Name Bar? Into the cirrus clouds? A city named Normal? No, for now we will just stay in tangerine chairs until I know I have a heart because it’s breaking.
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