===============================================================and of these cut- throat busted sunsets, these cold and damp white mornings I have grown weary. if though my cracked and dusted dime-store lips I spoke these words out loud would no one hear me? lay your blouse across the chair, let fall the flowers from from your hair and kiss me with that country mouth, so plain. outside, the rain is tapping on the leaves, to me it sounds like they're applauding us the the quiet love we made. will I always feel this way? so empty, so estranged
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Angels fall from heaven, or so the story goes. But I believe they saunter out of blond brick buildings wearing black jackets and red Docs. They do not glide through the air with a halo over flowing golden hair, but swagger over cracked pavement, hiding their wings under graying old jackets. They keep their wings duct taped down and never reveal a smile until the moment is right. Angels strum guitars and sing about old cars. They do not pluck on the strings of harps, but tenderly pizzicato on the strings of my heart.