Tag Archives: valentines day

80s Love Song Cento

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.

Ballad of A Deep Blue Greeting

If I wanted to be trendy
I’d try to break your heart
Send you mix tapes labelled
“Broken taped up glasses”
Or flowers cut in rows
Pasted to some bristol board
Add in some tragic hipster touches
Cigarettes rolled by lonely Indians
Beer tabs from a train ride in Oregon

I’d cut the pant legs from my skinny jeans
Because I was too chicken to cut myself
Drizzle my non-fat mochaccino foam
Across your name bedazzled and tell you
It was whale froth, that I’d reached in
To join the ocean just like Weezer’s Jonah
Or Pinocchio only to have the giant sea beast
Gurgle out a spit bath with his tongue
Like some Star Wars overlord

A deep-blue greeting

The big kiss I’d be trying to send you
In my bristol board and foam bedazzled
Off-the-cuff  petal mix-tape montage
Hoping my funny Valentines Day card
Would somehow reach your door
On a night when you sat on the edge
Of your window growing a patch of lawn
In a box by the sill filled with bottle caps
From microbrew forty ouncers

And the fake eyelashes that match
Your non-ironic pink denim jacket

But that’s not what this song is after
It’s more the sound of your laughter
Over a box of green grass
By your tiny windowsill
Growing stronger
With the sound
Of your heart.

When the L Bomb Drops

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.