GypsyLouise

The city burns tonight
That building
Where they print that money
Mint
And the fire’s fed
By precious tinder

The city burns tonight
Moonlighting—where they hand out jobs
For nothing in return
The city burns

And the smoke makes signals
As it furls
Off that wooden bar
With a wound
From a World War 2 bullet

But flames can’t penetrate
The quartz citrine
Can’t come near a stone
That Indians swear
Suppresses inner fears

Meanwhile
The building is burning

Fueled by precious tinder
Precious paper
Printed with the promise of a futre
But propagated by a few
Leaving the rest to wish for longer arms
And bigger grips
So as to grab all they can
Before they too become ash
Like the city
That burns tonight

Like teacher to pupil
She’d wax poetic
And the girls would listen
All close like
The world a map
That could be folded
Six ways from
One corner to another
And kept a secret
In the back pocket
of acid washed Levies
She’d chew cinnamon gum
and say,
“The days of daisies are dead
My friend,
The last petal’s been plucked
He loves you not,”
And as their leader
They believed her
Which is why I never followed
Find me hiding behind the school shed
Leaving petals in tact
Making daisy chains instead
Never one to play numbers games
With all that hope floating in my head

writing in the weather
that makes the world bloom
you can find me
holed-up
in my room
with drapes drawn
for like moss
my thoughts proliferate
in the absence of the sun
and her judgmental stare

sonnets
on hotel notepads
little songs
with 14 lines
kept in time
by strict rhyme structure
scribbles
on cocktail napkins
a name
and 7 numbers
dial them
then say hello
to feel less alone
if only closeness
could compensate
the lonely
or the weight
that keeps us pushed down
for so long
after things end
I’ve been re-writing the ending
let my mind create a version
that stings with the bitchslap of hope
and I’ve been writing you letters
without envelopes or stamps
calling them poems
mere whispers in my head
hoping they’ll somehow reach your ears
and send you home
they have no titles
each one begins the same
your name and a comma
and ends with my name
following platitudes
of o’s
and x’s
that last letter stings like the slap
marks the spot
where you stopped being mine
so I erase it
get back to the story
with an ending
better than the ones
collecting dust on my shelves
the greats got nothing
on this curtain call
but for now
my cast is incomplete

With head hung low
He spoke of the rabbit sign
Said this was the year
To get bad habits in line
But this man was born
Under a bad moon
And that’s just the first
Of many mistakes
He will never undo

I may cuss like a trucker
But I could love you more than your mother
Take a needle and ink your name
Into my skin

I don’t dress like a lady
But you ain’t tryin’ to change me
I push the others away
But keep on letting you back in

I wasn’t always this way, no
Didn’t start out jaded…

But life kept
Pushin’ me down
Pushin’ me down
I been pushed down too many times

So I
Put my fists up
Put my fists up
I keep both fists up high

Swore I’d never love again
But then you
Opened up my heart
And you walked right in

Now I hate you
For making me change my mind
Boy, I hate you
For giving life reason and for makin’ me rhyme
God, I hate you
For making me feel this way

And the thing I hate the most
Is the fact that I know
I’m gonna love you ‘til my dying day
And that makes me hate you

I may say I ain’t ready
But here I am, come and get me
I’m yours for the taking
Wherever you go I’ll follow

Life with me won’t be easy
But baby please believe me
I’ve been knocked around
And I need you to know…

I wasn’t always this way, no
Didn’t start out jaded…

But life kept
Pushin’ me down
Pushin’ me down
I been pushed down too many times

So I
Put my fists up
Put my fists up
I keep both fists up high

Swore I’d never love again
But then you
Opened up my heart
And you walked right in

Now I hate you
For making me change my mind
Boy, I hate you
For giving life reason and for makin’ me rhyme
God, I hate you
For making me feel this way

And the thing I hate the most
Is the fact that I know
I’m gonna love you ‘til my dying day
And that makes me hate you

I know I’m making this hard
But baby take a look at these scars
I’m black and blue
I said never again
But your loves got me singin’ a different tune

Never meant never
‘til I met you
Now we’re together
Worse or better
Baby I love you

Never meant never
‘til I met you
Now we’re together
Worse or better
You got me singin’
You got me singin’

I love you
For makin’ me change my mind
Boy, I love you
For giving life reason and for makin’ me rhyme
God, I love you
For making me feel this way

And the thing I love most
Is the fact that I know
You’re gonna love me ‘til my dyin’ day

Around wood
I’d wind string
And weave beads
To catch your dreams.

Just like the tide
When you come rolling in
I chase you back again
To the sea
So I can see
If when the sand leaves both our feet
Will we float or will we sink?

