this proud little home bare ankles moving in making it our own, jet-lagged covered in sawdust air mattress giddy empty
the kitchen was perfect cool barefoot and wine-drunk at night pancake batter in the morning shattered jam jars lovemaking, jarring little cuts and cereal boxes clogging the pantry even the glass bowl heaped high with overripe mangoes
and underripe avocadoes and outside a garden hose black-eyed beetles under a stone who cares? about an old painting under the stairs
behind your ears the sour smell coming from inside the furnace
in the corner where the dog we name and love will die in its sleep
our limbs are only softening around the joints and in the end, having to find not only one single place to be ourselves but to live out the life of a circus wicked torches and trapeze wires delicate and bracing, strong and self-referential a homesick tiger, pacing
spotlights dusting below the under-cup of your breasts it’s wetter on the dark side of the moon nothing grows and nothing glows but the potential leans out at us, for life from the cratered things which taste of borrowed light from other galaxies
the same tired words now exploded on our tongues.
Title borrowed from a story (collection) by the wonderful Miranda July, because it ‘belonged’. The rest is my own.
I am leaning against the side of the house again this morning, smoking a cigarette.
I used to come out here before everyone woke up, to think about everything that is wrong with all of us. I am tired of thinking, lately, and I rest the back of my head against the brick and watch the smoke curl up from my lips. It looks awfully sexy, but strange too. Feeling sexy when your socks are soaked through with dew.
The cigarette is done now, and I stash the butt under the rock that I keep just behind the fence. My head feels strange, too, because I’ve stood up too quickly. A car starts somewhere down the street. I touch my lips and have to force myself to go back inside.
J. packs another bowl and we pass it around a few times, getting a decent buzz going, and then we all go upstairs to see Rusko. Our group is divided between those who have seen Rusko before and those who have no idea what to expect. K. shows us to his room, and everyone gathers around the dresser. On top of the dresser is a huge glass terrarium and inside it- a motionless yellow-brown banded gecko.
K. lifts the creature out of the terrarium and presents it to us, beaming, and the girls smile indulgently and quietly slide their phones from their back pockets. “Here,” M. whispers to me, “let me take a picture of you with the lizard.”
“He’s a Velvet Gecko,” K. announces proudly, looking down at his cupped hands.
I don’t want to touch it, thinking for some reason of the resin on my hands. I’m afraid that I’ll hurt the thing- who knows what’s going to poison something this fragile? I bend my torso around Rusko instead, positioning my head directly behind, and at eye-level. From the viewpoint of M.’s camera, the effect of my round, red-cheeked face is Rusko transformed; he acquires the majesty of his prehistoric ancestors, solemn and unblinking against the backdrop of a rising sun.
We pack more bowls, and take lots of pictures of Rusko chilling out on top of everyone’s heads.
We met the first time at an outdoor jazz festival
so why are we folding clothes
in this sad humming spaceship of a Laundromat
we were going to be better than that
we were going to
we were going to stop stealing detergent
or whatever we could get our hands on.
your lips and ears are famous
but you lost face with what’s between them
i didn’t mean them
i meant that we were going to
not end up like our teachers.
it turns out we were worse off.
our hands dipped in milk
to take the edge off
we are tracing circles of frost on glass
until the coach asks
who’s got fresh legs?
A certain someone, Annie, wants a baby Let’s make evil- he kicked at her Lovin and touchin in yellow grass, naked in the rain for one hot minute.
When the fire happens- he lied this is the place (universally speaking) C’mon girl, and drink from this body of water Behind the sun we’ll have our baby slowly deeply and pain twisting in the Blackwoods Warm tape and Why don’t you love me- because You always sing the same.
True men don’t kill coyotes by the way You’re gonna get yours, Annie, if you have to ask (if you give it away).
A (partial) Found Poem. Source is the complete discography (song titles) of the Red Hot Chili Peppers.