when it rains

i wake up in hailstorms and windstorms and at night i pull the covers up so tightly it hurts. five blankets and fifty pounds of weight. i share fleece and down with my sister, to keep us warm in a house that hardly stands, that i can hardly stand to be in, i share these blankets with her and the weight we transfer back and forth from our family, i tell my aunt, it feels nice to have somewhere to put it. to let someone else walk for it for awhile. and although it kills me to see her cry under the unbearable heaviness, i need a moment, i need a minute to breathe and my shoulders shrug a little lighter, my head a little clearer, if only for a moment, a moment, and then it passes, and i walk with fifty pounds of everyone else. because they are my family, they are my weight and if i can make things a little more bearable for them, i will. i'll try.
its groundhog day, last night t asks, appropriately if i want to watch that movie and i just laugh because that is my life. im waking up the same every morning and all the things from yesterday just carry over. nothing is different and i try all day long, these angles and these slight adjustments to make things change. god, god, grant me the serenity to accept the things i cannot change, the courage to change the things i cant and the wisdom to know the difference. maybe im changing. maybe i just dont care what you think anymore.
i drive the valley and watch the colors change and listen to my dad shuffle back and forth in the kitchen. we cant sit still. we sit around tables covered in food and anxiously put things in our mouth instead of words, instead of i love you and all i want to do is drink and find that place i love and love to be, where you are there, smiling at me and loving me, except it doesnt exist and youre not real either, that you doesnt exist anymore. i made you up. i made it all up.
my dad and i cry in the living room, all the things that once were me are mocking me, like clocks and dressers, candles and baby pictures, sweaters i wore to keep me warm are threadbare and the smells in the house are just his and they are lonely and sad and i cant be around them, i cant stand to have that loneliness rub off on me, i have my own. josie drives me to my car one morning and its so beautiful we both just laugh and say "come on!" like how can it be so incredible and how can a morning be so lovely in comparison to everything else. the sky opens up like heaven, if that was a place, it would look like this, clouds like water and sun hitting every leaf so that the valley goes gold and we breathe it in and it fills us up like we are children, like it could make us better and sick at the same time.
at the house im house sitting there is a view from the farallon islands all the way to you in oakland, to my family over there, sleeping and waking up in houses only five exits from each other and not knowing how close they actually are. i drink tea in the mornings outside before everyones awake, make movie scenes in my head, split screens of my mother and father waking up in different houses, the moment their eyes wake up and they are in bed, adjusting, opening up to the day and i put their faces next to each other, you havent talked in three years, say something, say something, and for that moment in the morning where everyone places the parts of their day and their life together before they get up and get distracted i wonder what theyre thinking of. i wonder if they can feel each other, mornings they used to wake up next to each other, distanced but together, i wonder if their thought are of each other, ever, at all. my family is falling apart around me this christmas and i take the dogs on walks and turn on streets that used to mean something to me, pick holly and crush the berried beneath my fingers, write my names of fences of houses i dont know the name of the people who live inside anymore and try to find something to call mine. but i cant, its all gone.
aunty lois says take me to my room, im going to throw up, when forced to be at the christmas party and i know exactly what she means.

the grand gesture

can i give you a kiss?
a real one
not a thimble
something with pressure behind it
on a rainy balcony at 2am
im waiting on a grand gesture
miniature airplanes
life lines on palms
i'll spread my fingers across them
find out where
this
all
went wrong
it wont be earrings on bedside table
and awkward morning silence
it would all be so different
a life line to the heart
but all mine stop short
this pressure has
lessened
and i cant find the place it once grew
and thrived
i dont know that place anymore

i havent had someone who wants to know me like this
we stop short of being 100 % with people, because we get scared, we have ideas of what our life includes, what it doesnt. we limit ourselves to these small boxes, closed off and sized down, designed to fit certain parts of you, but never keep you entirely whole. and ive only known that. ive only had people ask me to change, tell me that what i am just isnt enough and the prospect of someone being genuine, honest and asking me to be the same is daunting. its a grand gesture that just wont come.
today is sunday. i'll watch the dark knight in bed and eat oranges. finish my christmas gifts and try not to get out of bed.

holiday recipe

christmas cards, black lace
hallway conversations, couch talk and pillow talk and all you do is talk
buttoning childrens coats up to their neck
tuck it in, away, we teach them
early
to close themselves off to the cold
to anything
that may harm them
michael in my sweaters
lazily clinging to my hair
bed head and drawn out eyes
black mascara
socks on hardwood, nails snagged
paint in my fingernails, clogged pores and chapped skin
long winded bus rides in the dark and i never see daylight
anymore
figure out new ways to be desirable
take twenty five pictures of myself
and throw each one out
how is it that you see me
what version
is the one you love
that curls up to you at night
baby talks and heart tramples, screams and yells all ugly black
but silently, of course, silently
we take our bags to the panhandle
empty them
throw letters from rooftops
sundays are too cold and my mothers too thin
and i cant breathe, i cant breathe, i cant breathe
uneasy stomach all the time
checking store windows and holding handrails
ive gotten frail and my mind is so strong
its throbbing
keeping the city awake at night with its noise
somehow its your smile that calms me
your hand on my knee as we drive
and so im wild and restless and out of control
because its been miles and hours
some truck stop you got lost in along the way
pennies rolled in coffeshops
i have no shame anymore
buy records to listen to alone and then sell
im giving away easily now
these are
all
just
things
hats pile up on bookshelves
books pile up on nightstand, drowning, im drowning
i pile clothes on and pretend smiles
litter trash cans with gracious thank you's
let boys tuck my hair back
christmas lights and everyones
pink sick punched out dizzy
pulling at fabric on corners in the mission
and i make him think hes got it
its all yours
i give him that look i can give and send him
home hard
pushing pills and cooking turkey with an apron on
dancing around living rooms
my mother danced in as a teenager
wed be friends she says, we would have been friends then
twirling her ballerina
hands, first position, second, pliette
your much more graceful than me, she says
brass star cut out balls
theres nothing but reflection and we duck into
separate bathrooms and feel the wood
groan under us
the weight, the weight
its driving bay bridge at all hours and its always blue
blue green, blue grey, blue blue blue
pinching my arms
sucking on hard candy, fridays we talk about alcohol
and drugs
and sex
and i can barely get your name out on saturdays
when it rains
and we wake up
and everythings the same
bike riding until it burns
i cant sleep
so i read
and write and think up new ways to tell you
but its just black lace and fish food
three year olds and merry christmas
midnight mass and sloppy glances
that i hold onto for days
thinking
i could straighten that out if i had too

