Monday, December 9, 2013

Saturday Mo[u]rning (lyrics)

I've got no time for regrets
I ain't got no time to act upon or feel them
When you're burning at both ends
with the right kind of friends
You don't need them
But maybe come Sunday
I will kneel down in Confession
And I'll spill them

That's assuming I'll still make it home
by Saturday morning
That's assuming I'll still be alive
on Saturday morning

I've got a lot of scars that I wear upon my arms
If you wanna see them
I've got notebooks of poems all about love and bones
If you wanna read them
And I leave blood drops like breadcrumbs
all the way to my bedroom
Just to lead them

Assuming I'll still make it home
by Saturday morning
They're assuming I'll still be alive
on Saturday morning

And one day you will wake up
and realize you'll never get another letter
From anyone, from any boy
who could ever presuppose to write them better
So maybe come Monday
I will sit down with my pen and paper

That's assuming I'll still make it home
by Saturday morning
That's assuming I'll still be alive
on Saturday morning

Tuesday, December 3, 2013

Country Music Death Poems

I.
Tom T. Hall sings, a scratched record
open: dark kitchen
bubbling on the stove
marrow, chunks simmering in blood
butter churned from brains, onions
sauteed in white lightning
and in butter
churned from brains.

II.
Hunting dawg stands on its hind legs
prized hunting dawg
speaks an ancient tongue
cleaves the hunter's head
with a tobacco knife
long-handled with a blade
fashioned from an ancient handsaw.
Prized hunting dawg shivers
brushes blood from his fine coat
mumbles to himself in an ancient tongue
smokes a pipe
learns to drive a car

III.
old country graveyard
(Mincy)

coffins of wood, real wood, collapse inward, marking the rotten slumber of decades with sunken spaces throughout the shaded sycamore roots

dead things wake up
light themselves a fire
have a dance, neck, get drunk on creekwater and fireflies

early morning, sun begins to rise, the ladies are exhausted, shuddering into the leaves, the boys left unpaired in their romance of tendons long snapped and skull kisses, they stir smoldering coals and talk gets real, far-out, they laugh about their dreams, especially the ones about bein' alive

written, I think, around Valentine's Day '13, I think