a shoulder to

what happened to the amorous looks

and playful, luring charms?

i swore i sensed a flicker

in that kinder, anxious heart.

like a grate fire just kindling, 

but wary of the chimney's cold;

so as soon as eager trumpets have blown,

blushing admissions breathed:

you built the iron mail fence 

from my everlasting. 

and that has made all the difference.

but unguard! and maybe

i can bring us back,

i can bring us back,

i can bring us back,

back to undercover cameos 

in one of life's sublime sublots.

you'll see,

i can keep a dirty little secret.

spencermary

couldn't even bring a horse to water. 

must we?

i don't want to play games with you anymore.

let's start a band

and i'll sing about my broken heart

and you'll sing about your restless heart

and together we'll be

broken and restless

broken and restless

broken and restless

until one day, we'll have our very own tour bus

and you'll pull the curtains on me

and i'll make us a cup of tea

and i'll be waiting for you (the tea's getting cold)

and you'll be busy (with empty distractions)

and we'll swap stories instead over

a cup of something magic

that can only dull the senses for so long

and you'll run away with a knife

when you could have run away with a spoon

and most of all we'll be famous

just like you wanted

but most of all i'll be tortured

you're searching for daggers

after being handed the key

i've got an idea

let's start a band

and i'll sing about my broken heart

and you'll sing about your restless heart

and together we'll be

broken and restless

broken and restless

broken and restless.

i need you like an earthquake.

our first kiss could have been against a car,

my car.

you picked a flower

from among the walkway shrubbery,

instead.

i stayed too long.

she talked too much.

you drank plenty.

and he followed us out to the car

the second time we departed,

after being dragged,

back (must we go?),

by your

sister for another cigarette and another unbelievable story.

no matter,

you would have 

inevitably regretted it the next morning.

publicly.

secretly? i haven't given up on that possibility, yet.

maybe that's the problem: i'm lousy at keeping a secret,

especially one so indulgent.

hypothetically, of course.

better?

it was to be the last summer night 

spent with the bulk of you.

i was late,

but i brought leftovers as truce.

chocolate cream this and strawberry custard that and

a cheap assortment of table crackers with  squares of low-grade cheeses.

if it weren't for the champagne and grandma's delicately etched coupes

i would have been embarrassed by my tokens.

but the group was far ahead of me by that point

and you were smiling

and my tanned legs were buried in carousel folds

of my silk skirt

that your little niece carefully studied

instead of minding the spoon

i offered up to her

with a bit of whipped cream.

your spitting image.

a few saucers later and i was

at a low, but comfortable simmer.

any more champagne,

and i would have walked you

to my car

myself.

last call! too soon!

last hurrah? too late.

but i was definitely feeling it.

the champagne, that is.

i was feeling the champagne.

obviously.

don't be absurd.

surprisingly bored of my company and

restless for 

action

i turned to the next-best thing.

after some persuasion, she was receptive.

no sweat.

we snacked

and spun

and crept along the deck-line.

tip-toe

tip-toe

tip-toe

we whispered in a child-like-melody

as we both, though unaware of it,

followed you 

through the grape vine furls and tree-stars 

with our eyes

and impressionable hearts.

you never came:

we soon departed.

her, kicking and screaming to bed.

me, a silent, internalized variation of the same.

i'm good at keeping those kinds of secrets. 

so, it wasn't meant to be.

but something was:

for there we were,

and here we are,

and neither of us are any wiser from it.

i could count

on my fingers

the distance,

the inches that 

didn't have to be 

between us.

i could count,

but on second thought,

i'll clasp my hands together

and be thankful

for the inches few

that separate us still.

may our great continents collide

sometime in the distant future.

i need you like an earthquake. 

let's shake things up,

a little.

aww! meatloaf again?

what i had for dinner tonight:

i know it's dinner time when a nauseous headache sets in.

actually, it's been bothering me ever since i can remember,

it's just that i just remembered. you see?

i reach for a jar of tomato sauce.

i try to pry it open.

i try to crack the lid.

i try. i pry.

no use.

i reach for the jar of alfredo.

i pry it open.

smooth as butter.

a familiar friend.

i desperately search for some kind of vegetable,

some dry bread,

some sour wine,

anything to lessen the pungent parmesan blow.

the bell tower tolls.

dinner time.

and i find my attention consuming everything else

but that which i am obligated to consume:

there, in front of me.

you were presented.

like a dancing bear.

some entertainment.

like a funny midst the reels of cold war coverage.

when popcorn and a movie were ten cents!

says the beaming grandfather; his pants pulled too high.

gas price averages have reached a dollar-and-seventy-cents today according to one survey!

says the beaming anchorwoman; her lips painted too pink.

in other news,

the president has officially recognized the state of depression.

and just before the holidays, too!

ho ho ho!

put the jar down already.

only a prince can pull the sword from the stone.

only a fucking prince.

so give the guy a break.

and if he's robbed of the very pennies he's swindled for so long,

bail him out, will you?

while his profits are private, his losses must be socialized,

it's the godblessamerican thing to do.

patience is another virtue,

and one that actually makes sense.

i waited ten minutes in the drive through:

freezing, and listening to the last leg of an apologetic piano concerto.

the boy in the window reappears. 

a greasy paper bag of warmth is exchanged.

i wait longer still, for a pedestrian.......

and am on my way.

porter turned away the french fry i offered him in thanks for

accompanying me to pick up my hot dinner.

my brother says it's because dogs don't like potatoes, only the salt (as the dog licks his sneakerless feet)

i say it's because the fry was too hot.

his buddy says he'll eat it if the dog doesn't.

we take what we can get.

we get what we can afford.

we stomach what we are presented.

every last bit of it,

because someone, somewhere doesn't etc.

privilege has a rotten sense of humor.

she's so lucky. she's a star. but she cries cries cries in her lonely heart wishing __________.

a pretty dress hangs in the closet

never worn.

hopeful, she pulls it out every time...

but no one seems impressed

and no one seems to have an occasion

nor is looking for accompaniment

nor could imagine such a scene.

i've finished with alfredo,

not finished indefinitely with alfredo,

just with it, for tonight.

i hang up,

and pack everything away in the refrigerator.

"numm", leftovers.

just one more excuse, 

one more act,

one more dancing bear away

from that impossibl[y]e [beautiful] jar [girl.] of tomato sauce.