Sunday, September 26, 2010

a letter i never delivered

i am already composing my letter to you,
stating my goodbye
it could be years from now, or months
but time will not change its contents
detailing all i'd long to tell you,
but never in my own words, though
there are so many of them
i'm singing them in song,
using words that others wrote,
because with you i hold my own
too closely to my chest
to let you know everything
i'll tell you to the tune of music,
and a passion
that is not wholly my own,
though i do hold it dear

i could, i would write you a million words, but i know that even if you read them, the meaning would escape you - i know you're not big on words. so i'll write to you in music, which i know is a language we share, and i'll let the others do the talking for me, for it's just as true this way - even if i am not the first (or last) to say it.
give it a listen through, and then do whatever you like with it. put it on repeat (as i might do with a favorite song), ignore it, forget it, shatter the cd against a wall. in the end, it's only worlds, love. and that's slightly blasphemous for me to say, seeing as words create (and possibly even destroy) my entire life, but it's true. words are only words, and only actions tell us the truth. but we have to try to communicate somehow, and my best method is through language. listen to the words, then forget them, if you will. in the end, there is only you. and i.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

fast, heavy Chevy

as a child, i'd ride
in my mother's car
past an old filling station
which sold classic cars
one Corvette, hunter green,
$18,990. i told myself
i'd buy that car, one
day. some day.
almost sixteen, birthday-bound,
my father asked me
what did i want?
i said Corvette, a Stingray
i want a fast, heavy chevy
(or maybe, a motorcycle?)
i unwrapped
not keys, naturally,
but a 1972 Stingray
model, bright orange.
my father has a wry sense of humor.

my first car - a Buick of
indeterminate color -
was crashed into an SUV, then driven
into the ground, but
my college acceptance ensured
my parents' goodwill,
and i finally got what i wanted -
hunter green, spoiler,
T-tops, Bose stereo -
the poor girl's Corvette, but
i wasn't complaining,
i ran the hell out of it -
brought it through Katrina unscathed,
drove 3,000 miles across the country,
only to sacrifice it
to an icy mountain,
along with three of my ribs.

years later, and
3,000 more miles back
to the southeast, my wheels
are my bike,
my legs, my boyfriend's goodwill -
relearning how to live in the south
without losing my mind,
and reconciling eating organically
with going to taco bell in a Suburban.
reconciling how to want
a fast, heavy Chevy,
versus trying to get off oil,
how to change the desires
of the mind?
can we alter them in time?