I made a playlist and titled it ‘Suspect you’re driving from Albuquerque through Madrid towards Santa Fe,’
Thinking at some point we’d listen to it
All at once,
All of it in one sudden moment like when
we’re at some point walking along the bend at Sandoval towards the Georgia O’Keefe museum and we’ve dared the attempt at holding each other’s hands in public.
You’ll point to the painting of the Pelvis and I’ll cry to the video where she talks about the importance of loving America,
Not that I know what that means today
(only what my father said it meant when I was a child).
You’ll point out her affinity for New Mexico and I’ll weep myself out of bondage,
all knowing you’re knowing the only way to dry the droplets of my doubt are to surrender me to the cuff to nutsack device you procured from Mr. S; the leather shop in San Francisco
(Or so I hope).
I think I’d maybe start it off with Cassandra Jenkins,
She’s got a tune about finding one’s center and repeats the motif of ‘1,
as the orchestration climbs a mountain, gasping and entirely out of breath, David Carradine but with a climax,
The summoning of accepting existence
in those loafers of mine you adore.
We’re sometimes hesitant of the company that makes sense, even when it hurts at times and know that’s per the course.
More objectively, worse off, we try to go after the kind of love that makes sense, but only to the periphery,
Norman Lear once wrote a line of script about the sanctity of a home. Of coupling. Of the connection between two souls that fortify a preserved dimension of the Universe that belongs
to its inhabitants.
I think that’s true, and very real;
a confirmed reality that works for the two.
This is the narrative now.
The truth we choose to inhabit; hold.
Such as the amber light of Sunset hitting the darkening corners of February in Brooklyn, and taking a photograph of it. Choosing that over the steam of a humming radiator. Or the onyx cool blue of cold.
The word Clandestine always reminded me of the word Casual,
perhaps it’s so easy to feel it when you say it out-loud.
The happenstance. The uh –
I thought of opting in some Fleet Foxes; they sing of transcendentalism through the guitar strums of Appalachia. You look up at the night sky when in Hollywood and Fall powder-blankets over you, teleported directly above, from the twilight night of Tennessee.
road-head has a specific rhythm.
It goes to the tune of Dollywood.
There’s an ownership that comes with saying ‘I love you.’
It’s a commitment to acknowledging the one day the person you’ve always told that to no longer does.
Scary and exhilarating yet so many say that they don’t gamble.
Maybe it’s something less of. Perhaps it’s something you sometimes keep to yourself,
not to protect but to cherish.
Sriracha smudge on the cheeks not protected. Rib sauce maybe but because the cowboy fantasy slows down the bat lash at least in my head,
There’s something to the man that expects you take in what he’s driving through. It’s a level of dominance that should never be taken lightly. The impressionable gleam behind the frame that implores one to look all around them.
I’ll throw in something from the new Lana,
her patriotism convinces me it’s still alive in me, and some Silvio,
Keep it acoustic and get that one song off of Evermore, I’m a millennial,
Kate and Carly, the Kills, Hypnotize,
Tornadoes loving you and is it heaven or Las Vegas?
Plum mountains skyscrapers and origin cliff basins,
I want it to sound like view head-turn towards the prism bouncing off your glasses,
as you drive us over the gorge
And towards the Sun.
Especially when the light tucks under the horizon and the Rio Grande becomes nebulous
and in the dark. Good eyes with intent don’t have a thing to say out-loud.
That’s why there aren’t enough songs about Santa Fe.