Re-miniscence

Because all poetry was written for a reason, and because this one was written so we couldn't forget even after it was over. Worth enough for me to re-post:


Arnold Palmer and a Pack of 27's

There is a story
that we have written ourselves
that is made of late night and chancing heartbeats,
that cannot be condensed into mere stanzas and yet,
I'm gonna try to do it anyways
Because that's what we do; we put a belt around imagination and reality and call it style.
We take lemons and make malted liquor.
We defy probability.

Some days I wonder what we are made of,
her and I,
because I don't know of any others who are so beautifully shallow and gracefully obnoxious.
We can infect your lyrics like we stole your scene;
Heart attack by second verse and death by broken ice.

We run around their town like it's ours,
like we built it of our wrong turns and inside jokes.
Chestnut!
We drop by this scene like we are above it,
like we're past its bleached out lies and glamorous heartaches
when really, the two of us breathe it in too;
it's toxins like laughing gas to our practicality.

It started in the dark;
in a contest of chord progressions and cutest drummer hair.
and there he was,
looking for her with quiet eyes and an irrefutable grin.
Stealing the silence from her tears and the air from her lungs.
he was the click that held curious glances to Prospective play dates.
We found them unlike we usually find favorite things,
not chosen from a line-up of obsessions, but in a fire;
a fire we Fronted with gasoline to keep them glancing back.

Since then her and I have managed our schedule to encompass the following:
text messaging.
outfits.
songs.
boys.
gossip about boys.
text messages about boys.
I'll just go around the block.
repeat song.

Our crimes are not frivolous,
our murders in and of their senses.
Shotgun hips.
What the hell does that mean anyways?

There is a smile
that we have created ourselves
that is made of ten or eleven chords and that voice of his
that is what it is because the pre-chorus is so annoyingly catchy and still,
it's the Maybe Baby smile!
Because we also love the key change at the end, but actually-
make that eight chords.
Kev just texted back.

I start to wonder what this is made of,
us and them,
because I don't know of any others who are so twistedly perfect and excusably talked about.
I once wrote clearly of his sand sketches and cocaine verses,
but now the lines are fading…

I don't remember how it was before he called us baby.
Before that ridiculous hair and his cocky way of wearing those skinny jeans.
He's a cyclone of passion with a smirk that could kill.
No, I can't remember how I was…

Before we sat in their van,
in his driveway all night long whispering secrets we already knew the endings to.
We were parked on the starting line with a boy and his acoustic smile,
with that easy laugh and necessary white t-shirt.
The game got confusing when he typed a heart back
because he wasn't supposed to stick around and now I can't recall…

How we were before he made us laugh.
What wa funny before babies wore clown suits and ducks called out in jest?
He's got those big ears and an even bigger heart.
We mock his speech in sheer respect for the ridiculous genius that emanates from him.
I find it hard to believe that there's anyone else like us and them, because you have to wonder…

How many people have a diner named after their band?
How many people consider hanging plants hysterical?
The more I've tried to let this go the more you let me press repeat
and now he has me racing down to the chorus of another new track.
Will you at least name the damn thing?!

This band as an experience is like eating a handful of grapes:
sometimes we find ourselves in quite the sour situation,
but the contorted effort that we make,
in order to deal with pompous textures and tart behaviors
is often so hilariously entertaining
that we find ourselves going in for another handful.

And I think this is what we are made of;
of playgrounds and practice spaces,
of show venues and sexual innuendos.
We are made of mattress pumps that plug uselessly into cars we aren't sitting in,
and of pretending we don't care when they look at other girls.
We are made of folded youth larges and candids in his bedroom,
of memories you can't untag and nights she can never comment on.
We are made of Arnold Palmers and packs of 27's
and we are made of this goodbye.

I have no doubt these phrases will be sung in away messages and posted in verses of reminiscence.
They put adjective to things the summer will never outlive.
And her and I,
with our gasoline cans and half-hearted vanity,
will soon be looking up at you
while you play that same old annoyingly catchy pre-chorus and look for our Maybe Baby smiles.

There is a story
that I wrote down for her,
because I know we could fall from this ledge we're all dancing on,
because I know that even then I'll get a text message in the morning and since
this is just the way we do things,
I'm willing to chance the drop in D and any changes they record in the melody.
So if we fall, let's decide we can float
and you catch me.