I was born of a carpenter and a seamstress.
~Molly Bashaw
The sun is half-cocked again. Sweltering and tepidly so. My house is like a hot wire tempted to explode. I wish it were Autumn. I wish the leaves were falling from the trees like broken teeth. I wish it was October so soon I would hear your textured voice frisking like moonlight through my core.
I’m addicted to “Forgetful Heart”. In every stroke of the word. It’s funny how that song of every song on your new album drapes me in gloom, as if I were trapped in a lion’s den. I love its urgency, without being urgent. I love its lightheadedness, jambing to follow its full leafline.
These words sound so insensible. It’s difficult to describe a song when you aren’t a song-maker. It’s as simple as me saying: I am a martyr to the echo you leave in an upreach of vocals I can not define.
Regardless, it’s immeasurable.
Still I remain here beneath this blue-ribbon sky, cursing the heat, apprehensive of time, waiting like a bed for somebody to come lie in it.
It seems to me that rhythm and rhyme are your sentences where fluent patterns fly up like dreams from the mind’s heart, or dolphins from the water, or even like dilated eyes. How much you can read about a person’s innermost desires by looking at their eyes.
I get nervous as your arrival draws near. I’m such a fool, the bowl of my belly full of butterflies, ambitious with poems- trying to write something rich and varied while surrounding myself with calmer things: a glass of wine, candles and incense-
meanwhile I’m unstable as a trapped bird. I play busy at work. Drive like I’m chasing a fire. Eat next to nothing because food weighs me down and I feel safer and more agile when I’m empty.
So it is. You’re coming to my neighborhood. After the Glendale cancellation I thought death upon the desert. I attribute your announcement for October to a break dance in the cell of all unified thought. I, of course, will carry the length of me and go, regardless of the weather or tangy menagerie of Fair goers.
For your next appearance, I am mute with love. Dead of sound, my heart hypnotizes my mind, my mind, in reproof, does the same.
I was born of a carpenter and a seamstress.
~Molly Bashaw
The sun is half-cocked again. Sweltering and tepidly so. My house is like a hot wire tempted to explode. I wish it were Autumn. I wish the leaves were falling from the trees like broken teeth. I wish it was October so soon I would hear your textured voice frisking like moonlight through my core.
I’m addicted to “Forgetful Heart“. In every stroke of the word. It’s funny how that song of every song on your new album drapes me in gloom, as if I were trapped in a lion’s den. I love its urgency, without being urgent. I love its lightheadedness, jambing to follow its own leaf line.
These words sound so insensible. It’s difficult to describe a song when you aren’t a song-maker. It’s as simple as me saying: I am a martyr to the echo you leave in an upreach of vocals I can not define.
Regardless, it’s immeasurable.
Still I remain here beneath this blue-ribbon sky, cursing the heat, apprehensive of time, waiting like a bed for somebody to come lie in it.
It seems to me that rhythm and rhyme are your sentences where fluent patterns fly up like dreams from the mind’s heart, or dolphins from the water, or even like dilated eyes. How much you can read about a person’s innermost desires by looking at their eyes.
I get nervous as your arrival draws near. I’m such a fool, the bowl of my belly full of butterflies, ambitious with poems- trying to write something rich and varied while surrounding myself with calmer things: a glass of wine, candles and incense-
meanwhile I’m unstable as a trapped bird. I play busy at work. Drive like I’m chasing a fire. Eat next to nothing because food weighs me down and I feel safer and more agile when I’m empty.
So it is. You’re coming to my neighborhood. After the Glendale cancellation I thought death upon the desert. I attribute your announcement for October to a break dance in the cell of all unified thought. I, of course, will carry the length of me and go, regardless of the weather or tangy menagerie of Fair goers.
For your next appearance, I am mute with love. Dead of sound, my heart hypnotizes my mind, my mind, in reproof, does the same.
