HER SILVER BOWL

your green house smelled of bumblebees vanilla and sweet yesterday’s beer
on the sunny window sill of a california dream
and it was always warm in winter the beaches were always empty
there were more stars in the sky than i had ever seen
and you cut driftwood into beauty sleek and oiled and lithe in line
you never seemed like driftwood to me you always seemed to know your mind

but beauty cuts us dreadful slow she cuts as slow as live oaks grow
we bleed into her silver bowl i don’t know what it is we owe her
maybe we so readily intoxicated should not be
where the very air is heady mountains sing and oceans breathe

your advice was usually good i carry it like sticks of wood
to burn to light the path to see the seven years between you and me
never strike a match towards you never swerve to avoid
that dog in the road will soon be gone but i’ll be here your whole life long
and if that was a promise won’t you try and keep it
i am hereby on my knees begging you to see that

fear she cuts us dreadful slow she cuts as slow as live oaks grow
we bleed into her silver bowl i don’t know what it is we owe her
maybe we so stubbornly shrugging off our talents
seed scorched earth as our legacy that’s no response to our ability

and your round face it looks like mine and sometimes my voice sounds like yours
like yesterday i sang a line like what could have come right out your verse
but it has been so dreadful long since i have heard your own true song
unguarded by your tin can army not garbled by your tin can throng
so cut your dead wood into beauty i’ll burn these sticks up in rhyme
don’t mean to speak of debt and duty some habits just outlive their time

and habit cuts us dreadful slow she cuts as slow as live oaks grow
we bleed into her silver bowl i don’t know what it is we owe her
maybe we can tear this tree up by its roots and fuck the pain
we’ve bled enough to feed an ocean i want to hear your voice again

spring 99 Port Fairy Australia
© myshkin 1999