st. louis summer I miss home I miss the taste of fresh watermelonthat smells of summernights with firefliesand fireworkslighting up the skyI miss opening my window while I sleepletting the smell of humid aircreek through my nose to fill my sense of summerand of joy
at the pool At the Pool, 1989we would eat honeysucklesand convince the beeswe deserved some tooon the way homethe black tar drivewayscalded our wet feet drying them so momwouldn't have toAt the Pool, 1991being a little bigger was cool in the poolmy cannonballsoaked my sisterand cracked myfriends up
Houchins Ferry Road 5 hours east of homewhere the thick smell of pinefulfills a sense of freedomas soothing as the smilesA train cuts through winding roadsweathered from timeas a poppa, collar blue and hands soil stained treats to a luxurious summer supperat the Shake and Burger Shop5 hours east of normalwhere the taste of the water is like sand in your shakeand people's voices sound like a stroll through thick mudA lady happy and plump with every ounce of life and love in her gas stationunaware of how weird her water really isWere yus alls frum? I'm from St. LouisYu alls hav funneee axcents!
That Day Ashes fall like leavesYou trapped our future insideLet it sink in me
comprehend this We write because we don't want toreveal ourselves through personal interactionin a world full of shortcuts and short thrillseverything is too fast or not fast enoughwe have come to a point of being timidafraid of misunderstandings and slursscared of saying the wrong thing neverallowing ourselves to commit our pureintent on writingforcingothers to read and comprehendnot actually think and listento hear the reader's voice trapped insidethoughts on notebooks we call expression
For You Me I want to findmore things thatI enjoy in you intrigue meI want to knowwhat it isthat drives you challenge meI want to seewhat it isI do for you do for me
la femme somewhere in Paristhere's a girlher arms are crossedand secrets revealedshe's no longer therebut my memory issomewhere in Parisa conversation standsas strong as the towerfrom which it cameit's no longer therebut my memory is
Scotland here 1.Castle ruins in a fieldhistory to somea grazing post to others 2.My Adidas walkthrough churchesolder than Icould ever imagineolder than my nationI photograph itas if to capture historyin a frameyet all I think aboutis the speed of my shutter 3.My Adidas standwhere once feetdied fought killedI wonder whenthe next train comes
or perhaps I already do No matter what I sayor how I say itWhat I do wrongor how I failMy landslides slip awaycompared to the waythat I would love you
Happy Meal There is a McDonalds in Florencein the train stationin the heatwith a disco Ronaldand a "Happy Birthday" signin English, up all yearThere is a manand his familytrying to enjoy a meal of sortsamidst the heatand the taste of discomfortthere is a cool placea moment of blissfrom across the tablewith the end of his strawhe aims for his wife's chinand mimics her curvesshe jumps back with a lookbut he's unawarefor despite his boy's tyrantsand girl's criesthe sweatingand the lookhe is cooland nothing will ever take awayher chin, her curveshis love
but the smell Have you ever felt a Scottish rain?It lays on your skin, slowlylike the chin of your dogbegging for attentionHave you ever felt an Italian rain?It slaps you in the faceas if you never knew it was comingthen runs away and hidesBut the smella hot day stormed outby a cool rainlike a forestof fresh trees crammedinto your noselike the joy of your dogor an admiring intruderit leaves you wanting more
A Night with Coltrane, Jr. He stands in darknessno light to his facehe waits shiftingbreakingthe darkness around himthen comes the momenthis time alonefeet shufflingnot anxious but desiredone step and the glow of his shoes makes us wonderanticipation mounts on listeners' earsa light from above seems to shinefrom his soulno longer in expectation's shadowhe becomes heand like magicsounds swarm like a flooding dreamsinging us a story, a lifepushing us to memories we've never hadand takes us for a ride, a journeyletting us dream for awhileas the smooth soundcomplements the moodsuddenlyback into the nightaway he steps fr
Night Driving sweet, sweet memorieson a cool, cool night5 packed in tightfor a long night driveas the sound of flowing breeze is the only conversation between old friendsIt's who drives usthat takes us thereand what drives usthat keeps us closetogether now later apartbut never, never alone
spoon to find hersleeping dreaminga world of her ownto slip into bedquietly notto awaken but gently to embracemelting to form hersigh of reliefto let goto dream a worldof our own wherethe scent of her hairis the shape of the nightand the setting sunis her whispered goodnight
Sta.sh