Your mind is changing
Faster than the seasons
Come and go as you please
Without rhyme or reason

And you say you get me?
Well dammit, come get me
Cus’ I’ve been dancing with thieves
To keep me from the things
That lead me to your feet

And just like the moon
You only show your face at night
All the scars you try to hide
From me
So I can’t see
Just how deep your waters run
Say I’d be safer with the sun

But you’re the one
I come undone
When you get close
The walls close in
Can’t turn back now
Got you under my skin

So if you get me…
Then come and get me
Cus’ I’ve been dancing with thieves
To keep me from the things
That lead me to your feet

There are fields of flowers
That no one planted
Trees that grow
At the hand of no man
A moon that floats
Without wires or ropes
And no machine
Brings the waves to the sand.

There are babies
Marrying babies
And having babies
They’re crawling in the streets
But no one taught them
Eye for eye
So we got blind mice
Below our feet
And we got blind men
Leading blind charges
With armies of sheep
Marching to the beat
Of hollow drums
With hollow hearts
Building houses
Out of paper cards
They proudly wear their suits
But there’s no substance underneath

Feeling small
next to you
is a feeling I’ve grown
accustomed to
not just in size
but in breadth
and oh god,
your warm breath
like Santa Ana’s
blowing through
as your thoughts branch off
faster than I can climb
and thin towards the ends
can’t hold my weight
so I wait
at the base
of your intentions
try to integrate
with the weeds
you let sway ‘round your feet
just one in a field
of wild daisies…

I want to build a fort
in your soul
hide under the sheets
of your thoughts
hang lights
from your ideas
and make a secret handshake
so only I can get inside…
if you wouldn’t mind.

I heard you
moaning like a kitten
from the other room
you tried to
claw your way in
when I wouldn’t let you back though

you say you
hit me once
and that’s some shame on you
but I don’t believe in second chances
so here’s your ring
baby,
we are through

I guess you never knew…

that papa,
bought me these boots
and mama
taught me this song
and I been
through worse than this
baby,
you’re a cinch
I’m moving on

once you
unclenched that fist
and slapt me across the face
you,
undid forever
things will never be the same

you ain’t no
kind of man
and I could never live this way
you say you
wanna have my babies?
I say,
here’s a shovel
dig an early grave

there’s nothing left to say…

cus’ papa,
bought me these boots
and mama
taught me this song
and I been
through worse than this
baby,
you’re a cinch
I’m moving on

If you’re free this afternoon
may I connect the freckles
scattered across your back
with glow-in-the-dark pen
so they too can see
you are a constellation
when the moon wanes crescent
and only the best bits remain illuminated?

With bare back
On cement
I lay flat
As the sun
Makes kaleidoscopes dance
Inside my eyelids

Cursing Southern California
Like I have so many lovers
For never giving me what I needed

There is a bicycle
Chained to my ribcage
Rusting from years of no use
Metal rubs against bone
Lowering its density
By means of memory
Taking up vacancy
An unwanted tenant

Stretch both arms wide
Like a bird
Or Jesus
When he let his guard down

In January I felt baptized
But now it’s April
And I’m drowning
You got under my skin
When I wasn’t looking
Water’s funny that way
Elusive
Like materialism and religion
Hollowness floats with ease
While substance sinks 3,000 leagues under

Mother Nature holds a magnifying glass
Between me and her other son
Watching my mind melt
As I try to break free
From the oxidizing ties
Binding a symbiosis
That knows no seasons

But there are no axes, or saws
No tool sheds in this beach town
Instead, the natives paste labels
Over the parts that need fixing
Hoping to stay relevant
Until the sun has won
And the sand swallows them whole.

I’m gonna roll these wheels
back up the coast
my hearts gone missin’
on this lonely road
my back’s been achin’
from this heavy load
it’s time to point my compass home
due North,
to San Francisco

I’ve cheated
on every man
that I have ever known
with music,
the moon,
and San Francisco
don’t like the flowers
in my hair? I say,
to each his own
can’t break the spirit
of the gypsies
who were born to roam

If you made a path of light
I’d follow it into the dark
Follow you down to the dreams
From which most people wake screaming
I’m not afraid to scream
But I am scared of being awake
What’s that you say?
I’m wild?
Let me show you
Where the wild things are
I got shades of purple
That make black look blue
Ballpoint pen marks
Laying tracks
Beneath pink ballet tights
Chewing raw meat
Behind these rosy cheeks
I don’t bark
But I love to be bitten

waltzing with
the moon
hand in hand
I let her lead
one, two, three
two, two, three
across the sea
dotted with stars
maestro the wind
keeping time
while waves play
piano notes
as they break
on the shoreline

I got
ghosts ridin’ shotgun
in a rig with no breaks
and I got
a ring full of skeleton keys
that don’t open up a damn thing
and there are
padlocked secrets
collecting dust
in the bed of my truck
and I been
talkin’ to God
but I ain’t feelin’ his love
down on my knees
pretending prayer plays a hand in luck.