lets stay awake all night and think things through

people talk too much, they drink too much, i think way way too much. its night time on some bus in some city on some street and i just start picking random stops to get off at and see if i can find my way home in this urban jungle. my attempts at survival and i find myself breathless, holding a pocket knife in a pocket with holes, silk lined and hand knit gloves you gave me the winter we were 19. that winter. the way things suspended in air and silent evenings blanketed with black and grey night. wed sit on the edge of everything, legs dangling over and speak spiderwebbed hand motions. nothing ever made sense then and all the things that kept us up at night are what gets me to sleep now. the things i worried about relentlessly have fallen into place and i am secure. i know, i know i know where you are and what youre doing. and not in a worried way. in a loving and careful way. i carry your heart with me, i carry you in my heart.
its hard to see anything on bayshore with the lights of oncoming cars blinding the middles of my eyes and making the sky between the overpass full of polka dots and tiny circles. i come home and make you muffins. tea. we smoke cigarettes on the back porch and talk about politics, talk about colder winters, talk about where we grew up, our moms, talk about what our favorite words are, what we want most in the world and it all seems relevant on this wednesday where in school i read books about famous artists to my students and we listen to mozart, listen to bon jovi, listen to the cure and write poetry, i tell them, fill the page, write whatever you want, there is no form, this is not a grade, put it all down, dont stop to think, we are wearing berets and im dressed all in black, sunglasses and a coffee mug because the shades are up and sun is pouring in. we put on shows in our classroom, turn my desk into a stage, get on the tables and yell our poems as loud as we can. by the end of class we are exhausted, our mini reading and i applaud them all with a bow. i say, take off your hats, turn down that song, we dont need these gimicks and so i take off my glasses and say, write a poem now, write without any inspiration, write without all that show, without any background noise. just write. go.
my mom sends me note cards with "its all about possibilities" written on them in her big calligraphy handwriting, black ink dripping and misspelled. i put them taped all around my room and close my eyes, trace my fingers over the glitter and raised ink, turned around in circles until all the lights go out and the whole world goes black.
im telling her on the phone, im not worried, im not worried about it at all. and tonight im not. tonight i will sleep soundly just from ten minutes of your voice. tonight is for me and my muffins and my writing and my note cards.
im not worried. im not worried. magic. poof. lights out.

i like the bartender

i’ll walk away leaving bread crumbs to hope when im old and love is tired i can find my way back to this place.
I.
something must be said in her defense, like two padded
hands, touching between red and black
gloves. the thaw of skin rubbed down by blankets. winter has
good intention with her frigidity. its not aimless, her reasoning with the wind.
they do not go blindly, when lovers sip coffee between
blue lips. a night with so many, many stars.
it is this chill that has warmed me so near to you
this chill that has burned our skin electric, do
you want to come over tonight? ive turned the heater on, we can open the windows
to smoke cigarettes at dawn. complain about the cold, rub noses in spite of it,
dear winter has a secret, more miraculous than snow,
warming bunny toes before bedtime, youll fall asleep first, i hope.
its always raining, youll be smelling of soap.
how quickly we forget what it was like to be cold.

II.
unbelievable amounts of whiskey make me brave, do you want
to come over tonight?
red flower blooms from her chest, only watching lip to lip
speaking, cant help needing, i lie again
in her face, it feels like whiplash when the music stops
it feels like rubbing noses with
otter pops, this boy leans against my arm
like a wall, it doesnt seem fair he should lean so good. someone makes a call from a
long distance place, youll be smelling of soap when your plane lands.
with winter in your backpack, ill have to remind your fingers
you are home. but there is lone-liness
inside the oranges you peel at three am.
it is bitter because it was from safeway, damn them, you smile,
i should have known the fruit would sour.

youre sorry

i wish you werent a robot.
my living room is painted a deep grey blue.
i wish i had one thousand dollars.
my feet wouldnt be so cold.
and i wouldnt keep waiting by the phone.
id be in belize.
or lima.
or rio, baby, yeah rio.
because the summer is winter
and nothing there reminds me of you.

i wish you werent a robot.
that i didnt have to spoon feed you
to keep you alive.
and hold a mirror over to your mouth at night
to catch your breath.
my heart would hurt less without you around.
i wish that were true and that
my heart was enough to make you stay.
my heart was enough to make you stay.

i wish you werent a robot.
that i could count on you.
i dont want your fucking paycheck.
i dont need anymore scarves.
tell me you love me.
without being drunk.
i wish you werent a robot.
tin and metal and buttons pressed.
its boring and exhausting.
come out, come out,
where ever you are.

the streetlights on willard are all burned out

im bandaging wounds tonight. wrapping and cleaning and holding close broken limbs and organs, bruised and battered, weary and fumbling. its more difficult this time because i have forgotten where things go. the holes that once were there have sealed themselves, the exit wounds are gone and i cant run my finger over many scars anymore, it seems you have taken them all away, made me safe and smooth, and now im standing with my insides in my hands and no where to go. i want to write you love letters. i want to put words to the sound of fists in pockets, falling asleep cold, tears against pillowcases, the taste of your mouth and the way i could pick your hand out of the dark, out of one million, as it traces tiny circles on my shoulder as we sleep. i want to make these into words, a letter, enveloped and signed so that you have to keep them, as real things on a page, so that even after all these memories we made move away, the words are written, the words will stay.
it hasnt happened you know, im being dramatic. crying hard for the first time in a while and i dont know how i feel about that. how my not crying was attributed to something wrong with me, when now i know it was because i was happy.

im thinking about love letters. and lessons and time cards and spreadsheets and all things in which we record time because i cant stand the days i feel like its slipped away instead of spent. tuesday and my dad holds the phone up in calistoga, its early evening and the music is loud, drowning out any silence, any ghosts that linger there and we are still for five ten fifteen minutes as september creeps along and brian wilson sings in the back ground and i imagine my dad, drumming his fingers across the cool white table in the kitchen, crying.
they say that its like love letters, like love letters to los angeles and think about how much ive written about my city. how much this city feels mine, and ours, and shared and what i would put down in that love letter. if i could actually tell you how i feel. make you understand.
its warm today and i feel so young and old at once, my first week at my new job and im laughing to myself under my breath, how shaky my hands are, how seriously giddy i feel. and lucky. i feel so lucky.
my new fish, coco gypsy, is the most beautiful thing and she lets me pet her back all silky smooth and purple under water before bed. weve really bonded even though sometimes i accidentally call her fisher and then 30 seconds have gone by and she forgets about it.
i wonder if it would be easier to forget. to have 30 seconds go by and i wouldnt know the difference between you and someone else on the street. passing you at a party wouldnt feel like lightening, it wouldnt be shattering and heartbreaking, it would feel like my stomach was coming out my sides and the air sucked out of me completely. i probably wouldnt even look at you. my night would continue and that feeling wouldnt even happen and id be falling asleep easily, 30 second intervals and every idea would be fresh and free and new.

