let's go head-bang in the kitchen
and forget there's an ocean between us.
i'll wear my slayer shirt and you can roll up a big joint
and we'll keep most of our clothes on when we sleep.
i can turn this long-distance desperation
into the exception to my rule.
it'll become a metaphor later, anyway.

i am not one for tip-toeing,
the olive branch between your wife and i
is the baby on her lap.
my have you been busy.

all i really want
is to get back to that place
that existed for me before you had the
chance to become the voice of all my judgments.
is it melodramatic that i kept all of your cigarette butts and
that butterfinger wrapper?
i don't care.
i don't know when i'll see you next
and i need something to hold onto.

it's cool though.
i can put all the canned food together
in one pot and serve you dinner.
we can dip the bread into all those words and
swallow them down, because they were said
to be shrugged off sober
on your plane ride home
while your wife breast feeds the kid
and you try to forget what it felt like
when we woke up together.

08/25/2010

Posted on 08/25/2010
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