Tag Archives: poetry

Never Date a Musician

Never date a musician.  He’ll write songs about you and songs that are dedicated to you, and songs that make you to forget that all they are, are some vowels that sound pretty when strung together, and some ‘a’ minor chords that make anyone’s heart break no matter what order they’re put in.  He’ll sing you to sleep and he’ll kiss your eyelids when you cry, and he’ll even figure out the chords to “Puff the Magic Dragon,” because you told him one time that it was your childhood lullaby.  He’ll be able to feel your pain from a mile away because he is so intuitive that it is almost like having a sixth sense.  While he’s cradling your face with his beautifully calloused finger tips, and kissing your forehead, using his manufactured words to make you believe that everything will be okay, he’ll never forgive you for your feelings, because he is so terrified of his own.

Never date a musician because he’ll inspire you.  He’ll bring out the artist within you and you’ll become an addict of passion.  The athlete you’ll date later on will be gorgeous, and he may even impress you with his wisdom and knowledge of current world affairs, but he won’t remind you of what it feels like to feel, and you won’t become addicted to him because he doesn’t make you want to explore the attic of that haunted venue in Milwaukee with him, and he doesn’t give you ideas for the new screenplay that you’ve been writing.  The tattoo artist that you thought you could fall in love with will be the perfect balance of passion, stability and kindness, but while you’re making love in his squeaky bed, he won’t do that thing where he stops for a moment, smiling, and tells you that you look beautiful under the pale moonlight that is shining through the open window.  The boy with the blond hair will make you laugh.  He’ll make you laugh so hard that he’ll wash away all of your doubts with his sweet smile and the way he can keep you up all night, entertained simply by watching bad television together and eating jellybeans.  But they’ll come back.  The doubts will come back when the blond boy can’t find the perfect lyrical analogy, or he can’t silently grab your attention from the other side of a crowded room, and they’ll come back when he doesn’t cause you to bite your bottom lip in lust, because only a musician can do that.

Never date a musician because that is not his heart on his sleeve.  When he’s on stage, setting your soul aflame with his Alvarez that hypnotizes you, his eyes that shyly stay looking down and his vulnerable voice that makes the audience fall in love with him because they believe that they can see what he his feeling.  They can’t.  That is not his heart on his sleeve you silly little victim, it’s just his ego on display.

Never date a musician because he’ll always try to recreate that one night when everything was perfect.  The night that the two of you went to the bridge and splashed rocks into the water so that you could see the bioluminescence.  Then you ran through a park, in the dark, and played tag together and climbed up a tree until you both made it home and sat on the kitchen floor listening to Cat Power and eating left over beans and rice that you cooked together the night before.  You’ll wake up with rashes on your knees from making out all night on the scratchy rug that the two of you keep meaning to replace, but you both hate IKEA so the rug remained.  He’ll always try to recreate that night, never accepting the evolution of relationships because he’s a musician, and they never have to grow up.  When he can’t recreate that night, he’ll hate himself and resent you, and then just write a song about it instead.

Never date a musician because he’ll lie.  He’ll lie about everything.  He’ll lie about his father being an alcoholic, just because it sounds dramatic and captivating.  He’ll lie about the origin of his name and the time that he saved this little girl from drowning.  He’ll even lie about a tragic drug problem he supposedly had just because he wants to pretend that he can relate to Neil Young’s, “A Needle and the Damage Done.”  He’ll lie about these things because they sound romantic.  He has learned from the best… Jim James singing about death and bigotry and Jeff Mangum writing about the only girl he ever loved who got buried alive one day in 1945.  These lyrics will make him believe that he needs to experience the worst of the worst, and somehow that means that he has lived large and with integrity, but it doesn’t.  You’ll realize later that the song you used to play by Carisa’s Wierd that says, “saying sad things that don’t make sense, can just make you look like a liar” didn’t make him squirm because an ex-boyfriend of yours introduced the song to you.  Now you know he hates that song because it hit too close to home.

Never fall in love with a musician because he’ll make you feel like you’re crazy.  When you wake up crying for what you think is no reason, in hindsight you’ll realize that it was because deep down you knew that he was on the other side of town waking up with Adelina, or Calico or Berlin… or some other girl with an exotic name.  She probably has multi-colored hair, and her lips are probably fuller than yours, and she’ll pretend to know all about Wilco just to impress him.  You’ll plead with him on the corner of 3rd and 5th, as strangers are walking by and tears are spilling onto your blue shirt that you’ll never wear again, to tell you the truth about the girl with the Kurt Vonnegut tattoo, but he won’t.  He won’t because telling the truth would mark the end, and all musicians are terrified of a conclusion that cannot be depicted with a few “la-la-la-la’s” and a gentle fade-out.

