Monday, October 13, 2008
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....
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
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
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.
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
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
Friday, October 10, 2008
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.
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.
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