open the door

he's pretty on the inside
tired of macaroni and cheese
tired of girlfriends
tired of parents
tired of literature
of philosophy
of sexuality
he speaks like a barn on fire
sadly taken aback by flames
attacked by unexpected disaster.
he spoke slowly and he smiled
unlocked the door
"what was it you forgot?"
southern drawl
no drawl
yes and
"i don't like this place. and i don't like the way it
feels." he said.
i came out of there now
i left Omaha
if only for a little while
and i want you to know you are somehow more beautiful than the whole spectrum of home
with your slurred speech
your tired lazy eyes
your loneliness
your apartment downtown
god, it gets so hot and i can't even afford to live here.

feeling wheels coming up off the ground,
she closed her eyes and opened her mouth.
he fell for a girl who dropped her fingernails on the floor
and looked at torn curtains
thinking that hands had ripped through them in some passion that no one could find
it was the fight that made them tear
it was the fight that made them leave their books on the floor
that made them forget their cupboards were open and their oven worked just fine.
maybe it was just the horror of living in the middle of america,
of being unknown and being
ashes to ashes dust to dust
nothing more but maybe less
i wanted to tear through your curtains and cut your throat
i wanted god to look at you while you bled and died
and not tell you anything about being okay
or getting better
you'll be wracked for cash as long as you live
so i guess if you look at it this way you better not live long.

we would leave our house in disarray, too, because we'd spend our whole lives waiting instead of looking
for a passion we'd never find anyways.

no matter how much money i pay it always tastes the same
"what was it you expected?" he said
"for the water to be sweet?"