Happy Valentine’s Day, oldsters. – L.M.
You say I’m a dreamer.
We’re two of a kind.
Who could heal what’s never
been as one?
I’m counting the steps
to the door of your heart.
The message is perfectly simple;
the meaning is clear:
The wisdom of the fool won’t set you free.
You can feel the cushion
but you can’t have a seat.
How do you say you’re okay
to an answering machine?
We’ll be the Pirate Twins again.
Your lips a magic world.
To look at you, and never speak –
the ghost in you, she don’t fade.
You always said we’d still be friends someday.
Posted in poetry
Tagged ABC, Aztec Camera, cento, Crowded House, Echo & the Bunnymen, Eighties, Howard Jones, INXS, New Order, New Wave, OMD, poem, poetry, stop complaining about it being a "fake holiday" or I'll send you on a bus to Camp Kwitchyabitchin, The Replacements, Thomas Dolby, Thompson Twins, valentines day
They don’t teach children how to deal with bomb scares anymore. No one tells them how to hide underground, under desks, or in doorways these days when they’re dropped. We don’t drill them how to move or stay calm when that shrill sound like air raid sirens spills from her mouth. No, these days they don’t have to learn what to do when that tommy gun hidden in your leftest chest lays down a spray of bullets from its chain that makes your hand tremble like an alcoholic, or how to best recover when your upper lip warbles and turns concave, leaving you to stutter-spit your words. Just like no one builds shelters with six-feet thick cement filled with fine, silky sheets, dessert wines, fancy flowers, or another hundred pick-up lines, unrivaled and original, with a back-up generator fueled by scented candles, Marvin Gaye on vinyl or the Postal Service mp3s. If only we had spent those awful gym class hours learning how to keep our hands from sweating, feeling clammy when they’re clasped in one another, or if health class taught us not to taste her tonsils with our tongues but rather nibble on that soft and tender spot behind her ear, maybe then we would survive when the motionless air of an impending Armageddon implodes all around us, pelting us with a flurry or a hail of sensation that undermines—overwrites?—every social scripture that they’d taught us up ’til then. Unfortunately, it has proven quite difficult to evaluate a student’s mastery of mix tapes on standardized tests, or to establish an objective criteria by which to judge that attentive child who eliminates the gaps between the songs and leaves no awkward silence but those select few fleeting moments when the pause is deemed appropriate.
Sure, they can teach you how to take a test, but never what to say, nor the ways to respond, when she finally drops the bomb.
Posted in fiction, poetry, prose
Tagged atomc bomb, bomb, education, i love you, l-bomb, l-word, love, marvin gaye, mix tape, monday, no child left behind, nuclear weapons, nukes, postal service, romance, sex, valentines day