overton park

(I decided that this blog didnt make me mad, so i'm re-posting it.)

I've got my shorts on again, and a girl on my mind. Sounds like trouble koming soon, but i hope its just a new coming moon. There's a little boy flying a big kite and his older brother is teaching him how to keep what he loves a float. Me and my old love, we used to come here to rest. I'd bring some old book, and she'd bring her camera; she'd tell me i was the sun king.

There's a man and his baby who hasn't been with us for too long, but he walks alright and his dad hugs and kisses him all the time. The boy wanders and watches the world that he sees. The dogs and the kite and the families playing frisbee. They stop him in his traks, everything catches his eye; everything is new: the girls on their bikes, the guy drinking his beer. He wants to meet everything. I hope it never changes.

There are so many planes in the sky, and so many sweethearts in the grass. They fly kites, they kiss, I imagine them remembering when they were young. When their kites crash, they do not remember piking up and going home; they don't think about their love running away. Their minds only wonder when their mouths will meet again, when they can feel warm. They imagine sliding rings onto each other's fingers and realizing they won't ever have to be alone. This love is more important to them than the crashing and burning of the world around them; it's more important than the passengers aboard all those planes looking for any way to get away, to find something new.

The kiss they've felt a million times, the body they know by heart, these are the only tastes they need. Everything else is a waste, everything else is a dandelion wish in the wind. These lovers are jazz songs. The same series of notes playing forever, but always mutating, always striving to play new melodies and new songs, new records. I hope they never feel otherwise.

The sky is still blue, but the moon is already in position. It watches us dance and sing and scream and cry. It watches the kites that crash and the moments when they soar; it watches as it itself changes, meandering down its orbit, putting on a new dress.

There are so many planes in the sky. There have been so many days lately that i've wished myself to be a passenger on any of them headed anywhere, but today and for the past few days, Memphis has felt like a home as good as any. My heart isn't quite at rest, but it is moving the right way. When i talk with my friends, when the snow came, when i played stupid songs with and in front of my favorite friends: the spaces started to disappear. There is a girl with hair like the sun and eyes like what they used to say of the color of the gods. She speaks in ways that smooth the wind through my hair. One day we will be barefoot here, and this blanket will have more than a couple of books and a beer and a boy skribbling away. Things will be easy.