THE LUMBERJACK & THE DUMBWAITER (OR DISASTER WITH FLIRTING)

Sometimes I wonder if from some alternate perspective
if palm trees look like legs,
if the sky looks like the ground,
if the Earth looks like it’s running.

We bend the truth sometimes with the intention of making a point.
Hypothetical penmanship.
The only difference between cursive and italic is intention.
If that’s true than it might seem like I’m changing the subject sometimes
but I’m really just trying to catch up on current events
like, where did you come from?

I know I must look like a lumberjack from where you're standing,
but if you could please watch where you’re swinging that proverbial ax.

You’re making me as nervous as a palm tree is tall.
I get like that, top heavy.
Like a fainting goat.
Have you seen those things?
Legs locked.
We all have moments where we get tripped up,
so let’s cut to the part where we already know we’re not perfect.

Your smile is my status update.

I don’t know if you hear it but every time we talk there’s a trampoline in my voice.
So forgive me, sometimes I drop my Rs.

When I see you I get all pancake mouth,
waffle cheek and syrup tongue.
Stomach full of strawberry fields–
forever, complete with caterpillars that found their wings;
they are breath-taking.
Even with the skydive knocked into my lungs I tend to say too much
but I’ll never talk with my mouth
fully full
with anything other than modesty. Honestly.

I know we just met but if we could please pretend that we’ve been friends for longer than we’ve been talking and that no matter how bad the service at this place might be if we could just pretend it was the greatest and if all of our nerves could be outsourced to laughter and if you could just keep filling my silence with your presence and if I wear too many of my flaws like flesh-tone band-aids that are supposed to blend in if you could just see them less like smoke signals and more like comfort zones then I’m sure we could get to the point where we finish each others life sentences.

You’re right, maybe that’s too much.
To ask.
In this moment.
I’m just trying to make up for all the homes I never slid headfirst into.

And there I go, running my basket mouth like a propane tank fire in a hot air balloon
when my intent was simply bonfire comfort and S’mores.

Cuddle.
Buddy.

I don’t know the difference between flirtation and honesty-
I thought you were cute so I spread my arms like fan blades
told you like wind tunnel.
But apparently some people are built with wind resistance,
go figure. I was just testing your aerodynamics.
Now I'm stuck standing here in my awkwardness.
Are my arms still stretched like fan blades?
Have you caught my drift?

I’m a topographical map of a train wreck collapsed into an ocean wave
washed ashore by an iceberg melting into a stop sign.
I don’t know this dance.
Paint your footsteps on my floor. When you’re around
if you held a record player needle to my breath
you wouldn't hear anything
but we'd look cute trying.

From where I'm standing your shadow- as impressive as the Moon's.
Show me a human eclipse, show me the full you, respond to my gravitational pull.
Set yourself in my sky and make way for seasons.

If moments are trees I've carved our initials into kites cut from our branches,
attached keys to our rings
in hopes that we'd find home together.

Sometimes my intentions– big as the sky, obvious.
I get like that, full moon and starry eyed.
I don’t ever need to leave the ground
so long as we still find time to look up
and wonder
if from some alternate perspective we all look like trees
with our truths stuck in the ground.

11/08/2011