swans

"Doesn't really matter, you know, what kind of nasty names people invent for the music. But, uh, folk music is just a word, you know, that I can't use anymore. What I'm talking about is traditional music, right, which is to say it's mathematical music, it's based on hexagons. But all these songs about, you know, roses growing out of people's brains and lovers who are really geese and swans are turning into angels - I mean, you know, they're not going to die. They're not folk music songs. They're political songs. They're already dead."
Jude, I'm Not There.

Illustration of goose from here.

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Splenda, please.

It was the sweetest
cup of coffee.
I loved it so much
and you did not.
I knew you liked
yours black.

*

She knew you liked your coffee
black, she knew
a lot of things, she
saw you when I couldn't
and I found you out on a Starbucks
receipt, black ink
graying out like
aging hair or
steam atop a kettle or
an evaporating lie.
A black lie thinning
into a white lie.

*

I see her one time
when the Starbucks barista
wrongly calls her name
after serving my drink.
She takes my coffee,
my white chocolate mocha.
She looks at me with
the blackest eyes.

*

This isn't what you think.
written by M at 9:19 PM

2 comments:

  1. AnonymousAugust 5, 2012 at 11:17 PM

    I love this piece way too much. Keep writing please

    ReplyDelete
  2. AnonymousAugust 6, 2012 at 8:26 PM

    Lol what if all these anons were really Ja and Isa. What if.

    ReplyDelete

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angels