And my
heart’s too dead
for this body
somewhere outside of Barstow
it stopped beating
runnin’ low on gas
and there’s no dance left in my feet
I’m a mind inside a brain too small
I am a force behind a fist too weak
and I been
down on my knees
pretending prayer is gonna set me free
throwin’ up both hands
beggin’ God to bring me peace.

goddamn that man
he was just like the 70s
nothing particular comes to mind
but the photos sure smell warm

you wear heartbreak well darling
it makes your eyes bluer
two crystal pools all the boys want to dive into
because there is no lifeguard on duty

you know your a beauty
you wear beauty well
like you can tell that when you breath, we can see it
a magical walking cigarette all the boys want to inhale

one puff would be divine
you were baptized in smoldering ash and red wine
yes, you wear temptation well darling
I’d miss mass to lie in the daisies with you

and this makes me sympathize with all the men after Adam
for the soul of a woman is rooted in rage
as if the hurt of the world rots in her womb
but darling, you wear that hurt well

25 years, a string of lovers, and countless bottles later, I believe one fact to be true… There is nothing new under the sun. Take those 7 words to the bank. And this shouldn’t depress you. Rather, it should serve as confirmation that the world is in fact your oyster, or whatever. Creating isn’t inventing. Creating it’s rearranging. That is why—even though they are hell bent on eating the stuff—we still let kids mess around with Play-Doh; important lessons are to be learned in the mashing up of things. Taking the parts that turn you on and leaving behind the bits that rub you the wrong way—weird uncle style. Ultimately, we’re all just a little bit of history repeating, option A: do it better, option B: do it worse. I don’t believe in “the same.” No one ever really likes or loves or feels “the same” about any two things. Again, this is a good thing, 50/50 are solid odds… toss that coin up high and hope option A lands face up.

If you aren’t following, I’m on pain pills, but I promise to tie things together towards the end. Read my poetry and you’ll learn that no matter how far off the path I meander, I bring shit home, homie.

Anyways, I have this one friend who is deep in the middle of a Kurt Cobain moment. Dirty hair, don’t care. Striped shirts. Un-matching socks. Army Boots. Flannel. Oversized jackets. I love it. I don’t look at her and think, “copy-cat.” I look at her and see a reincarnation of a time that a counterculture group a Count-of-Monte-Cristos loves to romanticize. She is a walking memorial. A living eulogy. I want to press pause, so I can sit and write at her feet. I want to find a time machine, go back a couple decades, up two states, and tell this man to wait, because my friend would make a much better Courtney. That’s history repeating. That’s the shit you can’t learn in class. Or in a book. You have to see it to believe that life perpetuates. Trends repeat. Styles die and come back to life. It’s very Buddha, the whole roundabout way of it all.

These truths drip heavenly from the machine that is music, and in their simplest form they are presented in the shape of cover songs. Musicians recreate the work of former musicians on the daily. They willingly subscribe to the idea that there is nothing new under the sun. They accept that they aren’t inventing the wheel. They keep the bits that turn them on and make them better by subtracting the parts that rub them the wrong way. They set forth to make the good better and the better the best. Art in motion, or something like that, which someone else has undoubtably said before me, and presumably in a better fashion, but I’m on these pills so I keep stumbling into the option B category.

I should tell you that these pills to which I’ve been referring, are not recreational. I pinched a nerve somewhere that has got the whole right side of my body in seven-different-devil kinds of pain, and I’ve been vertically held hostage on this couch for 18 hours going on what’s starting to feel like eternity. But herein lies the rub people… these drugs aren’t working.

I’ve been lying on my back, glaring at the ceiling, yelling at nothingness that these damn dolls haven’t taken the edge off. They’ve made my mind as limp as Elton John at the playboy mansion, but the gnawing ache remains, which got me thinking about cover songs, specifically, “The Drugs Don’t Work.”

What is it about a song that makes it cover worthy? Doing a cover is very ballsy, if you think about it, so what is it that makes Ben Harper feel brave enough to flip The Verve the finger? I’m sure you are ready to argue with me at this point… prepared to counter that doing a rendition of someone else’s work is in fact a high compliment and testament to the brilliance of the original, okay… I’ll take that bate. But we are humans first and for-most, and weather it’s the kid in kindergarden making Play-Doh creatures or Ben Harper covering The Verve… we all want to be the fucking best. It’s wired within us. Even those of us on the fringe. Take Mr. Cobain for example… he was astutely in tune to all the things he wouldn’t be great at, Dr. Kurt Cobain, Counselor Kurt Cobain, Professor Kurt Cobain… he didn’t waste time with any of that noise. He saw a vacuum in space and time and filled it with his greatness. He became the best at being a grungy, un-kept, off-beat voice of his generation. And that legacy will forever repeat itself through the waves of history, ready to be ridden and reinvented by tomorrow’s counterculture Count-of-Monte-Cristos.

