Wednesday, August 11, 2010

UT07: A Few Words from Our Sponsors

This is the story of how we came to be

The purple-red graffiti on a wall,
hastily scribbled and well-meaning,
but ultimately illegible. This is
the letters on pages well-worn
with re-reading; creases about
to crack, edges dog-eared. You and I
stand on some precipice of stone.

While looking at a painting called The Nightmare

I thought of flowered curtains,
speckled with deep rose-colored buds
on a purple backgoround. These curtains
do not belong in a man's bedroom. You
said you had picked them out yourself. I
watched as you laid on your back, staring
at the coffered ceiling, missing your wife.
I wish you'd told me you'd given her a kayak
when you sold your tractor last week.

Pelt Music

Waste-want and worn
all of the ribbons torn
there is no clickaclack
saw the beach that day
with the pier waving
to and hither

There is nothing anymore
but the silence of dogs
laying with their heads
resting on paws

It sits there, without rust
on its smooth silver cusp
shining for a moon without a name
saw the papers beneath
fluttering in the wind
letters a-run from rain

I suppose I would tell you I'm sorry

I never thought to help you
learn new things; I never asked
you questions that would make a laugh
rumble from deep within your belly -
like a whale it was there, bloated
and obvious, waiting to swim. I wish
I could hold your careful hands, look
into your well-water eyes, and say
I will treasure Christmas forever
if you could only realize I loved you
as best as I was able. Incidentally,
I'm feeling much better now.