i'm willing to be wrong

keep art alive; art by sanithna phansavanh

"now your giving up the ghost

to the one who meant the most

and one day when she least expects she’ll know

and the words you never spoke

and the tune you never wrote

won’t write itself or wait for evermore

i’m moving off,
i’m packing up
i’m willing to be wrong…"

i suppose that it is due to once that i am discovering the frames, although i think it goes far beyond the film in the way that i am falling for this band. i love when you discover something new and you hear a song for the first time; a song that just blows you out of the water, and steals your breath right from you. it is like those first months of falling in love with someone, and all that heightened passion and heart-patter urgency.

love and music, they are what make it all worth it. i love my breath stolen, my heart pounding, and being full-on intoxicated with song.

locusts ~ the frames

because they'll soon know where i live

keep art alive; art by sanithna phansavanh

enough rope

she packed all she could fit in a backpack,
nothing more, nothing less, and ran.
down the stairs, out the door, 'cross the highway,
never looking back.

"hitchiking is suicide",
her last friend from the world had said,
"might as well get a rope and just hang yourself.
get it over with."

over with.
over with.
over with.

well, he wouldn't have to know, wouldn't have to see,
her thumb stuck out,
in defiance,
in reverance,
in some sort of jelly-filled desperation.

"where to?" he said, through yellow-crooked teeth.

where to?
where to?
where to?

she wanted to lose herself in the mountains,
paint tales of wonder on the sides of trees,
crawl down into civilization long enough for a cold glass of coke,
slice of pie, a smile.

she stepped up into the elevated cab,
a slight shiver trailing to the base of her spine, l
aughing to cover fear.

"i guess, just to the next town." she said, in a half whisper,
half gasp.

and the road spread out before them.

before them.
before them.
before them.

he smelled of marlboro reds and coffee,
like her father before he left,
same flannal, too.
she wanted to touch his hand,
for it to be his,
for it not to be some kind of a come-on.

but she was used to this, by now,
how the smell of her skin brought out the animal.
guava. vanilla. and something more.
and they all wanted the more of it,
she opened her mouth wider,
closed her eyes,
thought of blue skies,
buttered popcorn at the main west,
double-features,
the last line of 'blue'.

he dropped her off. crumpled. torn.
the neon blinking no vacancy.

no vacancy.
no vacancy.
no vacancy.

she lifted up her backpack,
spit,
went to the pop machine,
a cold coke,
and kept walking.

the mountains had to be here,
somewhere.
she would make her stellar entrance there,
shed her clothes,
her scent,
lose herself in the green and grub.

"if i had enough rope, i might just hang myself.
here."
(written by me)

me & a gun ~ tori amos