So maybe the answer has something to do with honesty… a level of unabashed truthfulness must be echoing somewhere within a song that begs for it’s re-utterance. A rawness. An edge that no bottle of pills or booze can numb. The cathartic capability of lyrics and melody, combined with the hope that floats in a 50/50 shot, gives a musician the balls to recreate greatness on the off chance that they might just make it better… and hell, since the best is subjective, even if one person thinks so, I’d say ya done good, carpe’d the diem, found the pearl in the oyster, or whatever. And there may be nothing new under the sun, but she keeps spinning round and round anyway, as do we. From Play-Doh to Plato, the scenes of this play continuously repeat, but luckily for it’s players, the truly great tunes are always worth singing twice.

it’s 54 in Newport
and the locals are dressed for snow
their insulated gloves
grip ceramic mugs
full of 5 dollar foam
this place is a safe haven
for eye rolling
they’re too wrapped up in
cashmere and self loathing
to ever notice me
ordering iced tea
in the middle of January

if I wiggle my toes
I can feel the last sandy whispers of summer
shake free from the souls
of my sandals
and then you slip into my thoughts
like white wash
slowly rolling in at first
but then in waves
a tsunami of 14 line sonnets
that I’ve begged my mind
to un-memorize

sipping life through a straw
that I’ve bitten into submission
carbon copy aliens communicate
as I peer through my foggy windshield
they are smoking
excuse me, choking
on cigarettes they don’t inhale
dripping in name-brand nothingness
they emulate a rehab rec-room
coffee, ciggs, and bullshit banter

their heads are balloons painted with promises
steadily filling with helium laced lies
worrying which friend
holds the needle that will pop
their rubber dreams

and someone everyone knows
must be having a ’60s moment
on the cover of Vogue
because all the girls
are wearing fake flowers in their hair

ten feet of memories
come crashing over head

when you made me laugh
daisies grew from my scalp
and eyes and ears
I was a bouquet of happiness
watered by your quick whit

but the warmth of your presence
was stolen by the seasons
and as green turned to grey
the petals browned
and lay wilted on my shoulders

so I plucked each stem from the soil of my mind
tied a ribbon around the dead memories
and hid them in a shoebox
underneath my bed
along with everything else
that reminded me of you

the lights are warm and wet
my pulse is the current
in a lazer-bean stream
and

I’m jolted awake
by the sudden spill
of ice-cubes
now permeating
through my tank-top

pillage through a bag of old clothes
collecting mold in my backseat
pull a ripped flannel from the sea
of things I’ve been meaning to throw away

slip out of my dampness
and back into the depths of you

with the touch of a dial
Bon Iver is dripping from the speakers
a sweet opiate river
the purple noise inflates my car
becomes the life-ring I need to stay afloat
in the rough waters of reflection

stoplights look like jewels in the rain
rubies
emeralds
canary diamonds
I never wanted diamonds
I have too many rings
my gypsy fingers didn’t need adorning
like Lennon said, “Just give me some truth”

people can’t drive when its stormy here
so I’m late to work
nothing new
slamming on my breaks
I grab the wheel
with my free hand
which was busy
gripping your shirt
rubbing the worn fleece
back and forth
between my finger and thumb
now both muddy green
from the grass stains we acquired
at that festival sometime last April

the flashbacks come hailing down
thousands of angry ice stones
piercing through the skin
of my life preserver
until all the air escapes
and lifelessly
I sink back in time

this shirt was our pillow
with the ground at our backs
we poked holes in black canvas
let soft yellow light leak through
and everyone called this stars
but you told them it was music
and I mumbled something about love

whatever the name
it got louder
and stronger
until no black remained
so we sat up
with the sun
started swigging fire
from a bottle of sunscreen
used to disguise
hit the bottom
as a stranger floated by
drenched in a waterfall of white
he handed you a note that read,
“plastic causes cancer”

cigarettes smell of cancer
but taste like vogue
whiskey sounds like 14 years of abuse
but reminds of Ginsberg
everyone, including Bowie, wants to live in the golden years
which are directly proportional to your birthday minus 3 decades
at 14, 27 was a period
at 25, I have 8 different doctors
1 of them sits in a dilapidated chair
2 and 1/2 appointments with me could pay for a new one
but his shitty chair makes me think less about money
and more about the fact that his smug grin is saying,
“I got your number, little girl”
his 6th sense is sniffing out the habits I’ve mastered, like Karate,
to block the feelings orange leaves bring
he wants to talk about what happens when the leaves fall
I want to ask if he ever saw Zeppelin live

one day I
will hear no
quarter and think
of jimmy or
john instead of
yosemite and you

fist full of roses
fight in your teeth
ugly love
the water looks deep

our house was
unholy, a den
of spoiled seeds
sprayed with physical
graffiti mixed in
the kitchen sink

this fight wreaks of roses
ugly spews through your teeth
waves of water crash down on love
clench both fists, we’re sinking deep

being trampled under
feet after kashmir
kisses on your
sleeve was a
stairway to hell
with no railing

a dozen ugly roses
salty water drips towards my teeth
you wave an angry fist at love
I can’t fight back, your words dig deep