There will be a tombstone marked “Muse” where you will lie dead.  The day will come when he’ll bring that Alvarez, and sit on top of this grave, and sing to you sweet lullabies, trying to resurrect a time, a place and a you that has long since passed.  Do not fall for this though my friend, because he’ll never love you completely, because completion would mean The End.

Also see, Never Date a Writer.

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The Juggler

Please, remember me, fondly
By the jukebox falling on each other’s hopes
to stay afloat.
The Captain sailed us to our secret haven
destroyed, by angry boys,
making fools of all our candy covered lies
to stay by your side.
I’m sorry Doc Holiday never saw us through the night.

Please, remember me, as in a dream
Summer rain pouring along and playing our secret songs,
tearing down walls
On that playground in Angel Falls
Only now I see we always loved him more.
Your bedroom floor, gave way to all temptations of the years,
we ran with fears, then you disappeared.
So I’ll sing you a lullaby, it’s no Billy Joel,
“Lay down my love, so I can breathe in your soul.”

Please, remember me, courageously
By the host stand laughing at that girl,
I forget her name, but she later called you beautiful.
The time then passed, and overlapped
You were fighting lions while I simply fought a lamb,
and then we just got buried in the Middle Eastern sand.
So here’s to you, and I’ll kiss your cheek,
And tell you to never look back at me.

Please, think of me, painlessly
After school racing with time, before your Mom came home
and we were overthrown.
Making up names of faceless kid’s we’ll never have
A girl and boy
our fucked up joy
Someone save us from eternity.
And please, ignore me, when I whisper in your ear,
“We can say goodbye now, there’s nothing left for us here.”

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Never Date a Writer

Never date a writer.  She’ll tell you tales of intrigue and heartache, filled with clever parallels and euphemisms, but somehow by the end of it, she will feel further away.  She’ll creep into your soul and tell you she loves you, a love will last “‘til Kingdom come,” she’ll whisper.  She might even compare the two of you to one of the greats, like Catherine and Heathcliff, “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same,”  but somehow she’ll say all of this in monotone and without ever meeting your eyes.  Don’t worry though my friend, you won’t notice it at the time.

Never date a writer because she’ll always say what she knows you want to hear.  She may even say it in iambic pentameter, or throw in a subtle rhyme.  Then when your head is easy with her words of serenity, she’ll be saying the same thing to the boy down the street with the scar over his eye.  Or the boy with the Vonnegut quote tattooed on his arm.  Or maybe even that mysterious boy from Liechtenstein.

Never date a writer because she will always know more than you.  During your intimate moments of idea exchanges and song meaning theories, if you look closely, she’ll be biting her tongue while you’re declaring your impressive theories.  Don’t you know?  She has already thought of that one, you fool.  But do not worry, she’ll disguise her patronizing with a warm smile and a sweet sigh.

Never date a writer because she will write about you.  She’ll write about the time you built her the canopy for her bed that she never got to have as a kid, and the time you wrote her a song.  She’ll even write about the time you had a fight out on the balcony when her make-up was only half done and one of the Christmas lights was burnt out.  She’ll call that irony of course.  Somehow your broken heart will lead to another’s favorite lyrical.  And she’ll definitely write about the time you forgot to pick her up from the airport.

What she won’t write about is how you didn’t forget.  How everyday you couldn’t wait for her to get home.  How you left the porch light on each night in case she decided to surprise you and come back early.  She won’t write about how that day your car broke down on the way to pick her up, but you had no money for a cab because you spent your last dime on an engagement ring for her.  Of course you didn’t tell her any of this once she started speaking to you again, because you were embarrassed.  She won’t write about how in a hurry to scramble together enough money for a taxi, you pawned that watch your Dad gave you when he finally declared you “a man.”  And she definitely won’t write about how when you finally got to the airport and found her not there, you cried, as a man, for the first time.

She won’t write about how she was the only person you couldn’t wait to talk to everyday.  Not even the times you kissed her forehead while she was sleeping or kept smiling after she turned away.  She won’t write about how you planned to propose to her one night under that canopy you made for her.  Five times you hid the ring under the pillow and opened the windows in that bedroom because you knew she’d appreciate the gentle whispering of the wind, maybe she’d even write about it, you thought.  But she won’t.  She won’t because all five times she felt far away.  Her voice was monotone and her eyes never met yours.  She kept biting her tongue and breathing a sweet sigh, so you never proposed to her any of those long nights.

Never date a writer because you’ll never be Heathcliff.  You’ll never be Rochester or Romeo or Mr. Darcy or even the man from that story by O. Henry, who sells his watch to buy his wife those combs.  Maybe, if you could remember his name, she’d love you all the way.  So never fall in love with a writer, because she’ll never fall in love with you the same way.

Also see, Never Date a Musician.

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