Wednesday, November 28, 2007

She tells stories.....

ERIC BACHMAN and SINGLETON 2007

Her face was wet,
chilled, but not cold
and I succumbed...
fell
into her soul,
her innermost heat,
a fire that even
the rains of November
couldn't completely
extinguish.

Did I ever tell you
I was in love with snow?
dimestore flocking
quilt batting
crystaline
fortune telling
flakes?
And the cold shock
hot
of drowning
in
a bathtub full
a hillside high
a ditch on the side of the road
of white
forever tumbling from overstuffed
"I can't believe I ate this much!"
"Gotta unbuckle my five oh one"
clouds?

Her face was wet
so was mine
her hair
my hair
her clothes
my clothes
soaked
clinging
and cold
in the November air
and she prattled
on
cheeks five o'clock pink,
fishtelling the story I knew by heart

and how I never forgave
the skies
for teasing me
with plump white wine
goosefeathers falling
unexpected,
never recorded before,
cant be happening!,
and then
wrecking my dream
in the morning?

her face was wet
and so was mine,
and we laughed
at everything:
rain
clouds
wind
tears
shivers
smiles
and brown eyes;
the soul of the earth
with come hither to lines....

it was my only one night stand.....

her face was wet
and so was mine
and in the cold
November nightness
we
played snow angels on the hill
and laughed at
the stories
behind us...

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

The Little Things


Little dead bird
cold
sleeping
at my feet.

Wings
ragged
tattered
torn.

I touch her
barely
with one toe

and die inside
a little more.

Sunday, November 18, 2007

The Waiting Game--Eric Bachman and Singleton, '07














You’ve got the five o’clock blues
and a ten spot in your pocket--
There's no place like home
after a little hell on Monday.
(no matter where home is)

Meatloaf and cold potatoes,
callin’ your name out loud,
the paycheck's spent and
the fridgadair’s humming;
Warm
And hollow
And empty.

Happy hour is three days off
Says the sign, the schedule
the Monday morning cue card.

The parking lot's all lit up,
the double doors flap
wide open,
closed
and open again...

and that’s really all you need....

Five o'clock and an open invite;
all we're waiting on is you.

Monday, November 12, 2007

Pretty Little Ending--Eric Bachman and Singleton, '07

A pretty little ending,
all wrapped up tight;
sugar-coated candies
in a movie theatre box.

The credits roll by--
The End spelled out
in unmistakable font,
everyone's going home.

Confetti dust and rays
of a lost sun flickering,
floating in bright chaos,
their shadows play tag
on a dirty silver screen--
And suddenly I remember...

It wasn't all that great;
I just wanted it to be.

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

Eyes that Sing, Eric Bachman 2007







I may not see you there
looking through the leaves,
but your soul sings a song
that ripples true and rings
across the body of time
a piano played by heart
a hundred notes and lines.

Every verse you know
was learned so long ago.
And all the songs you sing
are from a siren's dream.
Echoing the blue sky blues
autumnal virgin forest scene
across the body of time.

Your song gives you away
behind the thickest leaves.

Your eyes give you away
the body of time, a dream.

Your heart may be alone--
I listen for it's wild call.

Your eyes they sing
a song of midnight lights,

Dancing through the distance
the burnt gold leaves of fall.

Sunday, November 4, 2007

On The Floor, Eric Bachman and Singleton 2007













Watching the bold clock face
ticking down the brick wall,
tocking sepia lyrics
talking--unraveling

spilling

spelling

yesterday

and maybe

tonight.

Misfit makeshift couples--
Strangers two hours before
Three beers later
(who's counting?)
Folding like pages into
gray night moths
enveloped against, into, onto
each other by moonshine…
Desperate
for a Friday night love story.
(“Hey, what's your name, again?”)

But not us,
we laughed at the clock….
pick pocketing
Our last lines

We clinked! to the last call
and all that could’ve been
if we had risen to the occasion…..

To one last spin
one last dance
one last drink
the last of many tonight

And tomorrow,
we'll do it all one more time...
one more spin
one more sigil scribbled
on the back door stairwell

Everything is perfect
everything will burn
every night without end
when you're the Silver moths
in the black cantina...

Friday, November 2, 2007

Behind The Powder Room Door, Eric Bachman and Singleton 2007

All lined up like perfect flowers
with their pink painted faces
moulin rouge cheeks,
little hens
in the ladies room
cackling
spitting
hissing
smiling
through antique teeth,
veneered words
splinter off their tongues...

"So nice to see you"...

Even fairy tales
have cardboard creeps
climbing through the pages,

And she believes in fairy tales,
so she dusts them off daily
with feather words and gloss,
billowing sweet cotton candy,
pink on their blue cheeks

They prattle as she prances
out the door...

"Isn't she a doll?"...

...

Sometimes,
you have to fix the endings.