came to California
put flowers in
my hair, but
the levee broke
and the black
dog don’t care

the water filled with roses
as your fist hit my teeth
we were fighting for love
but the ugly got too deep

she had these eyes
that the whole town talked about
like they were magic
or dice
like if you rolled them
you’d win money
so you felt lucky just looking at her

and she was tripping over her own feet
but to you it looked like dancing
and she had guitar strings for hair
so when she ran her fingers through the strands
music played

and she’s chewing on ice
and her nails
and a straw
yet every time she blinks
your heart stops
god bless you

from a distance you sit
not a betting man
the house always wins
but you’re wagering
because those eyes make gambling
seem worth the risk

and then all of a sudden
she walks right up and says,
“hey, watch this…
I can lasso the stars and bring them down for us to play with.”
and you believe her
jackpot
the coins are falling
deuces wild

never missed
a day of work
she clocks in
to her dreams
cashes in
on her desires
and continuously seeks
a perfect love-controlled apartment
on the corner
of 47th
and fantasy
along with a life-long roommate
with whom
to share
the key

There is power in numbers
and fear within a few
the big man runs
for a bottle of poison
when the ants come
marching through.

now you’re runnin’
round my head again
darting
corner to corner
a pinball
setting off bells
and whistles
alarms
oh god
the noises
they fill both hemispheres
funnel down
through my throat
splatter the walls
of my gut
like paint
like primary colored paint
and I hate primary colors
hate Pollock
unapologetically
love you
inexplicably
said, “I ran out of change
to play this game,”
watched you walk
to the machine
cash dollars
put your hand
full of coins
in my pocket
let go and
smile while
I get back in line
behind
the other girls
trying to win
whatever the reason
I hold high score
name’s at the top of your board
and the list of betty’s
below mine
keeps me coming back
for more of your,
“lie down and let
me hold this brush
above you…”
primary colors drip
from corner to corner
my canvas is covered
cue bells and whistles
now I’m abstract
and you have won

she said,
“diamonds are whatever
but rock & roll’s forever”
and I just as well
fell off of my chair
this princess looking figure
sipping whiskey gingers
has got me thinking things
I shouldn’t dare
if the last one knew
how fast
this new one threw me
for a loop
I didn’t plan this,
I swear
flies by the seat of her pants
and now she’s asking to dance
everyone’s looking
but for once
I don’t care.

It is 7am. I am sitting on the sand at 34th street. The perks of living in Southern California—I find these hard to come by—but I guess riding your bike to the beach on the 3rd of January would seem like a perk to the ones on the other side, who have to wake up an hour early for work just to shovel snow off their windshield. (Being that I’m a writer I’d happily be snowed in, but it’s the new year and I’m working on positivity and all that jazz, spirit fingers, hip-hip-hoorokay you get my point).

Everything makes more sense this early in the morning, when less people inhabit the earth. This must be why Plato shackled everyone to a wall in the cave and let Socrates explore the world alone… how else could he become a true philosopher, Man Thinking.

The closeness and chaos of life as we know it makes us scared of everything. If I saw a spider crawling on the sand right now, I would stand up, walk a few feet away, and let her pass by me peacefully. If I saw this same spider in my room, however, I’d kill her. Without a thought. I’d find the biggest book on my shelf and take her life just to abate my ludicrous fear.

Walls create fear. No, worse… walls are a pressure cooker for fear. Whether in their physical form or simply in our mind, as we build them up, we choke life out.

Every other species has learned to coexist on this great planet, but human beings feel the need to live in boxes. Some have really big boxes, others much smaller boxes, but regardless of the size, these boxes are where we try to safeguard our most “prized possessions.”

While sitting on the sand, I know there is an endless row of boxes behind me, but I choose to keep my back towards them. I’ve learned my lesson. Instead, I direct my soul to the sea and my mind to the sun. Let the shadows dance in the caves behind me. I now choose to be Man Thinking. Rub my toes in the sand like each grain has the power of the beads on a Rosary. Let the wind blow through my hair and hear the Holy Spirit whisper. Stand up, disrobe, and walk towards the formless ocean. Surrender to it’s omnipotence. Re-emerge baptized, I hate the term “born again,” but I’ve lived and I’ve learned, so I do feel anew.

I return to the shore, shivering, but it feels good to feel, so I sit out my punishment, as the sharp winds slowly dry the beads of salt that drip from my white winter skin.

It is now 7:47am. Most people are still sleeping in their boxes, I soon will return to mine, but there is a man in the distance with a metal detecter, presumably looking for change and other trinkets people have left behind.

I wish there was a machine that could detect where love gets lost. I would wake up every morning at dawn and scour the sands of time for you. We built walls, let fear creep in, stomped the life out of our most prized possession, and flushed it down the toilette. But if all pipes lead to the ocean, perhaps you’ve washed back up, and are hiding like a sand-crab below me. I begin to dig but stop myself, I have been forcibly removed from the cave, and it took time, but I have acclimated to the sun. Only prisoners are afraid of everything but what they already know. I have been freed. I am Man Thinking.

