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.