booty music

all the kids wear fake tattoos, spread splotchy like her artwork all down their arms and bellies and sometimes a terradactyl finds its way to a smooth cheek, a rounded batman flies solo over the bridge of a nose and capes fly, hair flies and time is ticking slowly and i shouldnt be watching the clock but i am. im making myself sick and pinching my sides, buttoning and unbuttoning pants, coats, armor and lacing up my lips with glossy thread. stars of david in tiny hands, needle point, what type of stitch would you like. after lunch we place our hands and forearms under cool water, blood arrives through dust, knees scraped and elbows, butterfly bandaged, this is all so symbolic. we are all symbols of something else and my nail polish chips and the sun glares and i left my shades at your house, at your house, amidst (y)our things.
tiny torture chambers are my classroom and my brain, like lighting things on fire to watch them burn, i once lit a whole bundle of letters on fire in the kitchen sink at my parents and the pipes burst, black charred paper and words, my dad was furious and i drove the streets of that city, dark and dark and warm and sad, they are just words, people say, but they arent just words, they are everything. what would i be to you without them?
ive stopped learning. and so im sending myself back to school. i have become stagnant so i buy old books at the goodwill and collect pieces of paper on the walk home from the mission to mod podge in there, a story over a story, like it means something.
lets just drink juice on the deck and summon summer. im ready for her, for tanned legs and sticky necks, modest music and kisses full of time instead of tears. booty music over the bay bridge and introducing you to things i knew two years ago. lets make bracelets, glaze them, break ebony and string flowers around our wrists, take trains and unbuckle our shoes. she was too wound up for you, ill let my hair down and get muddy, laugh too loud and make people uncomfortable with my comfortableness. im all braided up for you and ready for you to say when.

taco tuesday

last night were taking shots, perched above the crowd, and have i lost it? have i lost it? its a game were always playing and i pick my pieces and shoot them looks across bars and tell people i'll be right back, slip dip diving into the night, running, giggling, always looking behind me.
i remember the afternoon jo rode d's bike and i couldnt help looking back behind me to make sure she was there, not drifting off into the wild traffic, the wild afternoon. when did my sleepy ocean friend start wearing heels that give her blisters, my sand toed blonde best friend is sitting in dark bars with me and i take her to the shittiest neighborhood, where the italian restaurants flow into the street, all white tablecloths and white teeth and white, white, white. give me a job, hire me and i promise i wont talk shit, the streets are quiet except for pools of boys outside bars, girls wearing backwards baseball hats and i always feel more nervous here, more out of place, rubbing elbows with crisp suits and stiff make up smiles, my hands get clammy and im ten years old and cant get any words out, but tequila makes me brave and soon im swiping lip gloss on and prowling, a cat, a 23 year old cat, sleek, and slick. i dont know how my best friend has found herself in this city overnight, a city of vultures, waiting to descend, of deep dark nights and twisty mornings, of tired eyes and ragged edges, how did my quiet mountain friend find herself sleeping to traffic and rush, city rush, its moving and moving and fighting , my friend got into a fight last night and broke someones arm, you know, the friend who kissed you, and fleeing.
were all running. i want to settle down. i want to keep her safe. keep us safe.
i dont want to worry about my friends and the people i love so much. i want to send them off into their day and quit worrying. i want josie to stop worrying about her father who wont call her back, just call her back, we need to stop worrying. it gives us wrinkles and pits in our stomach. makes us drink shadows and sleep with windows shut for the quiet. windows as metaphors for boys and our friends in borrowed sweats watching greys. but please. please. just for a minute. just for a minute, be quiet, stop looking right through me, like you know me, only my boy looks at me like that. everyone feels entitled to a piece of something around here, i just want josie to be safe, i want all these people with their grabby hands to back the fuck off. give me some space. a little space to keep safe.

lets write stories about people well never know and dream about dresses well never own

lets be friends and blossom like
thieves
youre (breaking up)
another unwasted saturday
godspeed out there, this
den full of foxes
you have no runaway moves,
blonde girl,
youre thirteen and lucky
a
dreamboat
with derailed chain
abre los ojos
double take polk street
lets just say we
lived in berkeley in the 90's
deadheads, sisters named love wing & crystal rose
beautiful
romanian hunters hold hands
coffee table with boring picture books
the soup in oakland chinatown, lumpy and grey
when youre gone
anonymous sex blindfolds chills down my spine
"This makes us friends"
red shoes
and
pregnant
ashby flea market
willow branches tucked in packs, brilliant design
there is no one better
more plesant
im too sensitive for this double edge sword
making star tattoos on face
you do like
voodoo, dont you?

before I let you go
befuddled
shoreline
like
red cross
lets have an egg hunt, whisper your sweet voice
i'll blow you kisses
and be just another girl in the panhandle, making
something out of nothing
with tired hands

spring sprung whitewash mish mosh

eskape is washed from brick walls on oak street, i pull up and park outside the night we danced in white paint, black boot marks and tacate teardrop innocence. a man is washing your writing from walls, a thick hat and brow dancing lightly with sweat, its hot lately, we wear short sleeves and show sleeves and tuck our toes in the sand and lick upper lips, laugh lighter, move slower along bodies and arms, sticky, sun warmed. i picture you in shade, under trees, hammocked by sunlight, listless with afternoon, with side by side glow, i picture you in this place that rotates, how many days does it take the earth to move around the sun, a place with years and time, a place, yellowed, old cornered photographs, i hold you closely under glass and look at you when you are not near me, kiss your face at bedtime, write you love letters, cross t's and dot the i's in your name with hearts in notebooks during meetings. it is here, this soft spoken whisper place, that makes dreary, deep night seem safe and warm. im not afraid of you anymore. im not afraid of anything anymore except being away from you for too long, and after this long, you are never that far away.
mary magdalene in the mission makes change noise in pockets, dollar stores and fruit flies, postage stamps stuck to heels and im in a rush. im in a hurry, slow down, slow down, get a pen, write this down. new carpet underfoot and different sounds, putting head to pillow, wake up achy, i dont sleep, i never ever sleep, wide windows flung open and shower leak. tread lightly, hurry before the paint dries, tuck me in, lock me in, i'll put your art up in my room and make this a home again, grass nests in trees, i tell them, build higher, go higher, make it safe enough to sleep in, twine and clover, dirt and sour grass, whatever it takes to protect what you love.

life skills

what do you say when someone tells you "you were born to do this" besides question every single reason for your existence? is this what youve been working for?

im listening to band of horses, cleaning my new place in my underwear, the windows are open, i got bones in my wallet and i just mixed an antioxidant drink, my best friend is moving to san francisco and im going to an 80's spring break party tonight. life is fucking grand. im feeling sharp and swift and serious.

raffle winner

outside my new bedroom windows are old wooden latice and green ivy browned wall paper. it makes me feel like calistoga, dry, dusty wood windowsills and greenery. and i love it.
b says, things are looking up. im excited for both of us.
i dont know what he means but theres an undercurrent and its almost summer and tomorrow is friday and all my things are in boxes and bags around me and life feels full.