1. |
remainder of breath
02:34
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|
so we’ve woken to find that there is still sky.
the four round lights don’t point a direction home,
but bells sound. somewhere there are still skaters,
and the air persists, hungry and open,
inside the rooms and when we step outside.
starlight has just begun to obscure us.
and the map doesn’t read for us any longer,
but drop the mile marker in its place.
draw it on the map
as dusklight feathers off our weight on the planet.
the houses glow like they’re lit from the outside.
and we’ve woken to find that there is still sky.
the four round lights don’t point a direction home,
but bells sound. somewhere there are still skaters,
and the air persists, hungry and open,
inside the rooms and when we step outside.
starlight has just begun to obscure us.
the houses glow like they’re lit from the outside.
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2. |
try & try & try
04:16
|
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|
when i say, “i’m not going anywhere,”
i mean i’m not coming home. i’m not
as concerned with romance today as yesterday.
i’m sure i’ll be more concerned again tomorrow.
but let me try
try and try and try
to speak the words the sun has left to me
to speak right to the words
in your heart,
the words in my heart.
hey now, sweetheart, show me the way you
want me to see you. hey now, sweetheart, show me
whatever ways you are.
i know how to love what you’re becoming,
not just to love you
for what you are
or what i think you are.
and when i say, “i’m not coming home,”
i mean i can’t head back that way right now.
but i’d like you to know
i’m always headed in your direction,
even before i turn back around.
let me try now, sweetheart, to show you
the words you’re meant to see.
let me try now, sweetheart, to show you
the words my heart’s becoming.
i know that my heart-melt’s about as safe as it can be,
so i won’t try to stop it
as it falls onto your face and heart
when we sleep.
but let me try
try and try and try
to speak the words that choose a direction home
and speak right to the words
we both know,
when i say i’m not going anywhere—
i mean i’m not going anywhere.
i mean i’m not going anywhere.
|
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3. |
a note in the glovebox
04:17
|
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|
to whom it may concern: to whom it
may be disregarded: to drivers on the lookout
for pre-war routes to boundary waters:
to passengers shuffling through gas receipts
and cotton-soft sheets of kleenex with
orange lipstick kissed and blotted and kissed
clean: to this ugly car and the ones we drove,
drove away, drove before:
there is only one cigarette left in here
and not enough lighter fluid for more
than two mistakes. i know you've had
a hard day. why else would you be in
here?
be – vigilant. i was and then i
took a pink penknife from the treehouse
of those little athena neighbor girls,
took it to osseous fixtures around my, oh,
most heartfilled self, meant to splay apart excess
attire but ended up, jesus, so open
i could have been the entire gospel choir singing
a most blessed sunday morning deep
in woodtick territory, tent show preacher,
flame-of-god-on-your-tongue believer—
flame-of-god-on-your-tongue believer.
where went the silken spots? was I
sheeted? were you?
crouched in plastic cattails of a false river-swamp scene,
this is how some marriages happily, so
happily, begin. so happily begin.
almost completely hidden,
reed-thin and whistling. if you find
my passport, please return it with the gun
and your own monologue of expectation.
with love, love, love, love,
love, love, love....
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4. |
sharing is limited
04:58
|
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|
sometimes, it’s a matter of hearing.
sometimes hearing more than what’s been said to me.
maybe we share an unrelatability,
among all the other things we share.
the human voice—your voice—carries with it
not an echo, but a thousand lifetimes of a past
about as remote to anyone
as any past may be.
right now,
i can’t explain,
or recollect
my reflection from the wall across your room.
right now I can’t pretend to want to know
all the things i say i want to know,
i want to know,
but i don’t know that i want to know
right now.
sometimes it’s just a matter of hearing.
but sometimes I don’t want to hear.
sometimes I wish it were tomorrow.
sometimes I wish it were sometime last year.
right now, i don’t know how to wonder.
right now, i’m still learning how to ask.
right now, i should really listen better
to all the voices in the room,
so many voices in the room.
maybe we call each other
by the names we recognize
among all the names we share
and don’t share.
and maybe i hear your voice,
the human voices, and i recall
your voice and just your voice
for now.
because sometimes, it’s just a matter of hearing.
but sometimes i hear more than what’s been said to me.
and maybe we do share an unrelatability sometimes.
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5. |
new moon
05:47
|
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|
the sun sets from the closing sky,
far away from the very far edge of the park.
the trees shake their heads,
not ready to say, "goodnight."
the day is ending okay, baby,
okay enough for you and me.
then i walk away,
head toward the water,
turn toward the sun,
watch the clouds turn to smoke
in the sky, watch the water oozing by.
and in the sun, i swear,
it is like seeing
into your eyes
or into my eyes
or into a pair of eyes.
i could look into the bottom of a cup,
or just let my eyes stay on the ground.
i could look in a thousand directions
and still never come close
to knowing how to speak the way it sounds.
i’m not gonna say that it's sad.
i’m not gonna say that I’m ready to be sad.
no matter what the planets say,
i’m just gonna learn,
to move my face
as much as I move the rest of my body
and learn to call my face my face.
then I turn my back from the sun,
head from the water. feel the ground still hard
under my feet as the sky turns murky with light above us.
and i swear it’s like i’m walking toward you
when i am walking toward you.
i’m not gonna say, “it’s perfect!”
i’m not gonna say, “it’s perfect,
i’d better be ready to be sad.”
no matter what the planets say,
i'm just gonna learn
to recognize your face
as I recognize my face.
new moon, no moonlight in the sky tonight.
not really so far away from the edge
of my hand in your hand.
we turn from the trees,
not quite yet ready to whisper,
“goodnight.”
the day is always ending, baby,
thanks for noticing with me.
thanks for noticing with me,
the day is always ending, baby.
not quite yet ready to whisper goodnight,
we turn from the trees of the edge
of my hand in your hand.
not really so far away, no moonlight in the sky tonight—
new moon.
|
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confetti armor Brooklyn, New York
confetti armor is garrett miller and spencer hanvik. we make music and art. we'd love to talk to you.
confettiarmor@gmail.com
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