the beginning of my novel for november

the last time i went to merchants was with jake. we had gone to a roller derby, oakland against san francsico, and i was driving but i dont remember much about that. what i remember is his friend sam completely wasted on jim beam in my back seat, changing his clothes and putting on different t-shirts from a huge sack he was carrying. jake later told me that sam was squatting somewhere off fillmore, was an alcoholic, but one of the best artists he had ever met and i felt bad for weeks after. we dropped him off on the corner of webster at 4am, and i had thought, he, like us, was going home, to a warm bed, maybe a blunt or piece of toast in bed, and sleep. but no, he camped out on the grass and woke up, hung over and unwashed under a brilliant morning, blue sky and trees, changed his pants and socks and made it to work on time. as if the entire evening, the sleep hardly slept, had never happened at all.
merchants was packed with roller girls, still in their derby costumes, striped shirts and tight shorts, fishnets and glitter. skates tucked into messenger bags and hoodies with devil patches and suicide girls safety pinned on. the drink is always pabst among this crowd, followed by whiskey and parliaments and those three things will forever shape my twenties, backs of bars, cold nights where the smoke stays in your hair, whiskey in cups by the bed when you wake up, lips pressed tightly, boys faces mixes into smells and nights, months, bed patterns but never names. fingerless gloved hands smoking and touching and covering laughter mouths in burgundy corners, placed gently on backsides, and shoved into tight jeans to keep cool, to keep warm. it was a rowdy night, two dollar tecates in plastic cups and heat forming on the walls of the ice rink so that it trickled down like sweat. tightly packed arena and none of us caring what were yelling for, not even cheering for one team, but glad to be yelling, rowdy, red faced and wild, a night for fights, to make love, to slap old friends on the back, to buy them a beer with your last five bucks, because were young and in love, were invincible, screaming next to old men and young girls with lip liner. were fighting our way through crowds, watching girls on skates slam each other into the white walls, helmets against cement against shin guards and were all just watching and waiting and about to burst.
sam was a referee for the derby, a job he heard about on craigslist that would pay him 100 bucks for the night and all the beer he wanted, plus he got a volunteer shirt which he wore for a week straight afterward, some baby blue cotton against his broad smile and heavy brows (later this shirt shows up in my laundry basket, months after jake has left me again, i find the shirt and it still smells of that night, faintly of boy, and somewhere underneath it all happiness, our youth). jake and i find ourselves pinned up against the plastiglass, banging on walls and egging sam on “blow the whistle! foul! oh that bitch fucking punched her! ahhh!” and for an hour and a half nothing matters except two dollar tecates, roller derby and looking at jake under those bright lights.

headliner

this week i play housewife. lay your clothes out, set the table, greet you at the stairs with a smile, pray, hope, twist my hair into curls and stare, vapidly at myself in the mirror for hours. i play games in my head, scattered pentagrams and rainbow boxes thrown about classrooms at 1 in the afternoon, early sunshine and the days end earlier lately, cold has set in and i find myself making nests for myself, none of which i fit in or keep me nearly warm enough. im not ready for harsh winter and sleepy weekends with nowhere to go and no reason to get out of bed. i pad around the apartment, doing dishes, making elaborate dinners and cakes, anything to distract myself from this, this this mess im in, i will be in until im not, and i just dont have the will power right now to get up and shake it off. im trying, im trying, im trying. and it just isnt good enough. planes fly over head and crash in the night fifteen states away and no one hears a sound. i dont know why i ever thought i could have a family, make a home, why i thought id be good at something like that, when i get restless and unsure after ten minutes alone. riding the bus is like torture and im continuously only alone with myself.
i dont remember the last time my fingers were so cold, and my bones and getting chills and i layer sweatshirts and rub my nose with the sleeves, hands tucked inside and dream about shrinking into coats and scarves and december and hibernating away like a bear. except maybe i was cold like this in oregon, but i was with you and so i felt nothing bad at all.

lunatic city

night time is the worst. did you feel the earthquake? it made me nervous and start thinking how awful it would be if you werent able to say goodbye. it all feels very morbid. i have to stop watching dexter before bed. it gives me creepy dreams. vicodin helps.


lately
i feel like faulkner
no subject or verb
quit putting me in paragraphs
ill never fit
the way you
want
me to


we go to the MOMA and do that silent walk, that museum goers do when everyone is pretending to look at the art but really are seriously bored out of their minds and horny from the silence. all we want to be doing is tearing each others clothes off and fucking and then laying in bed and smoking cigarettes in his loft bed above his rehearsal studio but we have to get credit for class, so we skip the lines and rub up against each other in corners when no ones looking. there are two paintings, encased in glass in the middle of the room, some silver plated tree branches and sky. i keep an eye close on him, while
pretending i care about the artwork, total period bullshit that neither of us are into anyway, put my hands up on the glass, my face, close my eyes for a minute, wishing we could get the hell out of there. i only had a string cheese today and a gatorade from his fridge that was warm and im feeling faint. im starting to get sick listening to hushed voices talking, babbling like art critics, pretentious fucks, he always says. opening my eyes, he is opposite me, breathing on the glass and writing my name with his finger, like a fogged up window. i laugh tremendously and drop my bag on the floor which causes the loudest hush ive ever heard. he looks at everyone and bows. deeply and graciously which makes me laugh even harder and when we get kicked out its understandable. he lights a cigarette in the lobby just to prove a point, the lighter his grandfather gave him encased in leather, flicks quickly from his hand, to his face, to his jeans, snug in back pocket. im thinking how a museum is really perfect for us, all that talking we dont know how to do. outside its hot and his dog is laying on the cement, drooling and waiting for us with her big cow eyes. we walk, silently, down market, sweating and smoking. i use a book of matches because i love the way his lighter feels so much i cant bare it, like if i use it too much it will be just another thing to miss when hes gone. its too much him, musty smell and worn. just another thing i know he cares about more than me. at uptown market we stop for whiskey and ginger ale, more cigs for him, water for the dog. inside his place its stale, and there is the casual undressing i have come to love. its too hot as usual and we work better unclothed. he says to me after, distracted, not looking, hands in my hair, you look better through glass, you look nice magnafied but far away. im picking a scab on his arm and roll over to the side of the bed where theres water in a jar, drink in long painful swallows, listen to the city through the flung open windows and let my eyes tear up. theres matches on the window sil and i light another cig, smoke, think, smoke think. keep cover closed, be safe. this feels appropriate, naked, on his bed, silent, no words to say, just trying to keep cool, to pretend were both not just a little afraid.



and a poem, for all you lovers out there, cuidado con tus corizones

love crosses its islands, from grief to grief,
it sets its roots, watered with tears,
and no one-no one-can escape the hearts progress
as it runs, silent and carnivorous

you and i searched for a wide valley, for another planet
where the salt wouldnt touch your hair,
where sorrows couldnt grow because of anything i did,
where bread could live and not grow old

a planet entwined with vistas and foliage,
a plain, a rock, hard and unoccupied:
we wanted to build a strong nest

with our own hands, without hurt or harm or speech,
but love was not like that: love was a lunatic city
with crowds of people blanching on their porches

number 25

a year ago
i hugged her through grass stains
and placed palms against
faces and she was wide eyed
blue

today
eyes closed
heartache
breath take
the mechanics of breathing
broken down
and she dies
not slowly
but just one flat line

centerfield
grass stains
my old living room
dusted cd covers
and that laugh
making valley
small



RIP LIZ i love you

organ donor

if you dont care about anything then nothing will disappoint you.
its a thursday and i cant seem to make it to work. i cant seem to pull myself from bed, from the bus, off the ledge of the bar, from the crook of amy's shoulder. i cant seem to make my body work, and all the sudden im robot emotion, everything we had laughed about 9 months ago isnt funny anymore. its our life. what was funny that rainy afternoon we pushed the couches together and smoked pot and laughed isnt funny its sad. its sad because it feels fake, it was robot emotion, it was everything we hate. and so amy and i sit slack jawed and steely eyed, damp necks and sweaty eyes, looking at each other for something, im sorry we keep saying, im sorry i dont know what to say to you, and we just sit in our sadness. just stir it around the rim of our drinks and fend off boys who try to bum cigarettes with glances, like, i will fucking kill you if you talk to me right now, and its funny how easy people read our feelings, know what we mean, with one glance, and the people we have loved forever, it seems, cant even figure out how to not make us cry.
i find myself on your street. on our streets. this city will ruin me and i wake up exhausted. i cant keep avoiding mirrors and storefronts, closing my ears to peoples conversations on the bus and hats at the bars i drink at. i hated this city, until i met you, and now its nothing but a museum i hate to visit. a place where everything makes me sad. my friends sit around a table, silent and i say nothing, i stare them all down through the red and green and yellow christmas lights and let their faces go blurry. there is nothing to say when they ask for answers, prod my shoulders for reasons and details. and were just in limbo. and all i can say, all i know, among the fake fur and faux greenery is i care about you, i care about you, i care about you. and then i lose myself on polk street and wish away street corners that held us, that held me, that changed us, that changed me.

