The Faux Pas Press #72

The Faux Pas Press #72

25 December 2010

By: Jason Fresh

Jo,
the Native-American Wife,
it might be cruel of my sensibilities
not to notice,
not to sense
something at the very least.
But something would be your
pretentious attention
whore of a counterpart.

I am the rock star, sweetie.
You’re just the brand name,
white t-shirt and prep new shoes,
cheap shampoo showered in your hair
and cheap hairspray in your bangs.

You are nothing though.
And I have to confess.
You are certainly nothing,
a poetic cavern,
Nirvana.
You are The Call of the Wild
in an international, multi-colored mess.
You’re three colors wrist-banded
attached to a part of you bigger than your wrist.
You’re the three colors of my head:
gold hair,
black eyebrows,
and red face –
a three-layered humus dip from Trader Joe’s.
But I am full and I can eat your wristbands.
And I could, in time, devour you.

In time, in time, in time.

Wait.
Take one more breath.
Let’s give it all we have
and try to save what’s left.

I got
down on my knees
and now I’m begging for forgiveness
said a word I never say, “Please.”

Lost in the moonlight there are lives.
Gone in the madness there were signs.
Gone like tomorrow there is time.
And on the other side you were mine.
And on the other side you were mine.

Cry.
Cry like a bitch.
Open up the wounds that you can’t heal for me to see
and make me rich.

Play.
Play with my heart.
Bathe us in the sorrow belonging to the now
and break me apart.

Lost in the moonlight there are lives.
Gone in the madness there were signs.
Gone like tomorrow there is time.
And on the other side you were mine.
And on the other side you were mine.