My Responsibility Has Found a Face
I remember still being in my house. I just came back from over seas about 2 months prior and I was dancing around while arranging my colognes and ties. I had job interviews that week. I didn't want any of them. I wanted to dance around to Belle and Sebastian and smell my carpet and eat Japanese food with pretty girls. I wanted to wear jeans and show people that I had a vein running down my bicep. I wanted to bet football and sing Dear Catastrophe Waitress and other peppy songs that made me smile.
My mother was away. My father was insane. My house was void of furniture and my bed felt so new and my laundered shirts and shoes smelled like they did when I left. I used to dream of how they smelled.
The best looking boys are taken
The best looking girls are stayin inside.
So Judy where does that leave you?
Walking the streets from morning to night.
I really like the way they sing "Dream of horsesssssssssssssessssssssssss." I really like the way they lead that line on and make me twirl like a gay young man or juvenile girl as I listen to it in my room.
It would all fall apart when I would really look around. It would all fall apart when I knew I had nowhere to live after we sold the house. It was just me and my computer and the smell of crisp old life. It was the smell of cologne and frizzled beef cooking on the stove. It felt like an empty refrigerator with just onions and ketchup inside. It felt like looking around for things to sell. It felt like my life was going to die all at once. It was all but dead except for the easy sound of that song. It was new and alive. That song was what I wanted to hear playing.
I would sit at my computer and play Go Stop until the morning. I was holding on to anything that felt free. I felt anything but free hearing my father snore from across the hall and seeing that my options were limited. I came back to nothing except my ability to forget about everything.
I've got to change my ways.
Dress for business everyday.
Have you shaved for work yet baby?
Don't go out the boss is crazy.
We need to talk.
Step into my office baby.
I would sprinkle myself with that and other songs. I would dash myself like fettered beef cooking on a tin tray over a spitfire. We'll comment on the desk of the landlord and run away and elope in our spare time.
All I want is to twirl right into the thought of you here with me. Like a sugar flinging fan pelting me with the smell of your forearms and taste of your lips. The dream of horses rides through me with a rumble that you can feel in the place only your mother moves.