bale lane and old faithful

im watching the temperature rise from mid 70s to high 80s and in some other city, sarah is watching the weather channel and telling us, tomorrow will be a good day. my car is full of wood for you, pieces of the house i grew up in, old window sills and door frames, the door we bought to replace the plastic sheet of door covered in wallpaper and calendars covering holes, but it didnt fit and sat in the garage, five, ten, fifteen years. ive got it piled up on a sheet i slept in when i was seven, small flowers, pinks and yellows, sheets that held me and kept me warm when i still made my mama tell me stories, just to get my small heart asleep at night, its back there, my rearview, the length of the 101, and like everything else, its shambles, and splinters and not safe to put your hands on, fragments and paint chips and i want to open the hatch and let it fly across the freeway, i want to watch it hit tires of cars and windshields, fall into fields and hit limbs, bust open foreheads and feel like i feel, like broken pieces of wood, you thought you could make into something much more beautiful and now, now you never will. because you see i did this before i knew, i spent a day in the sun with my dad and walked barefoot and tried to breathe deeper than i ever had, because that smell, that idea that getting out of the city, that the country would "do me good" was fleeting, and i found myself with aching feet and hands raw from digging at the ground, slivers inside and i know, i know, i know my screaming and shouting wont keep you...and the reality is you cant build from what is broken, you must use tools, shiny and new. and thats just not me.
i feel bad for you calistoga, i do. i never give you a chance and every time i just use you for your dusty air and warm nights and curse the streets you made me on. there is a ghost in my bones.once again im pulled over, a car on the highway, crickets and frogs and purple mountains, i wish you could see it, because this place is so deceiving in its beauty and purity and at the end of the night theres never anywhere to go and the streets wont house me like they used to, ive used them all up.
the sun isnt all the way down and its eerily hot, the hood of carissas sweatshirt is too tight, too warm and i cant breathe when you tell me these words, its all just talk, and ive heard it before, you are old faithful and i know just exactly how this will feel, the brimming, the waiting, the boiling under ground, and the release is steady, consistent, and tired. after youve seen it once, theres no need to watch again, the tourists hit the gift shop, collect their kids, buy a t-shirt and drive into town for dinner at the Inn. its predictable, its a science, a timetable, an art, if you will, to the actions, the reactions. and my recovery is predictable, i know how i will drink this one down, away, out and push it all back underground to wait. wait and see how it all turns out, because even though i know what will happen, the exact time, the minute, the moment, i cant. look. away.
grammere tells me, be happy, why do you have such dark circles? are you not drinking enough water? and i smile for her, take her crazy dog on a walk, tell her how great im doing, because i am, i was, i will, i dont know how i got so lost in all this, and when i get ready to leave, i kiss her on the cheek and am brave for her, because the women in my family dont do it any other way, and i just hate to disappoint. the drive is easy, theres never a perfect enough song and my legs stick to the leather seats just like any other summer, only its not summer, and im not brave, im sad and scared and without any streets to drive on anymore. bale lane was untouched by me, and now its all dried up like the fields and leaves, vineyards turned bright gold and burgundy, and going home to clear my head was a wash, i dont know what i was thinking.

sometimes all you need is a good nights sleep. and you wake up giggling in bed and the morning is grey and cool but the sun lines the leaves outside your window and everything that felt so dark and twisty last night has cleared away and you are smiling, youve soaked in it long enough and can get out and dry off on your own.
this morning its these poems that make sense, that make everything better and the same.

A Rational Sky

How Life Longs
to deposit
self-centricity
Be cautious!
Do you want to give in,
do you want to give up?
I dont!
How nights linger-
the tragic delusion
that loneliness
is martyrdom
be cautious!
are you better
for not getting better?
are the days better
when you are numb?
is a rationalized sky
anymore blue?


He Dreamt She Was An Atom
She Dreamt He Was Enola Gay

the lorenz attractor
the space between
my fingers and your skin
infinitely divisible,
infinitely separate
never connecting
never touching

Fingernails in my back
10, 000 miles away,
penetration goes nowhere;
The mouth on your mouth
is as distant as Baghdad
the whispers in your ear
radio broadcasts from
Czechoslovakia

Maybe I never saw you
as closely as i should;
nor did your hands
ever hold mine; and so
this parting should be
no more than reality
amplified by tens
and tens and tens
until it becomes only
slightly more heavy
than i can bear,
until i see so much
of this sad sphere
that hope approaches
asymptote


and finally.......





Finally Written

Dont be afraid of writing a pure sentence;
even if at night you feel you cant sleep;
and the weight of the words on your chest
gives way to heavy sighs:

Youre lucky,
if she can calm you;
youre lucky
if you can write it down
youre luckiest
if you can tell her.

And when I learned to drive I said;
"this is the death of my youth,"
and when i first made love I said;
"this is the death of my youth,"
and when i first fell in love i said;
:here is my youth again!"
and when she left (because she will always leave) I said;
"here is the death of my youth"
and my youth has died
1000 deaths at the hands
of corruption and decay
disintegration of the imaginary worlds
i flew in as a child; replaced
by the sea of experiences
and the sense of irony
that tells me never to write
"a sea of experiences"
But when i make excuses:
"here at school, how can i be pure"
"here at work, how can i be pure"
I'm turning my back on the noblest search:
to burn these books and shatter this steel
into the purest form it can handle
without breaking my body in half
everything else is compromise
everything else is the death of our youth.



thats enough for today. i need coffee, and a walk, and time. to fucking. clear. my head.

friday flux

ive had one of the most confusing days in awhile, my kids were happy, we laughed all afternoon, i had two parents tell me how much their kids talk about me and i finished grading papers before i left work, left a mountain of red and purple check marks, pages of notes on 12 year old stories on my desk, to sit, for the weekend, while i go live my life. and it was a great day, despite the thought, like a tumor, ever present, silent and destructive, that it is all just a big show. a big joke. i keep scratching at the surface, clawing at my cheeks and rubbing my eyes red and puffy and i cry on the N train and dont even care that my hair is sticking to the back of my neck and ive sweat through my shirt. i want the outside to look like the inside and inside i feel like a mess. ive got a new soundtrack and run around the city with it playing on repeat, repeat repeat over until im able to pretend i know all the words and pound along angrily, fingertips to wrist, push it out, get it out, and its never rough enough, the bruises never dark enough. im never enough. something about today has me a wreck, sick to my stomach, i cant make this up, im just floating and waiting and waiting for something to break, to crack, to fall around me. we wait for things instead of taking action and i just dont know how to do this. i want to throw my hands up at you, i want to shrug my shoulders and say maybe im not cut out for this. maybe i feel too hard, to much, and all i want is a space to feel it, to carve out a hole, a room, a trailer, some space in your heart for me to be. to just be. and if i cant make a home in you, then im lost, i dont know what the fuck im doing at all.

