I would write her in as one to be begged to in a film about a self-absorbed rockstar, she’d be the part of life he’d always miss – something that’d have him have his back on the rest of his life all the time so that all said pleasures, all ‘accomplishments’, all conquests and all flags planted with have to wave from behind, gathering only as much attention as his peripheral vision allows.
isn’t she too unfamiliar to be written about? too much left to be introduced? too much of distance in jaws, apart, of walnut cake and residual chews?
of all that I have, that I have to show are but questions and disbanded views; set in open-D, on Cort Guitar: a wonderland in place of two
Ah, if poetry could do a thing! I’d probably be on a plane that lands me in exactly ‘now’, through the future and back again; to see about the Banyan tree, to see about her, brown in the nude; to see about the cups of tea splattered by the storm she brews; to see how tall she looks beside, to see how much she weighs (her eyes) when lifted and when lifted high, and through ugly hugs and shameless gaze;
and see, and see, and see, and see, for there’s so much to see, so much to feel, so much to ask, so much to empathize, so much to nod to when not listening actually! so much to be recorded, so much to be absorbed, there’s just so much about you that I can’t say it all for I don’t know it all: or well, I can’t even think it all!
sitting in thought, writing this thing to raise a smile or make you laugh, through innocence or insightful string; or maybe I should play guitar, try Clapton-ing some candid licks; but you know, I could go on and on with this nonsense, so enough with the tricks!
I found you erroneously, and I liked the wrong; there’s nothing here to rationalize, if it’s fate, too fond;
and I have my own reservations: I’m no golfer, I play table tennis; I’m no poet, I draw! I’m no singer, I’m no songwriter, I’m no jack of heart!
but I know of this and I know this much:
that if this poem were an exclamation mark it would end without one.
and let this be no poem, but a work of heart.
I would play the rockstar as a representative of thought, not form. And I’d fit in his shoes perfectly, for he’d be the sized 9 that I write him in. Converse doesn’t go good with me, though.
Thought I’d flaunt some title, thought I’d flaunt some title design. And I thought I’d frame a tribute so that you’d know. And you know it, don’t you?
