petalled out the bayou loaded down with oversize eyes blazed up with whisky cigarettes and hope. how could we not. we could not not. tied together time again toppled over tricksy grin rough cheek touch chin when whispers teach lips how to bend.
glow west spun clown, spell pan's peter to prairie stars, four score lightnings, hit high bars. come quake awhile mischief moon pull cards swoon whisky fool drop to marsh bed know thy sting, uncrumple toward my shoes and feet.
swell baby say's not morning, never not night, don't shrug me onto cali tides- trade forest kiss for memory misplaced, how hard i hid from day. onion mouth swim south bayou-bound sweet fae we caught vision gleaming sparked it up in flames.
When I took the gig in California, I brought Tom with me. Just for the ride. I'd never been further west than Dallas and that was a middle school (i.e. miserable) band trip. Turned out Tom wanted to catch up with friends out that way, so we made a two week road trip out of it. When I arrived in New Orleans to collect him, I slipped into step with my Aquarius twin, and we abruptly turned nocturnal.
We missed the Tumbleweeds on St. Claude's but Sam gave us their album anyway and we played it through 5 states. Staying with friends saved money for alcohol, decadence. We were not good house guests.
We reluctantly rolled into Humboldt on my birthday, 6 days before his. I didn't want him to leave, I didn't want to stay. Any time I'm on the road, I want to live there–the brightness, the immediacy–the precious hours of moored friendships. But this time, whether in spite or because of the excess, especially so. He felt magic.
Don’t leave.
Our closing night playing invulerable intimate might stand in for the whole trip: we got beer and burgers at the local pub, shot pool, made out, found a liquor store, attempted to find the ocean, waded into a marsh in the rain and Tom had to slap my face to keep me from sleeping in the muck. We probably shared a bed one last time but I was too drunk to remember.
Looking back it's clear–half that magic was mine.
We missed the Tumbleweeds on St. Claude's but Sam gave us their album anyway and we played it through 5 states. Staying with friends saved money for alcohol, decadence. We were not good house guests.
We reluctantly rolled into Humboldt on my birthday, 6 days before his. I didn't want him to leave, I didn't want to stay. Any time I'm on the road, I want to live there–the brightness, the immediacy–the precious hours of moored friendships. But this time, whether in spite or because of the excess, especially so. He felt magic.
Don’t leave.
Our closing night playing invulerable intimate might stand in for the whole trip: we got beer and burgers at the local pub, shot pool, made out, found a liquor store, attempted to find the ocean, waded into a marsh in the rain and Tom had to slap my face to keep me from sleeping in the muck. We probably shared a bed one last time but I was too drunk to remember.
Looking back it's clear–half that magic was mine.
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