i need to move here, fall away, explore the forest and write for hours at a time....you can come visit if youd like, and id make you tea. and wed talk about life....in a very removed sort of way...

http://sfbay.craigslist.org/nby/apa/878977211.html

today im scaring myself and i hate it and cant help it when i get like this. all lock jawed and frozen, tiny hands trembling and shifty feet, left and right, i make others uncomfortable and no one can stand to be around me. i cant even stand myself but i wont make myself get up off my bed, i wont move around or go outside or change the song blaring through the walls. i wont because i cant, because im not ready and thats my shit. im trying to figure it out and learn and grow up and im in between all these things i want and throwing it all over the bridge and swimming for safety, swimming past the breakers into nothing and in the end what looks like drowning might just be surviving. what looks like swimming might be sinking and i sense us running out of breath.

you could never write me like i wrote you. no one could. ive made this impossible for everyone, for anyone to get close to me and for me to feel safe with anyone at all.

so we take shots, we dance wildly in our rooms, we cry for no reason or for everything, we pour ourselves into each other and laugh and shrug shoulders and use genuine glances to try and convey what we ultimately ultimately in our deepest realist hearts desire. and we just keep moving, shuffling along, breaking the wishbone, tying the cherry, crossing our fingers and following the yellow brick road. dayna yells from the other room "can it just work out for me, one, just one time!?" and its real, everything that were feeling and saying and wanting is real, its real, its real.

an opened wound

take my time
to unwrap fingers
browned edges
salt vined, intertwined
theatrics
annimated summers and terrible twos
your violence is
impossible
santa ana winds
over a telephone call in june
fumble your
words to the ground
lazy like
kat nap
geometric tears in blue jeans
side swiping glances
regretfully
long and
lustful
fine feathers, like
lips
grapes among gold
cold cotton and deep palms
lets leave town tonight
wedge our disasters
in some streetlight
and watch it all go black

variations of the same

evening wiles

the corners of your eyes have
turned black
something like khol and
evening
where underwater movements
make your face
shiny
fluid
glass bound in silence
air bubbles held with tired resistance
and words mouthed
like gaping wounds
hello, you say
turning to me at midnight
your skin sheetlike and sleepy
make me angry again
you tell me
muffled fragments like crumbs
i pick up from blankets and feed you
eat those words
i sign to you with forefinger and thumb
let me count the ways
i hate you
wrap me like a movie
it wont take that long







october continues

"oh," I said to myself
while we mingled with acrobats on larkin
his cazals have sent rainbows
to shop windows
and im busy putting hairpins, tigers eye and velvet,
behind my ear-we forgot to smile
on the walk to our apartment-I was
distracted by his hand upon my face
a bum is passed out on post street
holding a book close to his chest
like a loved one
we take a nap under
paintings, graffiti and oil
my face is stuck to his arm at 4 o'clock
and I read the paper
the times
while he brews coffee
heart beating irregular
and mild
isnt it funny to be here again? isnt it funny
that "here" is as temporary as
your goodbyes?

friday freakshow

characters im developing. well. people i find so fascinating for one reason or another who i have the priveledege and good fortune of spending three hours with every friday.

and because its anonymous, the names have been changed.

molly-works in juvenile detention center for community service, owns a seriously divey bar on irving. looks like a combination of anna nicole smith and tammy faye. its frightening. she shakes nervously. her speech is always on the verge of tears. i sit right next to her and she draws on a fake mole right above her upper lip. its really strange and moves around and its all i can look at when i look at her. she has asthma so i get her glasses of water throughout our meeting or else she coughs like crazy and her jangling gold necklaces make so much noise its distracting.

"tug boat" original member of the hells angels. maybe one of the most obnoxious and unnerving people ive ever met. uses the same jokes every time we meet. "sorry, my suit was in the cleaners." constantly looks as if he just came from a 10 day bender, peeled himself off the floor of his own vomit, threw on a ripped worn 49'ers t-shirt, wiped his face with a greasy handkerchief and came to class. his speech is slurred. i never know if hes wasted or just brain dead from years of abuse.
"tug boat" is full of stories. says his friend held the rights to 'brave new world' but sold them. not just his friend, his best friend.
he also bursts out in the middle of the meeting
"wheres the best place to buy a liver? my old lady needs a liver and im gonna get her one."


al wears a hat from lone palm. has blue wolf eyes and looks ruggedly handsome but not. when we leave the meetings he tells me i look familiar and asks me where i hang out. i feel embarrassed the first day that i could have had some really wasted night at some bar and possibly talked to him for hours....that possibly i do look familiar to him because weve met. but i just laugh and say well, san francisco isnt that big, and he winks at me and drives his huge lifted truck around the corner and im standing in a cloud of exhaust.

delaporn is from thailand and hardly speaks english but when we do our weekly check in she says she "feels sad about the businesses and bombs in her home town." its endearing that this 30-something year old is so naive. or stupid.

chris is hot. wears a gold ring, like a family crest, grew up in the valley and looks like an athlete. looks like the boys i grew up with, tan and skin stretched tight over accidental muscles. he looks like he swims, snow boards and knows what its like to hear crickets at night and sleep in the valley heat, the way crush smells. hes the type of boy id fall in love with, hard, sweet desperate love. a boy id love but always, always leave...because his world is too small and my dreams, too big.

max is crazy normal looking. cute almost, has a thick lisp and shifty eyes. he tells us he used to do a lot of speed, like its the most casual thing you could tell a person, had a girlfriend who shot dope and got pregnant but she ran off about three years ago and he never did know what happened to her. his real name is something russian. and long. so we all just call him max and now hes a lab technician and doesnt do speed anymore. says he quit real easy, cold turkey.

this is all i have so far. but it seems like the material will just keep coming....

hablo espanol

¿usted recuerda las palabras que hablábamos?

té del excedente se convierte en de alguna manera

octubre

que llueve, usted las cubiertas que suben y susurro

my ears are mercury

con palabras como

ángeles en agua

and everyone’s got a name for you

pero le llamo mina

usted de quién ojos recogen sombras en olor

de la caída como la tarde dada vuelta a la noche temprana

you are fall and i am summer and we make

las rosas se desmenuzan

y uso la luna como ornamento en mi pelo

take a walk, clear your head, forget the things you never said

omar says whats up angel
on haight street
im walking to get a burrito and i
take the long way
to pass by his house
stand on the curb
for five minutes
smoke a cigarette and chip my nail polish
take a left on webster
smile at some little girls
who dont smile back
on valencia i notice
my shoe broke probably somewhere by davey jones’s house
where there is a huge chunk of cement
sticking out of the ground
where once he ate shit on his skateboard
and we walked to divis
and got an ice cream
tonight its getting colder earlier
somewhere along mission
i notice its fall
and walk a little slower
three people on the sidewalk
do a sideways dance to avoid each other
but we brush elbows anyways
and i wonder how many peoples
elbows
have i brushed in this city
at 23rd i realize i forgot where
the burrito place was
the bank where it used to be
has turned into a dollar store
and im all flipped around
i buy a coconut popsicle from a man
who’s hands look like my fathers
take it to dolores
but its too late and people
are going through garbage cans
and drinking in the dark
i wait for the J train which takes me by
chuva’s house
i like to look in windows on church street
and watch people cook dinner, watch tv
smoke, one arm out the window into their night

this is how a short story starts

i dont remember the first time, cant remember the last time and all of it is falling around me, confetti and sugar cubes, rice flying down stairs of the church and slipping down my dress, into the yards of fabric around my legs, between the tiniest of tiny gaps between mine and his pressed palms. last week we were sitting on the corner curb of 16th and mission, among bum spit and burger king wrappers and now, now we are wearing silly outfits, smiling and hugging old family members we dont know and putting cake into each others face even though i know he doesnt like sweets and he knows i hate his mother. last week we had been regular, had been riding bikes and drinking pabst and today, today were freaking married.