I walk towards the row of boxes and mount my bike, but before returning to my box, I peer back at the man with the metal detecter. I hope he finds what he is looking for, my only advice, if he or anyone else is listening, don’t try to bind a boundless being.

He types like Beethoven
banging those keys
like a whiskey soaked whore
then traces their pearly surface
with cigarette stained fingers
like the way he used to brush back the hair
from his mother’s tear soaked eyes

The guy at the bar is from Oregon
went to school at Boise State in Idaho
just moved here from Seattle
but says he’s Italian
he also says I say “like” too much
maybe
but he was staring back blankly
so I gave him
simile on simile on simile
now I’m rapping
cliche me
pop bottles
keep it hazy
clear crystal
brings my nails
to my teeth
bad habits
don’t die
they lie dormant
like my pet turtle
durring winter
there I go again
overusing analogy
but it’s 2013
and I still prefer analogue
to the newest thing

I’m not hip
but I’ve been hopping
from man to man
I wear lots of hats
good at playing make-believe
pretending what they need
eager to please
faking happy
forgetting me

This time without the “like”
I am snake
this skin I’ll shed
without a home
I slither aimlessly
swallowing mice
secreting venom
everyone’s scared of me
I whisper fork-tongued hisses
to a rattling beat
fertilizing internally
laying eggs
that I’ll abandon
to bask in the sun
or drink water

There’s that blank stare…
metaphor is a hard pill to take
compared to the gel encapsulation of hyperbole
we’re even choking on The Cave Allegory
since social media came to be
and we forgot how to read
140 characters or less
took the place of 2000 words or more
and the President is applauding
it says so on his twitter
yes America,
your president tweets

This isn’t about blue versus red
or the bullshit in between
wake up my fellow countrymen
the English language is a dying breed
and we the people
are the silent killers
replacing text for speech
letting pictures speak words
and our teachers educate with TV
the Information Age has made
our native tongue
and endangered species

If the Mayans were right
would it have been so wrong
or did they predict accurately?
the world as they knew it is certainly dead
if it all went black
what would there be?
other than music filling the streets
by humans
not speakers and machines
what a relief
to stop crawling on hands and knees
looking for outlets
to plug ourselves into
a superimposed reality

He hammers out the last paragraph
like a 13 year old climaxing
jumps onto his chair
like it’s Plymouth Rock
and rips the final page free
waving it above his head
like a flag, yelling “analogue victory”
falls heavily onto his unmade bed
and lights a cigarette indolently
grabs, from his desk, a paper and pen
to write a dedication she’ll never read,

“These words are for my mother,
who steadfastly believed,
that there’d be a place
for rhymes and poetry,
long after 2013.”

jimmy’s chipping away at a novel in the corner
a stranger just sneezed a sonnet
and I’m a dial tone
drinking coffee
to feel up

pulling wool over my own eyes
scratching the blue
blurring the black
yellowing the white
erasing 7 numbers
I memorized

destined for something more
than wanting something more
for someone else
I keep blinking
and walking
fast

two feet
running
one heart
gunning
to keep the promise
my mind made
my gut

to be surprised
and adored
to adore
and surprise

to daisies on Wednesdays
‘cus it’s the 3rd day

to be supported
and to say thank you

to give standing ovations
to good ideas

to be encouraged
and inspire back

to laugh
too hard
and too loud
at everything
and with everyone

to blush often
and always

to feel safe
when vulnerable

to be openminded when listening
calm when speaking
clear headed when choosing
and steadfast when acting

to be at peace
when sleeping
and eager
with the sun

to be in tune when creating
in touch while loving
and always digging deeper
in the soul’s pocket

to hear
and answer
His whispers

to be deserving
of everyday gifts

to be aware
of everyday miracles

to set examples

to stand alone
when something’s right
to stand up
when something’s wrong

to talk less
and do more
to give more
and take less

to set intentions
and meet them
to set new intentions
when old ones are met

to be the type of person
one hopes to meet

to manifest these jewels
fervently
in the days
and years
of this life
and the next

jimmy’s novel is finished
the stranger sold her book of sonnets
and I’m dialing in each day
while drinking coffee
until my time is up

When I was 4 years old my Grandma died of cancer. That same year my fish, named Fishy, jumped out of his bowl.

So until I was 9 I thought chemotherapy and suicide were monsters hiding under my bed. I dreamt I would end up like Grandma or Fishy, which scared me because…

…we burry bodies in the ground, and flush fish down toilettes, and even at 23, I can’t see the humanity in that.

Or in the fact that people have been stealing pieces of my soul since the day I was born. They say the crime rate is low in Newport Beach, but that’s because the newspapers didn’t report when my parents robbed my childhood, and I didn’t call 911 when teachers murdered my imagination. But now I’m stealing those pieces back, one by one, and becoming myself.

