In which a long-time record collector and sometimes poet shares shares vinyl finds, words of worth, and plays keep or cull.
When I write Elizabeth
I do it without shame
or regret
but with intensity
as if we just met
because it is Elizabeth
when I write Elizabeth
there are standards
that i set
and many things
i must not forget
because it is Elizabeth
when i write elizabeth
i use a secret alphabet
that all may read
but none may get
except, of course
Elizabeth
in a climate of hunters we became prey. out in the headlights we lost our way. did you not see the signs. did you see the threshold. once we were crossed, we forgot we were bold. time was much louder then. as were we. could nothing restore what we meant to be. no escape. no remorse for our public display. living. working. dreaming. the hunters are on their way.
this is
where i am today
not beyond
or between words
though they may
seem too small
they contain me
just as you do
and yet
i take as much space
as i can
and yet
you expand
until I am gathered
safely in
dreaming of
new words
to contain you.
There is no hell in here. And pain is not allowed. You may think that is impossible. But all the cracks will heal if you just take a breath. All the holes will fill with light until you burst into a song. I swear the night will not feel so tall then. And the moon will not be so indifferent to the dream we shared. Because when we close our eyes, they are not there. Nor are we.
There is no story to tell as yet. I live it up as I go along. Lost in another scented season. I am a singer without a song. But that is the fate of those like me. Or at least what we improvise. There is no story to tell as yet. But there are a thousand lies. And my favorite of them all, the one that I love most. Is the one I tell everyone of how you made me feel like a ghost. There is no story to tell as yet, no matter what you’ve heard. You mistook me for someone else. Someone who has a way with words.