i finally find elijah in the back of the studio, where i had left him that morning, mixing paint and smoking cigarettes and looking at pictures of unicorns on the internet.
“whats up, man, i thought we were going to meet at 8?” it was now 10:30.
elijah turns at me and his hands and arms are entirely covered with pen marks, drawings and words, half sketches that look like math problems and parabolas, smiley faces and phone numbers. this morning he had been clean, we had washed his arms clean.
“lij, what the fuck is all over your arms again? i bought you that notebook for your poems?” i see the notebook still in the bag in the corner.
“linds, i just have to put it anywhere else on paper, you see, i just cant put it on paper. its too
final, and this? these things? they cant be too serious. they have to be as serious as what people say out loud...and how serious is that? what type of change does that make? im not even sure of half the things i read in print. i just cant be like that linds, i dont want to be unbelievable.”
outside a group of kids walk by and i catch their sentences slamming up against each other and the summers hot night, hanging phrases and laughs, suspended frivilous nothings. i want to be one of those kids that talks about nothing, i think. i want to stop all these secrets out loud.

vintage

So

as if your leaving is not enough
youve taken my heart
in your knapsack
next to the bologna sandwich your mother made you
ate both of them under an oak tree
on some back road
some truck bed
and napped afterward, easily
whats wrong with splinters under fingers
and paper cuts
stubbed toes
or bumped heads?
why make blood be on the outside?
or at least mend the gaping wound
at least use needle and thread to put me
back together again
patchwork quilts of eyes and lashes
lips and wrists and waists
and smiles
use the tools from your excavation
to build something beautiful
for yourself
we cant have those shiny, thoughtful hands go
to waste



Good morning,

that day we cut school
took Old Toll Road
out to the waterfalls
slipped into naked and the rocks were warm on our bellies
as you both tried to impress me
with your
mystery
it was somewhere after three i woke up
with cattails in my hair
and sunburned
you both were in the water, diving under
and gasping up like newborns
it was your laughter that woke me
it sounded like
when i was seven
and both of you brought me valentines cards
made of elmers glue
and innocence
that day the sun had made me lightheaded
and looking off my rock
the glare of waterfall and valley summer
made your faces indistinguishable
it turned two into one

To: Colorado/Montana

it wasnt our kind of dive bar
we drank no name beer
and fidgeted and wiped sweat
from our top lips
with crooked fingers
i ate peanuts and pretzels from the bowl on the table
but they were stale
you smelled like body and flannel
i was wearing a slip for a dress
still wet from the gas n' go bathroom sink
where i washed it
and you brushed your teeth
the man at the bar
sits next to a wife giving birth to the moon
her belly swollen and exposed
he says get another shot for ma women
were getting the baby drunk tonight
you swatted a fly away
suggested we take a walk
and outside the night had lit itself on fire
the cement ignited the sky, ignited the car
the womans hair on the corner, the soles of our feet
exploded up and out
you sighed and said, baby, its fucking hot

fish out of water

i cant finish anything ive written in weeks and i hate it. im literally gasping and reeling over the keyboard. drip drip drying my eyes over x's and o's, and nothing feels real. im sorry. im sorry. im sorry. i want this to be real for you.

i dont want to live in grey and its the only place ive been lately, staring at this business card i have at my desk saying, "you are your art."

and my art right now is nothing.

i want to write you love letters and apologies at the same time. that just seems fitting. to say:

i love you, im sorry.
or
im sorry, i love you.

they both just feel so fucking sad.

things are going along swimmingly. if anything, im more of a mess than ever before and im riding the waves all up and down and sideways, turbulent like Ike. in my scatteredness i find comfort and stability in the inability to hold down a job, a feeling, a boy, an apartment for more than a year. today is lovely. yesterday i didnt leave the house and today i find myself restless on side streets at cafes and using the bathroom of the nail place where i say "im a regular" and its true because four years ago, some other apartment, some other boy i used to go there on weekends and get pedicures, when my bank account wasnt negative and i smoked cigarettes on weekends instead of right when i wake up. i let myself sink into the chair and talk to megan on the phone in calistoga and the sun comes out and im getting texts from my other friends who dont have jobs and i get too worked up some times when things arent going exactly how i think they should be, how i want them to be, i get nervous and anxious and frustrated and sometimes it takes two cups of coffee, four cigarettes and a long walk to ocean beach to settle my hands, to make them write, to have my shoulders fall neatly into the day instead of tensed up to my ears. the sun breaks through for a couple hours and thats all i need it seems.

"tell me a story," she will beg and you will write her the softest water and double it three times to make it your own. "make me feel better," she will say, holding your hand and burrowing into the blankets and you will write her notions of great things and turn on your heals, stand on your head, rip yourself inside out to write down your day and give it a twist, something sweet on the inside, the pushing the pulling, the ability to hold it all together, for her, for her. "make it real," she will whisper and it is hopeful, so you will turn poetry into prose, you will put her on refridgeraters and inside baseball cards because she is so immense in her smallness, commanding in her submission. you will take stories from your head, your heart, you will write it down and do things with words no one has ever seen before. excuse the comma and disregard all capitals until your voice rises and crests with her even breathing and she will hum "see, it gets easier, it gets easier" you will lie next to her and she will sleep and a story is a story is a soothing palm to her forehead but it is a story nonetheless. "take me home," she will sigh and you will wake next to her with your elbows maybe touching and there will not be any words when morning comes, she is thirsty and you will need to write this down.

im getting lost in boxes of jewels and old notes, old writing, scraps of paper and notebooks half filled out with words that couldnt possibly have been mine. like, i actually have no recollection of ever writing that, thinking that, feeling that. and that is the beauty of words and feelings and time. i tell heather this last weekend that time works everything out as shes staring at me steely eyed and blue, and i couldnt believe it more myself today. time moves people into places, out of places and makes writing seem distant, phrases that held meaning are nothing anymore and you catch yourself saying new words, new phrases to new people and the only possible reason is time. time changes it all.

last night dayna and i walk to the store at 11 after half watching a movie on jose's bed to get chips and soda which dayn calls "pop" and i love those things about people that make them them. but we hit the stairs and its cold on cole street, so cold ive put sweats over my leggings and a hat on, shove my hands in my pockets and half expect to see my breath come out in short puff, puff, puff heat but its not that cold, its still september. i say "smell that?" and we both inhale, deeply, as b and i had the whole drive up to portland, deep and long and with your eyes closed because somehow that makes the smell stronger, more wholly felt. and we look at each other "thats autum" dayna says and i just say "shit, it sure is." and there are things, that as much as i hate saying goodbye to summer, that i love about fall. its the smell of fire place, of wood burning stove. and my hands get warm in their pockets, balled up fists and i shake my shoulders a little bit. im not ready for fall. but its here...
this is something ive got to get my hands on for fallllllllll.....


