PS

Best text message ever:

Yes. As a matter of fact, I am texting you again. I bet you never imagined 9 months ago how much work being my friend would turn out to be. Don't you think loving someone else really well makes life worth it? Even if they don't always love you back as well as you would like. Just wondering. I love love.

Memories...

So I'm listening to Sufjan Stevens. And it reminds me of a time when, working overnights at My Favourite Multi-national Corporation Ever, I said something about him (in conjunction with my love of banjo) and this girl who worked there laughed at me and told me, "It's pronounced Soof-YAWN."

Overall, she was an okay kid. But I couldn't help noticing what an elitist she was. And while noticing that, I couldn't help noticing that she still worked overnights at My Favourite Multi-national Corporation Ever. It just makes me wonder what she's gonna get out of life. Because no matter how great we are at superciliously pronouncing obscure musicians' names to undereducated peons such as myself, we're still both poor and tired and scanning in signs that over-zealously inform shoppers that, for a limited time only, they can save twelve cents on this unnecessary purchase!

ordinary

she empties her pockets after work
spare change falling into
collapsing hills on her desk
thinking that she should put something there
(a jar, or cup)
to collect the meandering mess
the handfuls of used presidents
and borrowed time
accumulated and dispersed
edges softened from years
of linty pockets and sweaty hands

maybe she could find something pretty
she thinks
maybe a little fishbowl
yes
that could be nice
a little fishbowl

she pictures it there
as she exchanges
one pair of pants for another
one crumpled shirt for another
pictures it as she contemplates taking a bath
(the warm water would be nice,
the bubbles,
maybe a scented candle)

she pictures it there
the roundly transparent host
to different versions of the same colors
little drops of metal that dully sparkle
in the tired yellow light
of bulbs which buzz a bereaved protest
before flickering into an begrudging glow
that subtly fades with the hours
peeking over its shoulder from time to time
to see if anyone has noticed its retreat

little drops of metal
touched thoughtlessly by thousands before her
to be touched by thousands more,
carelessly,
each so accustomed to the other's presence
that neither looks up from the paper
to say good morning

these things,
so ordinary,
to be dropped in a bowl made for fishes
and transformed, temporarily,
into something satisfyingly quaint

this one, too

what joy is there to be found
in this world?
what sorrow?
and yet here is something
that might be found.
this moment.

this

sigh

what sorry days, these,
which chatter endlessly on and on
yet say nothing.
cicadas singing in
the evening
tell me more
than do a day's worth
of garbled urban tasks
ticking past
with fastidious
disdain
even as i disdain them.

what discontent, this,
which demands that i should
seek the unfulfilled life
when i seek
to seek
nothing
and, so,
fail.

So the economy sucks.

Just sayin'.

Fast Car

Some songs are so intimate, so precise, so....

Some songs, rather than being a soundtrack to our lives, are our lives. We are the soundtrack.

It's amazing how my entire life can fit inside of a song, comfortably, nostagically, perfectly.


PS The idea of Tracy Chapman and Alice Walker being together is shatteringly beautiful and ridiculously hot.