Reincarnate.

“That’s impossible,” you object. “Watch me defy,” I reply, as you stare with confused eyes while your frantic boney-knuckled fingers search for a calculator to compute my untheorized human nature.

I want the heart of bird with defiant wings, so I can fly above convention and soar through unprecedented clouds. It’s getting hard to breath down here where the air is full of dollars and cents. I can’t see through the labels and I’m scared that all the mansions might come crashing down upon me.

And the housewives are trying to furrow their botoxed brows, while shaking their heavy fingers at everyone’s ‘wrongdoings.’ But the rocks are weighing them down until they drag them on the ground, so they walk like gorillas,

but gorillas are smart… these women have lost their minds.

And as they drag their heavy stones to church, indents are carved in the cement behind them, and their children fall into the cracks. While standing in the pews they remind me that my blonde hair would look good with pom-poms, and wonder why I write when my blue eyes say it all.

Really?

Can you see the disgust in my crystal blue manuscripts? Can you tell my bleach white teeth are starving for revenge? Did you know these talons are freshly manicured to rip out your son’s heart? And would you still let me date your boy if you knew I used to cut off Barbie’s hair and make her lay naked with Kelly?

As if the spawn of these lobotomized ladies would date me anyways. Dating is a thing of the past.

I’m not old fashioned, but I don’t like the new fashion.

I don’t want you fondling my text messages by the door while I kiss your facebook goodnight. And if I have to suck your cell phone just to get you to bang my voicemail then honey, you can forget about going all the way.

So I’m sorry Mrs. Paulsen, but I don’t think things are going to work out between Tommy and I.

Truth be told my heart belongs to someone else—another theft I never reported. I wish he knew I was fighting for him, not with him, but Goliath’s shoes always fit me better, and guys never want to be David.

So now I live life like I’m in the limbo line— I see how low I can go. And I fall in love like it’s a Ferris wheel— always getting off right after getting on.

And sometimes I wonder if heaven is just a dream that we never wake up from. And other times I don’t believe in heaven at all.

After Grandma and Fishy, the next person who died was Princess Diana. I remember watching mom sob while she ate Fig Newtons and watched that funeral. She cried harder than when we buried Grandma or flushed Fishy.

And it made me wonder,

…if I’m wearing makeup when I die, will more people cry for me?

Wish I was the place
where you came for peace
the fluffy white pillow
upon which you sleep
I’d lie there in wait
til’ you laid down on me
and for a moment,
we’d want the same thing.

Wish I was your comfort
like that old wooden pew
you’d kneel down to me
and I’d make you feel new
once prayer filled your bones
you would stand up redeemed
and for a minute,
we’d want the same thing.

A piece of you
any part
I want your heart, baby
but I’ll be what you need

In your life
any way
I’m jonesin’ for you, woman
what you give I will take

Wish I was your teacher
like those books on the shelf
you’d open me up
to learn more about yourself
I’d offer you wisdom
and help shape your dreams
and in those moments,
we’d want the same thing.

Wish I made you smile
like that gin in your glass
your lips hit the rim
and your shoulders relax
wish you’d drink me down
fill me up, then repeat
cus’ for a moment,
we’d want the same thing.

A piece of you
any part
I want your heart, baby
but I’ll be what you need

In your life
any way
I’m jonesin’ for you, woman
what you give I will take

Wish I was your vice
the thing you just couldn’t quit
that pack-a-day habit
you’ve been trying to kick
the monkey on your back
that you can’t help but need
cus’ if your feinin’
we want the same thing.

Wish I was your hobby
what you did for release
that guitar in your hands
makin’ music so sweet
you’d hold me for hours
just strummin’ those strings
and for a moment,
we’d want the same thing.

In one of my nine lives I had a boyfriend who referred to me as his, “soul’s counterpart in another.” So dramatic, this one, I mean if that isn’t the stuff that movies are made of… But the phrase never comforted or flattered me. I didn’t know why at the time so I chalked it up to thinking he was too mushy, but that’s ridiculous considering every bone in my body weakens at the hint of romance, so sadly I guess the problem was these feelings were unrequited—the best love usually is.

Who knows if I will find my soul’s counterpart or if my soul even needs one, but I have found my mind’s counterpart in another and at the brave risk of coming off mushy myself, I’m about to profess these feelings anyway…

Two summers ago I moved to New York for a 6 week poetry program I was accepted into at NYU. I honestly still get chills writing that last sentence. To quote one of my favorite films, Factory Girl, “To me, New York was Jackson Pollock sipping vodka and dripping paint onto a raw canvas.” Moving across the country alone to write for a summer was a gift God could not have better crafted for me. Every moment was a version of heaven that I draw on far too frequently being that this was over a year ago, which I take as a sign to move back, but that is another story for another time…

Upon returning home, I was determined to find a job that involved writing. ANYTHING involving writing, and after just a couple applications I got a phone call from the person who would become my Kemosabe.