gold leaf combs from Chanel, daaang ma. i be loving that shit.

josies first letter from costa

hey guys,

sending out a quick little note from costa. everything is going swimmingly. flew out wednesday, the flight was quick and painless. at one point i opened my window to get a liittle more reading light and we were just over the border between land and ocean, I´m not sure of which country, and it was this gorgeous sunset and just to the left of the sun was this perfect crescent moon, and while we were watching the sun go down all of a sudden this huge bolt of lightning strikes like a foot past the wing of our plane. it was crazy, like all the elements combined in that one time and place to welcome us into central america. the lightning storms continued til we landed, but we landed so no complaints. we spent that night in a hotel in downtown san jose and the next day walked to the bus station and caught a 3 hour sketchy bus ride to san isidro, where mckenzie lives. randomly found her downtown, thank god since we had no clue how to find her house, and caught a cab to her house because of all our luggage, but it´s less than a 15 minute walk so we´ve been walking in and out of town when we need anything. her house is adorable but not furnished yet really, because her truck and furniture are coming down in a big shipment in a few weeks, so until then shannon and I are spooning on a twin mattress on the floor, and we´ve been eating dinner and playing kings and fuck the dealer, etc. on the floor. we´re getting bars put on the window within the week, since the house got broken into a lot before we got here and there´s bullet holes in my bedroom window... don´t worry, they´re supposedly only from a pellet gun.... drink of choice here is guaro, not recommended if you don´t like hangovers. my spanish is coming back pretty effortlessly, actually, and I can fool most people into thinking I understand everything they´re saying... I´m broke as a joke, so we´ll see how long I can stretch it. speaking of that, and I know you´ll all shake your heads at this, but I just spent like half my money at the vet for a puppy we found on the way to town one day, who had some serious flea and worm issues. however, now we have a guard dog, well, guard puppy, who we fittingly named bones. it´s rainy season, so it´s been raining on and off, today is nice though, and even when it rains it´s not cold so it´s not bad at all if you just accept the fact that you´ll be soaking wet all day. domincal, the beach town mckenzie used to live in where she knows a bunch of people, is 18 miles, or about a 40 dollar cab ride away, but the bus comes fairly often and will take us there too. we´re going out tomorrow, but once we have the car we´ll be driving all over the country and into panama to see the canal. I miss you all but everything here is gorgeous and relaxing and healing and perfect, so you probably won´t be seeing me for as long as my money lasts.... love love love, ex´s and oh´s.
jos

p.s. for those of you who saw it, the gash in my knee is sooo infected. awesome...
--
"I pray that your prayers be answered in kisses" -- saul williams
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gabrielle toft to Josie
show details 2:16 PM (2 minutes ago)

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josie,
i cant fully write all that i want to as im at work. and i find that i can never adequately describe what i want to say when i really need to say it (or can i?) unless you are around, and then it seems like the good lines or advice or the truth, even when it hurts, come flowing from me.
im so proud of you first of all. that you have made these great leaps and bounds out of comfort and lifestyle and easiness to go be a part of something wild and adventurous and scary. im terribly jealous. so jealous my bones hurt, but thats okay. its jealousy of our closest friends that makes things stir in us and forces us to seek out the things we are capable of and test ourselves, and then i guess, its not jealousy at all...but something much more like...well...i dont know. like, love.
i wish the best for you.
keep me updated. like, on everything. i will try to make magic happen here at home, so that when you do come back there will be a safe place for you and your new pup (youre nuts but i totally understand) to land.
i miss you like fucking hell.
i miss you like i missed summer, like i miss 19, like i miss myself as a little girl, carefree, dirty face, sweaty brow. i miss you so much.
work it out, baby. thats my mantra, however you may take it.
say hello to shanny, and take care of each other. take care of your heart. heal up. and let me know how that goes. i feel so open and wounded and raw all the time. but i guess that is part of the healing, leaving it to the open air, and chance.

you are beautiful in everything you do, i couldnt ask for a more perfect friend. come home soon you dead ass baby.

keep it nitty,
love,
g

a drive is never long enough, nor a song, nor a kiss

rocket man

its a shame to be so sad on such an incredible day. i give myself guilt trips on the mornings i wake up next to you and just cant perform, the mornings im quiet and slow and smile like i mean it but i dont, and i dont know why, because nothing makes me happier than a warm day, or you. its hot at 830am when we leave your house. i hold my jacket at my side and my legs are already sweating in the place where your hand rested last night as we fell asleep. the curtains moved this morning and your eyes were more blue than i have ever seen them as the light comes in over the buildings on polk. the meth clinic across the street that last night had been all turquoise windows and white shades drawn is beginning to wake up. silence is beginning to eat at me. sometimes i feel like i am too messy for you. that i am a disaster, that i cant even pin point where i go wrong and whether or not the things i write about are right, whether any of it matters. im telling you all these things as we drive freeways, deep blue, black stencil trees, yellow tunnel lights on the back of your neck, your hand on my bare knee and my skin holds the day, hot and dry, and when we get back to the city my mouth has almost stopped working and i dont know why i shut down when all i really want to do is let it all out.
this is one of my favorite songs and i feel a little bit less crazy and wild and mad when i hear it, when i read the words.


She packed my bags last night pre-flight
Zero hour nine a.m.
And I’m gonna be high as a kite by then
I miss the earth so much I miss my wife
It’s lonely out in space
On such a timeless flight

And I think it’s gonna be a long long time
Till touch down brings me round again to find
I’m not the man they think I am at home
Oh no no no I’m a rocket man
Rocket man burning out his fuse up here alone


Mars ain’t the kind of place to raise your kids
In fact it’s cold as hell
And there’s no one there to raise them if you did
And all this science I don’t understand
It’s just my job five days a week
A rocket man, a rocket man


And I think it’s gonna be a long long time...

because its calming me down tonight. aloe sits in the fridge in some apartment i dont have yet, one like my apartment on irving, big, airy, wood floors and long hallways, tiles and kitchen cabinets filled with all my own things, magazines and fancy rice milk that i like in the mornings in cereal while i sit at my craft table in the kitchen and watch rain fall, or on back steps in a back yard. i have to do things like this. last night b cant fall back asleep and i rub his back and tell him to get comfortable and think about a trip you want to go on and all the fun things that you will do. sometimes its these small things we know about people, that for me, i like to think about a place, a home, surroundings, and how those things comfort me, make me still, and safe and that for him, its moving around, going places, shaking things up and opening his eyes in another country that makes him feel alive, and after a few minutes settles him back to sleep.

t talks about tattoos and mars and albert einstein earlier today and it seems all these things are inter-related somehow. that its not about finding your souls counterpoint in another person, its finding that other person that feels what you feel, when you do, and wants to be wherever you are, mars, portland, china, whatever. we must not forget these people that we were, and risk forgetting the people we changed to be.
and then theres this:
which i can totally see myself in some corner booth in portland in the rain, with a cig, writing you letters when youre not there.

