Yo la tengo

In my Missouri

kitchen I listened to the
insane sounds of the music blaring

So how would I know I would meet you

seven years after that epiphanous moment and how
each time we kissed

Dim memories of champagne and orange juice would come

haunting back into memory?

Every poetic line

read by me now is
wonderously filled with hidden metaphors, each
hidden until you squeezed them out between the cracks

Heat from your

economic thighs now burning fuel

V12 engine no one would guess

inside the wood-paneled chassis you call temporary home

Lust is a four-letter word you've reintroduced by

spinning minty fresh platters

Piling way up

on the world-weary stereo

Neat clutters alongside cataloging your life

in order of genre, in order of artist, label

Order is something I

never assume I can have again but can only
dream of getting back

Every shiny disk

rolled into black plastic shelf
wears me out a little more

Hearts can only be worn on sleeves so long

and then they're stabbed so often they stop

Ink can only purloin so much before I simply

just fuck you silly
under the watchful
Sebadoh eyes of past mistakes

The fingers of my hands tremble

because the necks of the guitars tremble also and

Each failed garage band we love is a

grand metaphor for the
underground indie love we may or may not have

Back to 'Jasonettes'

Copyright 1998, Jason Pettus. All rights reserved.