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Description

She pole-dances to gospel hymns
Came out to her family in the middle of Thanksgiving grace
I knew she was trouble
 two years before our first date
 But my heart was a Labrador Retriever  with its head hung out the window of a car
 tongue flapping in the wind ow on a highway going 95  whenever she walked by
So I mastered the art of crochet
 And I crocheted her a winter scarf  and one night at the bar
I gave it to her with a note that said something like,
 I hope this keeps your neck warm.  If it doesn’t give me a call.
The key to finding love  is fucking up the pattern on purpose,  is skipping a stitch,
 is leaving a tiny, tiny hole to let the cold in and hoping she mends it with your lips.
This morning I was counting her freckles. 
She has five on the left side of her face,
seven on the other and I love her for every speck of trouble she is
She’s frickin’ awesome
Like popcorn at a drive-in movie  that neither of us has any intention of watching
Like Batman and Robin in a pick-up truck in the front row with the windows steamed up.
 Like Pac-man in the eighties, she swallows my ghosts
Slaps me on my dark side and says, “Baby, this is the best day ever.”
 So I stop listening for the sound of the ocean  in the shells of bullets, I hoped missed us
 to see there are white flags from the tips of her toes  to her tear ducts
 and I can wear her halos as handcuffs
 ‘cause I don’t wanna be a witness to this life,  I want to be charged and convicted,
 ear lifted to her song like a bouquet of yes
 Because my heart is a parachute that has never opened
in time  and I wanna fuck up that pattern, 
leave a hole where the cold comes in and fill it every
day with her sun, 
‘cause anyone who has ever sat in lotus for more than a few seconds
 knows it takes a hell of a lot more muscle to stay than to go
And I want to grow  strong as the last patch of sage on a hillside
Stretching towards the lightning. 
God has always been an arsonist. 
Heaven has always been on fire.
 She is a butterfly knife bursting from a cocoon in my belly
Love is a half moon hanging above Baghdad promising to one day grow full,
to pull the tides through our desert wounds  and fill every clip of empty shells with the ocean
Already there is salt on my lips
Lover, this is not just another poem
 This is my goddamn revolution
 I am done holding my tongue like a bible.
There is too much war in every verse of our silence
We have all dug too many trenches away from ourselves
This time I want to melt like a snowman in Georgia,
‘til my smile is a pile of rocks you can pick up  and skip across the lake of your doubts
Trust me,  I have been practicing my ripple.
I have been breaking into mannequin factories 
and pouring my pink heart into their white paint.
 I have been painting the night sky upon the inside of door frames
 So only moonshine will fall on your head in the earthquake
I have been collecting your whispers and your whiplash and your half–hour-long voice mail messages
Lover, did you see the sunset tonight? 
Did you see Neruda lay down on the horizon? 
Do you know it was his lover who painted him red,
who made him stare down the bullet holes  in his country’s heart?
I am not looking for roses
 I want to break like a fever
 I want to break like the Berlin Wall
I want to break like the clouds
 so we can see every fearless star
how they never speak guardrail
how they only say fall.

~ Andrea Gibson

    ~ Wicked Game - www.youtube.com/watch?v=UU7ZmM…

Description

She pole-dances to gospel hymns
Came out to her family in the middle of Thanksgiving grace
I knew she was trouble
 two years before our first date
 But my heart was a Labrador Retriever  with its head hung out the window of a car
 tongue flapping in the wind ow on a highway going 95  whenever she walked by
So I mastered the art of crochet
 And I crocheted her a winter scarf  and one night at the bar
I gave it to her with a note that said something like,
 I hope this keeps your neck warm.  If it doesn’t give me a call.
The key to finding love  is fucking up the pattern on purpose,  is skipping a stitch,
 is leaving a tiny, tiny hole to let the cold in and hoping she mends it with your lips.
This morning I was counting her freckles. 
She has five on the left side of her face,
seven on the other and I love her for every speck of trouble she is
She’s frickin’ awesome
Like popcorn at a drive-in movie  that neither of us has any intention of watching
Like Batman and Robin in a pick-up truck in the front row with the windows steamed up.
 Like Pac-man in the eighties, she swallows my ghosts
Slaps me on my dark side and says, “Baby, this is the best day ever.”
 So I stop listening for the sound of the ocean  in the shells of bullets, I hoped missed us
 to see there are white flags from the tips of her toes  to her tear ducts
 and I can wear her halos as handcuffs
 ‘cause I don’t wanna be a witness to this life,  I want to be charged and convicted,
 ear lifted to her song like a bouquet of yes
 Because my heart is a parachute that has never opened
in time  and I wanna fuck up that pattern, 
leave a hole where the cold comes in and fill it every
day with her sun, 
‘cause anyone who has ever sat in lotus for more than a few seconds
 knows it takes a hell of a lot more muscle to stay than to go
And I want to grow  strong as the last patch of sage on a hillside
Stretching towards the lightning. 
God has always been an arsonist. 
Heaven has always been on fire.
 She is a butterfly knife bursting from a cocoon in my belly
Love is a half moon hanging above Baghdad promising to one day grow full,
to pull the tides through our desert wounds  and fill every clip of empty shells with the ocean
Already there is salt on my lips
Lover, this is not just another poem
 This is my goddamn revolution
 I am done holding my tongue like a bible.
There is too much war in every verse of our silence
We have all dug too many trenches away from ourselves
This time I want to melt like a snowman in Georgia,
‘til my smile is a pile of rocks you can pick up  and skip across the lake of your doubts
Trust me,  I have been practicing my ripple.
I have been breaking into mannequin factories 
and pouring my pink heart into their white paint.
 I have been painting the night sky upon the inside of door frames
 So only moonshine will fall on your head in the earthquake
I have been collecting your whispers and your whiplash and your half–hour-long voice mail messages
Lover, did you see the sunset tonight? 
Did you see Neruda lay down on the horizon? 
Do you know it was his lover who painted him red,
who made him stare down the bullet holes  in his country’s heart?
I am not looking for roses
 I want to break like a fever
 I want to break like the Berlin Wall
I want to break like the clouds
 so we can see every fearless star
how they never speak guardrail
how they only say fall.

~ Andrea Gibson

    ~ Wicked Game - www.youtube.com/watch?v=UU7ZmM…