Driving down the road, no other cars
but us. The radio is broken.

Your voice is a shotgun.
There are wolves on the roofs we pass.
They are sleeping, not even your howling can
wake them. I ask you a question. 

Can we catch it?

I throw something out the window. A red
birdhouse. Twenty-four birds fly out of it. They
flock to the power lines. I am an
electric love. I ask you another question.

Is there another way?

I fall asleep in the passenger seat. 
You sing with one hand on the wheel. A crow
moves out of your way.

You tell me something. You don’t ask
me anything. The sky doesn’t change, even
when I wake up. A question tumbles blind
into the road.

How much further?

The first storm of the summer.
I’m looking through old drawers, ignoring
the rattle of the house. 

A note from my mom, written four years
ago. Telling me to study hard,
but to make sure I leave time for myself. 

Nostalgia is a fist that never moves.
The days kiss it. Moss grows over it,
and in the rain it smells like a doorway. 

I forget what I was looking for. I write a 
note for my mom instead. Leave it for her
to wake up to in a couple hours.

The thunder cracks its knuckles. 
I go to the door to listen, for just a second. 
Puddles are already on the front porch. 

Richard Siken stop writing breathless across my windshield dang

by Richard Siken

gwendolyndolyndolyn:

Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
                                                       and dress them in warm clothes again.
         How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
until they forget that they are horses.
                   It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
         it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,
                 how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
                                                                                       to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means
         we’re inconsolable.
                               Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
                                                                Tell me we’ll never get used to it.

I swear, you ain’t afraid
of nothing. 
On the outside.

I can hear your chains rattle.

Are you a haunted house?
Or were you built 
on hallowed ground? 

I swore I was going
to exorcise more.
I’m afraid of everything. 

A dandelion 
throws
itself to the wind.

I’m not responsible for this.

Your quiet breaks the
windows. The moths don’t
know any difference.

I wait for the breeze
to come back.
Your sound is beautiful. 

You can’t be your own 
ghost. I can’t be scared of
silence. 

We sing, our lips don’t move. 

The trains came by late at night.
          We should have been sleeping. You
          acted like you didn’t
hear the whistle, the pistons, the match to strike
against these hills. 
          I was awake too. I always wanted
to ride a train. With you. Like
all the Kerouac
          I’ve never read. But you have.
I often dream of setting pages on fire for you. 
         But I never do. 
I don’t play with fire. I watch it tear the dark
apart. Pull the teeth out. 
         Leave the growl. You fell asleep
again. Your breathing quiet, aching its way to
the ceiling.
         If a train ever comes through
in the morning, I promise 
         we won’t hear it. 
         

bigradinmonster:

ifearimmelting:

ONCE THERE WAS A HUSHPUPPY, AND SHE LIVED WITH HER DADDY IN THE BATHTUB

i just tivoed this movie so if you need me, no.

THIS FILM CAN STOP BAPTIZING ME AT ANY TIME BUT IT WON’T KNOW IT JUST WON’T THANK GOODNESS

This kid is graduating from pre-school today. Get ready.