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
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
        economic thighs now burning fuel
V12 engine no one would guess
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
Order is something I
        never assume I can have again but can
        dream of getting back
Every shiny disk
        rolled into black plastic
        wears me out a little more
Hearts can only be worn on sleeves so
        and then they're stabbed so often they stop
Tweeters can only
Ink can only purloin so much before I simply
        just fuck you
        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