Citypaint

She had brushes, sponges,
Cheap acryclics, and inks.
And I had spray paint, glitter,
And peanut butter sandwiches.
We looked for a project,
Something to make beautiful.

So we looked where we thought
Things were not yet beautiful.
We painted a bench on the levee,
Made little glittery hearts and
I asked, "Is this art?"
She said, "Probably."

We drove north of town,
Saw men with hard faces
Men on porches
Men with cardboard signs
Men, whistling, asking, and eying.
I thought about glittering the street.
I asked, "Is this art?"
And she said, "No, this is life."

We found a blue house
With creepers over the windows
("It's probably haunted.")
("Yes, probably.")
("I dare you to touch the door.")
("No, you touch the door.")

We found beautiful things,
Things that were not childproof
And things that had been abandoned.
We huddled back into my room,
Pulled blankets up to our noses,
And wondered about our adventures.
I asked, "Is this art?"
And she said, "No, this is love."

One two punch

Shut up, I'm being profound.

I want an obscure line of mine
To end up as the title of a really good
Film at Sundance or Cannes.

I don't know what I want to say.
I just want it to mean something.

Tuesday song (in progress)

Tuesday Song

Oh Tuesday, Tuesday
She had rhythm in her knees
In her elbows and her pockets
And her mama couldn't stop it

Oh honey it was black-eyed peas
Oh honey it was rhythm in her knees
And oh honey it was pink lemonade
And oh honey it was black-eyed peas

Tuesday, Tuesday, she whipped her braids around
Some slick young cat
He liked the sway of her back
So whistling at those swinging braids
He yowled and wound around her legs

Oh honey, it was stars and the moon
Oh honey, it was black jelly beans
And oh honey it was cherry cherry pie
And oh honey, it was stars and the moon

And Tuesday's tapping
Her way around the kitchen
Where, oh honey, it was black-eyed peas
Oh honey, it was pink lemonade
And Tuesday, Tuesday
Over-salted those black eyed peas
And if you know anything
Well, you know what that means

Can only mean Tuesday's in love
And there's no reasoning with somebody in love
And her mama said,
"Don't you do that dance
And bring trouble into my kitchen."

So Tuesday, she danced herself
Right out of the house
Tuesday, she danced herself
Right out into the rain
Where that slick young cat
Who liked the sway of her back
Didn't like so much
All her mama's fuss

Saw her tapping, tapping down the street
Humming, singing "Oh Glory be"
Before that song had left her mouth
He was a-running on his way south

Where, oh honey, birds fly in v’s
Oh honey, it was tall palm trees
Oh honey, it was sunny all the time
And not a trace of black-eyed peas

Poor Tuesday found
Her rhythm slowed down

If I wrote slam poetry, it would start like this...

This battle you speak of
With your fist raised high
It's not so much a battle
As it is a lullaby
And yes, there are fighters
Who say, "Now that ain't right"
But even they go home
And turn on their tv's at night
And I, among them
Can't for a moment deny
The pervasive appeal
Of the American lullaby

4252 N. Harrison Street, Apt. 388

Encased squarely by our silly concrete floors
And the wrapping paper walls, we can hear
The neighbors watching pro-wrestling
When we're on the floral couch.
The lights short and it's dark in our hidey hole
Where ramen noodles
Dump MSG into our bloodstreams.
We learn not to glance over at movement
Because it's probably something
With six legs and an exoskeleton.
If you listen to both drips,
The shower and the sink,
They make a little waltz
Which is what you and I are doing here.
Nothing fancy, just a little waltz,
And our peasant feet give light to
The one-two-three of the
Water-wasting rhythm