The city streets are wet with rain tonight
Taxi drivers swerve from lane to lane
A lonely guitar man playin down the hall
Midnight blues comin through the walls

I tried to call you on the telephone
I left it off the hook
Just to hear it ring
You told me you were better off alone
I never knew that tears could stain

Im on the roof and Im starin at the stars
Lookin down at all the cars
I can see you
In the window of your favorite corner bar
But to reach you is just too far
And I might as well be on mars

The city seems so old and grey and beat
It closes in and makes me wanna suffocate
And you just live across the street
But thats a billion miles away

Youve turned my world into a dark and lonely place
Like a planet lost in space, my light is fadin
Id cross the universe to be right where you are
But Im right in your backyard
And I might as well be on mars

Chorus
I might as well be on mars
You cant see me
I might as well be the man on the moon
You cant hear me
Oh, can you feel me so close
And yet so far
Baby, I might as well be on mars

Baby, I cant fly
If I could Id come down to ya
Maybe I should try

Im on the roof and Im starin at the stars
Lookin down at all lthe cars
I can see you
In the window of your favorite corner bar
But to reach is just too far
And I might as well be on mars


what am i talking about? i dont know, i really dont know. someone once said to me, you are your art, and my art is madness right now, all over the place, so i guess im a little bit mad myself.

fair lady

im laughing hysterically, teeth chattering and neck sweating, my hand is holding yours and you pull me down dark streets and fog comes over the look tower of the museum. as dusk falls around orange flowers and trees laden with blossoms you look at me and say, the only thing i smell is you and its an unreal night in the city once again. im biting the inside of my cheek this time, not my tongue, i can say out loud one thousand times, i love you i love you i love you i love you without whispering, without being afraid, without being unsure of what comes next. its 8:00 on a tuesday and my inability to ride with no hands makes you smile. you look back behind at me every other second, tell me, ride close, youre listening to your "feel good music" on your ipod and were screaming brown eyed girl at the top of our lungs riding down oak street. im pulling over to talk into my recorder and his eyes are shiny, ive lost a little bit of that nervous brow, my heart less shaded with worry, i dont feel the need to pull into myself, my smile is easier, my hands dont shake at the thought of being without you, of waking up alone. when you turn in bed in the middle of the night i dont lie awake for hours waiting for you to reach back. i fall asleep and somehow its morning and youve found me, weve found ourselves.
in the hours in between, during the constant drill of construction, my brain is like a fire escape, im sitting over polk street and its a constant hum, i cant write things fast enough, im spinning circles and weaving my fingers in and out until the next time i touch a pen, steady myself against my drink or run my hands over your face. this summer has lit me on fire, has pushed the sky open into breathy sunsets out a window, cold air pushing up under the couch and my eyes, fastened on yours.

sweet pea

copied directly from printer paper found in my purse this morning, the morning after...

these little moments
what causes change
is there a hero?
taxi driver
pimp
relation to art
writing of the will
money-having it, lack of
defining
white suburban kids
where people came from
with roots
how people have lived

you find yourself talking to randoms at the bar, his name is joe, theyre slipping you their phone numbers on napkins because you say you like that sort of thing and youve never felt so alive. the walk home youre smiling, youve taken a half day and gone shopping with your best friends boyfriend and didnt buy a thing except drinks at the gold dust in between sport coats and silk blend pants. the whiskey tasted somewhat like dead fish and sweat but it does the trick and you and he are laughing through tourists and sweat forms on your brow like a crown.
at 1030 you find yourself outside, alone, smoking a cigarette while your friends talk to boys at the bar and youre sitting on an overpass above kearney and sutter when all the sudden youre 16 at CSSSA crossing the freeway above mcbean pkway for the first time and it strikes you that youre still trying to figure it all out.
at 1045 all you want to do is touch your boys face. you think of how long its been since your mouth smelled like his and youve been wearing his shirt to bed at night but its losing his smell and becoming yours. night and time will do that, you know.
after trin leaves things feel quiet and you take the bus to work listening to old songs and the last five days arent even real.

swedish furniture and a '59 Bel Air

something i picked up along the way...
It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for,
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.
It doesn't interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love,
for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon...
I want to know if you have touched the center of your sorrow.
If you have been opened by life's betrayals or if you have become
shriveled and closed from the fear of future pain!
I want to know if you can sit with pain; mine or your own,
without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own.
If you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful,
realistic, or to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn't interest me if the "story" you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself.
If you can bare the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithful and, therefore, be trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty even when it is not present everyday.
And, if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure; yours and mine,
and still stand on the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes"!
It doesn't interest me to know where you live
or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get
up after a night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done for the children.
It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me
and
not shrink back.


im feeling lonely today. its so hot out and everythings melting and sweaty and sticky and i love that summer has settled on the back of my neck and the places between fabric and skin, like a bond. i come home from my grandma's house in oakland, my bag full of notes and photos of her and my grandfather who i never met, smiling in black and white. my dad and i sit in the backyard and i used to love to sit with him in the garden in calistoga while he watered on hot nights, whats this flower, whats that tree and in those quiet ways my dad and i learned each other and that smell of dirt on his skin is something i will never forget.
i collect things, im a collector. drawers and boxes and scraps of paper written on in some bar in some city in some drawling scrawl litter my floor, my jeans pockets, my heart. there is room enough for all of it, these momentos that we hold onto for whatever reason, or for whatever reason they hold us.

my first time

this morning i woke up having a dream that my best friend was retarded and in a wheelchair and getting beaten up by a big hairy man on the bus and i wasnt doing anything to stop it. i told b and after i could hear him through my laughter, he said i should write it down.
im taking things slow. slow like ice cream cups outside a corner store in the richmond, apple juice and hennisey on a phone booth, bike rides at night, leaning up against a car that isnt yours, leaning into your boys sweatshirt and breathing in, slow like saturday, slow like tracing circles on his arm in the morning before hes awake, slow, slow, slow.

i figure we should talk about firsts...since this is one, here, right now.

my first memory, easy enough, is of being held. thomas and i are napping. it smells like a nest, of organic things, twigs and dirt and bread baking. it smells like crush in the valley, and the back of my neck is sweaty. i have straight across bangs. my moms skin is cool, and shes brushing back my hair. eyes open, eyes shut, eyes open, eyes shut. sleep.

my first fat lip was electric. i got hit in the mouth with a baseball in little league. i cried like hell. but i was much more adventurous after that, i was less afraid of getting hurt.

my first kiss. were watching a horror movie on halloween at shane hastings moms house before i was allowed to go to boy/girl parties. i sat next to jason tamagni and i could barely let my leg rest up against his without dying. when carries mom came to pick us up he kind of leaned over and put his tongue in my mouth as i was getting up from the couch. it was weird but i remember being excited for weeks.

my first heartbreak was real. i slept and starved and pulled all inside. i became these horrible things i didnt know i was capable of being and thinking and wanting. i remember reading something that changed it all for me, to the point where laying in bed and running steely eyed through the streets didnt make sense anymore. my heartache was real because i was capable of loving and that made me happier than i expected. so i bought a frozen yogurt and got the fuck over it.

my first stoned bike ride with b in the richmond was last night. it was absolutely amazing. i scraped up against so many walls hoping he wouldnt see but not really caring if he did. i laughed so much im raspier that normal this morning. i woke up tired but not exhausted. firsts are good. firsts pave way for more, for you to figure it out, to get it right.

im trying to get this right.
heres someone who got it right.