Yo La Tengo
In my Missouri
kitchen I listened to the
insane sounds of the
music blaring
So how would I know I would meet you
seven years after that
epiphanous moment and how
each time we kissed
Dim memories of champagne and
orange juice would come
haunting back into memory?
Every poetic line
read
by me now is
wonderously filled with hidden metaphors, each
hidden until
you squeezed them out between the cracks
I wonder what our metaphor might
possibly be.
Loud guitar screeching silently
Esoteric art school dropout
rambling lyrics on scratchy vinyl
Two-toned CD cases
Heat from
your
economic thighs now burning fuel
V12 engine no one would guess
inside
the wood-paneled chassis you call temporary home
Never quite admitting that
home might be home
Yet never quite denying
Lust is a four-letter word you've
reintroduced by
spinning minty fresh platters
Piling way up
on the
world-weary stereo
Neat clutters alongside cataloging your life
in order of
genre, in order of artist, label
When you wish your life stacked so
nicely
Order is something I
never assume I can have again but can
only
dream of getting back
Every shiny disk
rolled into black plastic
shelf
wears me out a little more
Hearts can only be worn on sleeves so
long
and then they're stabbed so often they stop
Tweeters can only
tweet
Ink can only purloin so much before I simply
just fuck you
silly
under the watchful
Sebadoh eyes of past mistakes
The fingers of my
hands tremble
because the necks of the guitars tremble also and
Each failed
garage band we love is a
grand metaphor for the
underground indie love we
may or may not have
Never sure, nevermind
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