| Vandalia |
| Lee Vowell's poems and stuff |
| Sweet Silence Of Anne
Emptiness sounds from Anne Trials like a baptism Fruit in my taste mouth I was Seeing my eyes in your soul Souless like an ocean and I know you Like lipstick and mascara in a cold room Whipsnade and Timberlake Roaming thunder and jet...lag I want to crash into the mountain Burn all up inside The last thing I will taste Is your lipstick and pain Never to be left like the rain In a souless cold room...Just Into the fog and through the water Ballooning into the foyer underneath And asleep... Without Anne |
| Dusk Of Day
Pliable daylight in through the window Washing my face, like shadows Silence, a rejoicing savior to me And the city is once more Open to the graciousness of the artists But I sit on the bus lines for an hour Work is the least of entity The money-all money-is equipped With the purpose of the Dead Treeless sky, suffer the clouds Corroded eyes and marshmallow hands The knowing is half the struggle And at the end of the People I survive and learn to want Now, there is no downpour that could come And clean the streets There is no bleach that will choke the stain But I will sleep in my home tonight And I will awake again.... |
| 7/27/2004 The red clay Between my fingers Lingers Inside this gated life Little pricks of isolation And the man asks things That he has no business asking But I reply kindly Because I want to forget he's there And get on with my existence With red clay Between my fingers And so I look down on you Like I've wanted to for so long But this isn't the same There is no face to ease the pain There is no mouth to whisper Any quiet words I wish I heard But... Well, now in my ziplock bag I keep the clay I want to remember I was here I want you to know That I left the note For you For you Linger |
| Girl Number 10 You wore a yellow scarf This is not what I usually think of I am not what the matter is I look backwards And see nothing If I cannot say, �Well, what the fuck? The greatest thing we did was Stuff your mother wouldn't approve of� Then what does it matter anyway? And the eagle flies And people think of God And I know, I know, I know I shouldn't say these things (But I am ) You had the gift of sin On your chin I was never in to oral fixations, though I cannot be I cannot shatter I cannot laugh Without seeing your face Little skirt The one that made me think Of stuff your mother wouldn't approve of Or, hell...even my own dear mum Still I liked watching you Watching your face You said I was a good lover And to another... Do you say the same things? Tell Pittsburgh hello Or whatever... |
| Strap Space Incomplete I have this journey to pace forth Across the sea Into the brine A little more willow A little less twine Faceless Into the seam Into the lines Painted by young artists In their early careers Where they met hallowed ground On deaf ears Sparkle Roam A little more shadow A little less chrome In cars with garrison keys Blanket the sky Empty the sea Incomplete Space |
| Distance There is only dust And dry leaves. Harvest For the winter home There is only water And whiskey. Shimmering Reflection in the distance All waves and ocean All static and noise Only wet ground and Hallowed dirt. Silence In the tinder box and breezy Only charcoal skies canopy Over meadow. Sun time Lingering reflections on distance All open and indirect All small words and shade All mood and fog All waves and ocean |
| Summer Re-enactment There was something to be said of the migration of thieves Safe, nestled boys laid out on meadows in the country Like a memory of heat and wind and rainless night On the streets, with broom-handled charisma I think I saw the light of day and the brim of stars In through the looking glass, past plastic cups�windows By the houses of friends: a week always changed the fa�ade No more skills to learn, no knowledge of how we were Parents and strollers, catching the sudden terms Dogs barking and blended sounds of father�s coming home Whistles and bells drove the twelve o�clock shelves Little credits in the whispers of the grass Rocks and shapes of pain and blood and laughter (Nothing hurts when one is young with friends) Gridlocked cities far off and away, common today Oceans and music and families and new experiences Boys- In the disarray of adulthood Were we there to be bonded? Or the sense of closeness, abandoned for some path predetermined? Summer fades Dry days There was something to be said of the migration of thieves |
| A webpage with Lee's (my) stuff, right? Obviously, it's self-absorbed, which I hate. I don't want it to be all about me, but can I help it? No! It's a damn webpage I make. Like, hello?! |
| Thursday On tiptoes, barefoot In long shorts with yellow flowers On concrete beds under shallow moons Watersheds for the unintended Fragile arms with window jewels Outside, beneath the wind On summer swings before sudden storms Driving to the ocean In bedroom nightmares On long islands and oxygen tents In paved cities and unnoticed irony Boat rides and prayers Weakened immunity from the rain Alone, solitary tango Freshly mowed lawns, daydreaming Road to the sea Shadows for ghosts Behind closed eyes lies independence Without memory of causeways Mutiny from the likeliness of collapse The stars shade from ill humor Outside, beneath the wind In empty metropolis parks, Life Awaiting less deficiency On tiptoes, barefoot On summer days in cool rooms On concrete beds under shallow moons Shade near trees of hallowed shores Fear of the water, of drifting The ocean- The offering of flooding the cruel sarcasm Bringing seeds of hope to the dark chasm Of being while imperfect |
| White Summer All these shadows look familiar Along concrete alleyways Beneath third world stones Existing in echoed waves In perfumed houses On cul-de-sacs In apartment high rises And through the roads To silent meadow grasses With feeble laughter near crystal ponds That mimics brazen hopes Made in softer times Quietly, by the river bed For rearranged completion Of one's faulty defective being Brittle bones on iron lungs And memory returns to Timothy Avenue Before breathing was difficult With sun on grass And birds singing in trees Shadows of the morning leaving There will be no storms today |
| Afternoon Pretty painted pictures There is liquidity Waves of reflections Evenings and screened porches Old hymns for found lyrics Lonely lane for brightening night Kitchen table confessions Farm houses beneath gray sky Silence in the shadows This is no medicine This is no dream I am awaiting transit I learned of the rapture I heard the tribal tales I am hollow and without Empty rooms with sacred beds There is no machinery There is no image Ancient tune of bereavement I read disciple memories I memorized the folklore You are sacred in meaning This is no dream This is no medicine Silence in the shadows Farm houses beneath blue sky Sunny bedroom reconciliations Quiet road and darkening day New music for searching words Afternoons and sitting chairs Fading waves of reflections There is liquidity Pretty painted pictures |
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| I�ll Walk From Here (2007) I�ll walk from here among the letter houses beneath the old stone bridge into the moonshine delicately Far from the memories made from ancient words, spoke solemnly from your lips on the balcony facade gently Amidst the summer night with no future and no past before the concepts of beginning and ending and beginning again Round the corner I am shadow milky romance and loss years before any relevance of descending to happiness and normality I�ll walk from here as my silence walks beside me, alone where I�ve never been or wanted to be |