The Last Of The Great Rock And Roll Kids

When we go, let’s go like this:
Hands across our hearts
Tied in the shape of “I wouldn’t have it any other way”,
Singing loudly,
Letting the dead know we are coming to shake things up.

When we go, let’s go like a cheap bucket of “Hallelujah”,
The last bead on the rosary.
Upright, with swagger.
Let’s let it wash over us like truth.

We are the last of the great rock and roll kids,
All action and no talk.
Three chords and no decoration.
We are the romance in the struggle.
We are dust
Waiting to be stars.

Wait long enough, and
Salvation will come.
In the shape of four-year old wrists,
It will come quiet, like Grace.

I am no longer waiting. Amen.

So, when we go,
Let’s go the way great rock and roll kids were born to:
With fire in our teeth, and
Piano wire in our bones.
This is not a baptism.
This is an exorcism.
Non-refundable recovery.

Angelic runaways
Finally going Home.

Survival On Vinyl

I turned up my stereo louder than it goes, and
Sang along to the last song we made out to.
It felt like a funeral.
I stopped.
And I thought of all of the funerals
Of all of the hearts
In the history of former lovers
Until this feeling fell on me:
There is life after life.

There are 72 beats a minute for at least another 50 years.
Let the countdown begin:
Let’s stitch our hands together and bellyflop back into this big, dumb ocean of lust.
Let’s eat onions for communion and kiss our tears goodbye.
(They have stayed long enough.)
Let’s fuck like nymphomaniacal bunnies on a sinking ship.
Let’s have a tea party with zombies and toast to the fact that death is not the end.

Play your cello with your fists tonight.
Stab a way away from the crosses of faraway ghosts
Until we are haunted by only soft things.
Sometimes the gospel comes in clumsy eighth notes.
This is then.
This is “Love without fear.”
This is “Kissing the demons into dust.”
This is “Punk rock at 3 a.m.”
This is “Hermosa at sunset.”
This is “Jonathan Livingston Seagull.”
This is healing.
Caskets into kisses,
Scissors into sermons,
Drugs into poems.
You are brave magic,
A rifle of right hands putting this puzzle back together
For the first time.
And I am thinking,
“I want to steal you away
And baptize this feeling in the alleys of Los Angeles.”

Good love should be dirty.

I Think We Understand Death

Almost everything worth listening to
Died with The British Invasion.
You are not one of those things.

I think we understand death
In the same way that good children do,
In the same way that cathedral bells sound
On Sunday mornings
When no one pretends not to listen.

Your arms are like chandeliers, and
I am standing watch.
You will not break here.
You will not study the cracks of sidewalks.
You will not let gravity guide the direction of your heart.

Dear You,
Look up at me,
I want to tell you,
“You are sacred.”

You are why stars form in the patterns of lovers.
You are why Cupid fires and never misses.
You are why.

It is so strange to think we are born, and
There is this someone else somewhere
Just waiting for you to find them.
“Why did you take so long?”

There is sunlight dripping across
The pillow where you dream.
I wish I could be wherever it is you are
With you.

What is it about all of this that is making me feel
Like there has been no one or no thing before you?

If God is looking down right now,
I think His cue cards must say something like,
“You deserve it, kid!”, and
I think He is right.

I think it’s good to think.
I think there should be an international day of mourning
For all of those folks who will never know how it feels to be
This close to you.
I think you should make records just so I can hear your voice
When you are away from my ears.
I think we should spend Tuesday afternoons dancing our guts out
Just so Saturday does not think it has the market cornered.

You are sleeping in the soft shape
Of an Elliot Smith song, and
I want to tell you that I have missed your face.

“I have missed your face.”

The Liberation Of Billboards

Someone forgot to tell you
That you are loved.
So, I am here.
I am all of those words
That all of those boys
Should have said, but never did. 
I wonder how many times since you
They have wished they had.
“Sorry Charlies, this gal is mine.”

Have you ever told someone “I love you”
Just to hear how those words felt against your lips?
Me neither.

Last night I had a dream
About falling asleep and dreaming, and
I woke up wondering how it would end.
See, there are only three things in this life I know for sure:
1: Cheap guitars always sound better
2: Things break for a reason, and
3: One day everyone I know will die.

You and me,
We are the kids who are born in the gutter, but
Belong to the stars.
So, let’s do it. 
Let’s put on side one of Led Zeppelin IV, and
Make out like black magic.

Sad boys believe in love
Because of the day you were born.
Did you know that?

What else?

I hope you know there is magic in your air.
I hope you know that your hands are holy.

Convince yourself of this one truth:
Your heart is that light The Smiths sang about.

Let’s do something neither of us will regret.
Let’s paint “Love IS Possible” over every billboard we see, and
Let’s mean it.

There were so many times
I did not know why my heart insisted on beating, and
Now I know.