Planes. Trains.
Schedules. Meetings
Our souvenirs
from the Marriott Hotel.
You’re the one
who brings me out
when it hurts my heart
to see the sun,

1000 thread sheets
neck ties and pantyhose.
That impoverished winter
and that toothbrush we shared.
You’re the voice
to my frailty
you’re the web that
my fate has spun.

The Ocean. The hills
The desert. The night.
A handful of stones
a sackful of rain
You’re the calendar my days
will ever be drawn by
at the end,
when that day is done




This entry was published on 09/08/2014 at 5:23 pm. It’s filed under klf sort of and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

14 thoughts on “honeybun

  1. I thought the poem was okay. I think the song is fucking fantastic.

    • Realiy? I just felt like playin’ the guitar this morning 🙂 I also did a really cool version of Bo Diddley’s “Before You Accuse Me”. I oughta have pout that up, too! 🙂

      • Dunno, something about it really got me. Think the song made the words just feel right.

      • isiscambassassassassian on said:

        Are you using a resonator guitar there?

      • No, but top marks for knowing that it would be a resonator guitar as opposed to a dobro. All dobros are resonator guitars but not all resonator guitars are dobros.

  2. The invariable problem about writing worshipful poems to women that look back in the hope of looking forward (which is uncomfortable for me as I abhor sentimentality for the sake of sentimentality) and that deal with truths which, frankly, I am ill-equipped to discuss in any world which is not entirely of my creation (which is the fun part of poems – my world, my rules) is that the darned women never actually get to read them, So I throw them into the world like some out-of-town rehearsal for play the acts of which will never be performed on the wider stage of life – instead they’ll be redacted and bowdlerized into a serious of convenient scenes to be played out of order and out of context to an increasingly bewildered audience.

    But this is necessary because you can’t let the lie that sits at the heart of the poem become the lie that sits at the heart of life. As much as we talk about poems dealing with “truths” – which they do because they have to otherwise they are some other thing – homilies, flash fiction, reality TV whatever, but they also deal with certain lies – the lie of memory (the Marrriot hotel and the toothbrush both are truths but only I know that in sharing context within this poem, they both exist as lies. And that’s fine in your own world and your own continuum of experience, such as the poem, but it will quickly pick apart any attempt to translate the poem into something useful you might actually want to say to someone.

    So it is just as well that the 7 or so women who usually populate my poems as biographical characters don’t actually read the poems.

    Now, who was it I was talking to?

  3. I am having to make myself stop listening to the track, long enough to leave word I was here, else you will never know… One thing for sure is, ever since “Longest Summer” played on these speakers, Wifey said to never let her miss another of your recordings. Count her as a fan…

    I read the poem and your overview while I was listening. Hard to talk about the poem without reflecting on what you said afterward, so I will so both… I would bet a cork screw to a wine bottle, some of the key points were based on fact. For me, one fact is enough to build a three stanza poem upon, and if this is, indeed, the case, you have spread the gospel truth here, and nothing less.

    The “voice to frailty / web that my fate has spun” passage hits home solid for me. Seriously, I winced at that one. It was a knee buckler…

    And, just for good measure, I stayed at a brand new Comfort Inn (the old one burned down) in East Tennessee on Friday night, and after an early steak dinner, I stopped at a convenience store and picked up a couple of honey buns to tide me over, in the night. One of them made it back home with me. The other was noteworthy, a fine snack.

  4. yoko1ohno1 on said:

    A very sweet little treat, indeed.

  5. Quite possibly the nicest poem about stealing towels ever 🙂

  6. when you swear that it’s over
    I’ll swear it begun
    from the first to the last
    you’re my one

  7. Yes, to the Dough, Bro 😉

  8. How did I miss this?! I need a little WP Reader ” Seb” alarm. Fine work, yet again, love it!

  9. oh so gorgeous Seb…

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