Early this morning, while sipping my third cup of coffee, this person and I were talking. One of the greatest things about our relationship is that he now lives in New York, meaning he’s awake during my insomnia spells. So anyway, he is giving me job, life, creative, and other generally invaluable advice to which in the middle of I interrupt,

“what would I do without you…”
“I don’t know, Kimosabe,” he said, “but you certainly make it more fun.”

For you Generation Y-ers (presumably the only eyes that will ever see this blog) Kemosabe is an expression from an old television show, The Lone Ranger, which your parents probably still watch on Nick-at-Nite. In the series, Tonto is a wise Native American Indian who greets the Lone Ranger with the expression “Kemosabe,” meaning “trusty scout,” or “faithful friend.”

C_Los is my trusty scout, faithful friend, and so much more. He is the ying to my yang and it’s probably for the best that we live on opposite coasts because the amount of creative energy amassed between us best be balanced for the sake of global warming and all that jazz.

I may be coming off mushier than the x-boyfriend I earlier blasted but here is my point… everyone needs to find someone that indulges their wackiness and whims. Someone that makes the notion of “saying something stupid,” impossible. Someone to jibe off of and collaborate with. A Mad Hatter for your inner Alice. A trusty scout, a faithful friend. Because there are far too many people, principles, and institutions hell bent on stifling our inherent desire to create. So the person who breaks down those imaginary walls in your mind, allowing you to think, do, and say freely, is your Kemosabe… and once you find them, it’s happy trails my friend.

May my words become paint,
and each brushstroke notes.
May your eyes become skin,
that feels the story I wrote.

If you want to get to know someone… I mean really get to know them… turn to the back pages of their journal. We humans are a strange fruit indeed. In a brand new, leather bound, gold-leaf-paged journal, we too want to feel brand new. Freshly purchasable. So we package each entry accordingly. The precision of school girl cursive is attempted, month and day are purposely unabbreviated, complete sentences chalk-full of correct grammar and punctuation are proudly scrawled. In the beginning—the cocoon stage—we write for the reader and with little thought of why it is we write in the first place.

Writing is therapy. A physical release. It’s a scream at the top of one’s lungs. We shouldn’t learn grammar or punctuation until 18 years of age… maybe then more kids would learn to love the art. Turn to the back of a journal and ink stained truths will drip from each page. Pure, unabashed, stream of consciousness. The butterfly moment. That is how you really get to know someone, or your own self for that matter.

If you don’t like what you’re dreaming… wake up. But the next time you close your eyes, be sure to set an intention. Don’t leave the fate of your mind up to the whiles of subconscious thought.

I am not a mother and I don’t want to be. That’s why I stopped having sex. I know I could use birth control… but the pill makes me bitchy and I hate condoms. I can barely take care of myself let alone a child; so vetoing sex seemed like a good way to avoid that responsibility. While we are dancing around the subject, I am also not YOUR mother. That’s why we didn’t work, you and me. You are an infant who needed constant supervision and I couldn’t be that person. I didn’t carry you in my womb for nine months, so why were you always looking up at me with worried eyes? I wanted a boyfriend, not a kid. Shit! I wanted a man, not a baby. I am not a mother. I don’t brush hair, make lunches, or do carpool. I don’t read bedtime stories, or offer words of encouragement. I may be there to give you a bottle but it was never milk and sadly, I think that’s what you were wishing for while you watched me pour stiff drinks. And when I blared Zeppelin at night while drinking my stiff drinks, I think you were hoping for a lullaby… but it ain’t me babe, no, no, no, it ain’t me you’re lookin’ for, babe. Ha! even Dylan wasn’t soft enough for you. I remember one time you called me Janis, a supposed reference to my love of whiskey. Who cares that I like whiskey… oh wait, you cared. That wasn’t lady like. Who said I was a lady? Truth be told, I never saw the need… you were lady enough for the both of us, dude. No, I am not a mother, and I am certainly not your mother, and although one day I may be someone’s mother, I will never be yours, my friend, and that’s why we didn’t work, you and me. Because I am daisy. I am a yellow centered, white petaled daisy some fancy hearted loafer picked and put in their hair. I am a daisy that sits dainty in a braid waiting for the wind to take her somewhere new. I am a turquoise stone that fell out of a ring and has been rolling ever since. A turquoise stone that pretends to know the stories of Cherokees and Peyote but really came from a cracker jack box… (but let’s keep that between you and me). Yeah, I am a daisy… that floated through Woodstock, inhaling what was to be inhaled, while passing through the strings of Jimi’s guitar as he strummed Purple Haze with magical—turquoise—adorned—fingers. This is my make believe, these are my bedtime stores, and that is why I am not a mother.

I’m not sure if any of us really know what we are capable of. That’s what makes the whole thing go round- the fact that we can surprise our own selves at any given moment. Every time that happens, it’s like cracking open the best fortune cookie… a couple of words, put in the right order, that make everything seem possible.