poems = music = j.adam white =
your hardcore innocence
in total shambles
at the train car’s
#tbt 2005 recording music in my room
the heads bowedand eyes closedkept us blessed
the kneecaps of the girls in their sunday best
on being eleven and in church
i used your sundress as a bandage, it holds
the apple-scent of spring and my hand
was bleeding from a slipped knife when cutting fruit.
not for lack of gauze by god i went out of my way
to wreck your closet and rip for its beauty to fix me.
but now your light white cotton ruined
with my violent mistake, i can’t say sorry
because it worked- look the apple-shine of my skin
where the gash once was
wet road, we rode in your dad’s car
for dollar movies and fast food.
no seatbelts in that green chevy nova
but his glare in the rear view kept me
from sliding too close. he didn’t know
that there never was a movie and we never ate
but instead walked a quarter mile to downtown
as soon as he was out of sight to lean
into each other below the courthouse stairs.
the heavy summer teaching us to stick together,
but its been ten years now and i’m sorry
for his daughter and me too, i did not deserve
to ride in such a beautiful car
sneak out the library, ditch all your classesi have three cigarettes left and a new hiding spot.you think it’s under the bleachers but come onthis ain’t a tv show this is real life. you thinki should buy a leather jacket, dress myself like a decade. it’s a quarter till one and you’rewearing a letterman jacket, some guy’s some punk’sright, there’s a comb in my pocket and a knife too.what’s in these cigarettes baby i feel like the bombis going off. where do you buy your clothes? once the bell rings lets split, i keep getting funny looks from the principal. he can probablysmell my shit right now
this is spring but you can’t see it, i am tryingto thread out the night cloth from my bedsheets.jaimie says she slept weird last night. the weatherkeeps changing and i can’t keep up.
birds migrate with map precision for whatfeels like the whole year. i make coffeein the morning and then what. daylight savingsis soon to fix something, anyway
i am trying to recreate your bedroom window and all the earth beyond but i can’t get the weather right. all i need is an extra hourand then i swear i’ll have it all worked out.
birthday morning pre-coffee
wood walks, afternoon gets earthy and dirtyso quick to pull barbs off your hoodie sleeveand your voice a thankyou softened by dead
leaf steps. everywhere is someone’s backyardbut if we’re quiet enough, and we always are,we can stake claim and isolate for some hours.
see some light like shards freckling your faceand if you stand still i can chart all things movingfrom your chin to just below your eyes.
such small distances between two things, i wantto be as quiet as i can with you, i want to bethe air your voice cuts through.
As an English major, i enjoy some light reading - specifically the classics
night kitchen - street lights simmering in the windowfor february’s early dark. i am young and in loveand living with a girl, she reaches now through meto you to become imagined and you may think of birdsbut you should think of rivers. now me over the stove-top,the heat heavy and slick and my glasses fog. you may thinkof fathers but you should think of stray cats - fending for a frame, a body stretched taut by working. the mealonly perambulates the night, the night is its own meal.
it snowed in atlanta and everyone freaked out but we stayed grooovy
this is all true - i woke up from a dream
in which the stray cat that hangs around
our lot was sitting across from me on the front porch
and he extended his paw towards me and spoke
though i did not understand what he said.
that morning i went outside for a cigarette
and the cat was there and he said “hi i had a dream
about you last night” he extended his paw
and i lit him a cigarette and we sat there
and soaked in the sunlight till we were fat with warmth
and he said “thanks for listening.”
early april in your unfinished basement beside the garage, the walls boned and public. never really doing homework never really watching movies but talking instead in the dark in whispers in touches under blankets. i learned how to pray godless for your father’s 1976 green chevy nova to not burst in noisily and catch us in headlights cast upon our tangled and teenage union.