Hi Children of the Sun
Yesterday I had to go pick up my friend Ken from the auto body repair shop on Hollywood and Gower. I was sitting in the hot hot car on the hot hot street for 20 minutes with no A.C. at 5 pm. It was all OK, though, because I was listening to KXLU and they played Big Star's "September Gurls."
That song feels like walking through the sprinkler.
I thought it probably could get no better and then they played "Do Ya" by ELO.
I thought I was the only person who got that song anymore. Well, me and Moods for Moderns, a wonderful power-pop band from Detroit who covered it most awesomely (but unfortunately just broke up). It feels so good to know someone else loves "Do Ya" enuf to play it on the FM radio at rush hour, next to Big Star.
They also played a mysterious psychedelic song called "The Origins of Love." Does anyone know who does this song? It was fucking great.
So today is Poetry Friday.
I dedicate today's poem to the small mysteries. It is by Pablo Neruda.
Ode to Clothes
���������������������������
Every morning you wait,
clothes, over a chair,
to fill yourself with
my vanity, my love,
my hope, my body.
Barely
risen from sleep,
I relinquish the water,
enter your sleeves,
my legs look for
the hollows of your legs,
and so embraced
by your indefatigable faithfulness
I rise, to tread the grass,
enter poetry,
consider through the windows,
the things,
the men, the women,
the deeds and the fights
go on forming me,
go on making me face things
working my hands,
opening my eyes,
using my mouth,
and so,
clothes,
I too go forming you,
extending your elbows,
snapping your threads,
and so your life expands
in the image of my life.
In the wind
you billow and snap
as if you were my soul,
at bad times
you cling
to my bones,
vacant, for the night,
darkness, sleep
populate with their phantoms
your wings and mine.
I wonder
if one day
a bullet
from the enemy
will leave you stained with my blood
and then
you will die with me
or one day
not quite
so dramatic
but simple,
you will fall ill,
clothes,
with me,
grow old
with me, with my body
and joined
we will enter
the earth.
Because of this
each day
I greet you
with reverence and then
you embrace me and I forget you,
because we are one
and we will go on
facing the wind, in the night,
the streets or the fight,
a single body,
one day, one day, some day, still.
Yesterday I had to go pick up my friend Ken from the auto body repair shop on Hollywood and Gower. I was sitting in the hot hot car on the hot hot street for 20 minutes with no A.C. at 5 pm. It was all OK, though, because I was listening to KXLU and they played Big Star's "September Gurls."
That song feels like walking through the sprinkler.
I thought it probably could get no better and then they played "Do Ya" by ELO.
I thought I was the only person who got that song anymore. Well, me and Moods for Moderns, a wonderful power-pop band from Detroit who covered it most awesomely (but unfortunately just broke up). It feels so good to know someone else loves "Do Ya" enuf to play it on the FM radio at rush hour, next to Big Star.
They also played a mysterious psychedelic song called "The Origins of Love." Does anyone know who does this song? It was fucking great.
So today is Poetry Friday.
I dedicate today's poem to the small mysteries. It is by Pablo Neruda.
Ode to Clothes
���������������������������
Every morning you wait,
clothes, over a chair,
to fill yourself with
my vanity, my love,
my hope, my body.
Barely
risen from sleep,
I relinquish the water,
enter your sleeves,
my legs look for
the hollows of your legs,
and so embraced
by your indefatigable faithfulness
I rise, to tread the grass,
enter poetry,
consider through the windows,
the things,
the men, the women,
the deeds and the fights
go on forming me,
go on making me face things
working my hands,
opening my eyes,
using my mouth,
and so,
clothes,
I too go forming you,
extending your elbows,
snapping your threads,
and so your life expands
in the image of my life.
In the wind
you billow and snap
as if you were my soul,
at bad times
you cling
to my bones,
vacant, for the night,
darkness, sleep
populate with their phantoms
your wings and mine.
I wonder
if one day
a bullet
from the enemy
will leave you stained with my blood
and then
you will die with me
or one day
not quite
so dramatic
but simple,
you will fall ill,
clothes,
with me,
grow old
with me, with my body
and joined
we will enter
the earth.
Because of this
each day
I greet you
with reverence and then
you embrace me and I forget you,
because we are one
and we will go on
facing the wind, in the night,
the streets or the fight,
a single body,
one day, one day, some day, still.
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