One. This tube breathes for me and I hate it. I chew on it at night like a street rat.
Two. My daddy was a preacher…I guess he always kept mustard seeds in his front jean pockets.
Three. Once air starts to taste sweet like burnt plastic and your broccoli soup is tainted with crushed pills you know your life turned into some unnatural shell of pumps and pharmaceuticals.
Four. While the congregation dreamed of the holy ghost I danced on stage with bananas round my pretty little waist and entertained my host.
Five. Those silent films are all like rusted silver from a shipwreck in the ocean: lifeless, gritty, fast paced and crackly looking on the screen. That’s not how it was at all. In fact, they had more color and life than the rosy cheeks of winter nipped woman.
Six. He was just the bees knees: mustache slicked down to a “V” and silver cuff links that shone like spears.
Seven. I can’t go to the bathroom without some whore in scrubs following me inside and babbling about the meds I hid under my tongue.
Eight. Yes, I’m that red haired doll with a ciggy in her hand, a pearly hem that rose to her thighs and inconspicuous whiskey bottles stuffed down her dress. I’m that chick who knew all the secret knock knock knocks of the day.
Nine. I saw the gun underneath Jack’s suit when he tried to catch me a firefly by the lake. It was sharp, slim and gave me some kind of fever.
Ten. Jack definitely wasn’t a lawyer. I didn’t really care. We played Mahjong and drank until the sun came down.
Eleven. She’s doing it again. Shoving porridge down my throat like I’m some bird. I try to claw at her.
Twelve. I can’t move. I realize that unfortunately I’m no bird.
Thirteen. Everything around me looks orange and cylindrical as if I were looking at the world through a prescription bottle.
Fourteen. I loved going down to the fields with Jimmy to watch the vegetables punch their fists from the manure in the spring.
Fifteen. More morphine please?
Sixteen. I never loved the sunspots on my hands more than I do today. Only they remember Coronado Beach: the oily faces, the martini glasses with green umbrellas in them, the baby crabs crawling in between my toes and the baby flies rummaging through the seaweed.
Seventeen. My baby brought me flowers and left.
Eighteen. There’s a thin paper on the hospital bed that crumples every time I move. It’s the kind people stuffed in birthday bags to make them look all full, big and beautiful but in reality there’s a pathetic gift resting at the bottom.
Nineteen. I want to disappear and then reappear as a daze, an acid trip, a nightmare, a prenatal dream, a drunken night. Anything at all just not this. Not ninety-six.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Stray
HAD TO WRITE IN SECOND PERSON FOR CLASS. THE STORY SHE GAVE US HAD A LOT OF YOU’S IN IT. I STILL FEEL LIKE I USED TOO MANY OF THOSE ALTHOUGH I TRIED TO EVEN IT OUT WITH BITS OF DESCRIPTION.
You feel your spine, that rugged canyon of bones poke from underneath your sagging skin. You lick your paws and stare at them intently. Bits of gravel and rose thorns stuck in between your them, those raw little things that have walked for what seemed like miles. You stroll along the sidewalk with your head down like the branches of some weeping willow, your eyes filled with crumbs of dirt, you’re still not sure what you’re looking for but you sure miss that little girl who’s hands always smelled like leaves after the rain, the one with hair that looked exactly like the noodles she fed you, the one who’s face you’d kiss until it would shine in the sun like the peach on the neighbors tree. Your nose drinks in the city and you try to churn and absorb those smells until you find your destination. The man in the trench coat and torn gloves scoops some canned beef and holds it in the palm of his hand for you to eat from,
“Here doggy, here ya go.”
Slobber drips down your mouth and you almost pick out whatever is left underneath his fingernails. You want more, your belly feels like its being thinned and wringed into some Norwegian fjord that gnaws and growls at your insides. A warm beam of fire coming from the trash can washes through your weary eyes but its orange arms were soon weakened by light rainfall.
You inhale the leather jacket of the man with the mohawk, the beer flowing down the sidewalk drain, the tacos the street vendor with the scar underneath his eye was selling, the overwhelming perfume on the fishnet wrapped legs of a woman, the smoke curling around the face of an infant. There is a hot dog wrapper in an alley and you press your pink nose against it to lick the remnants of the mustard.
“Mommy, he has to be around here somewhere.”
“Honey, we’ll look but we’ve called everywhere. No one has found him yet. Don’t worry, some girl just like you probably found him and he’s doing just fine.”
Your ears perk up and you see the little girl in a white satin church dress wrap her hands around your well fed waist. You see her tresses fall into your eyes and smell the lemons along the collar of her dress. That same scent passes through the alley in a paper thin kind of wisp. You look at your paw and beg for it to gather up the strength to function. Running on three legs you see the silhouette of the little girl in a balloon shaped dress holding her mother’s hand. They walk slowly down the streets with their backs towards you. Whimpering hopelessly you try to open your mouth to mumble those strange utterances you hear them communicate with. Then darkness overcomes your eyelids and the last thing you see are the ruffled lace socks and Mary Janes of a little girl. You wag your tail, huddle in between the corner of the alley and imitate the shape of the curl that hangs down the little girls head.
You feel your spine, that rugged canyon of bones poke from underneath your sagging skin. You lick your paws and stare at them intently. Bits of gravel and rose thorns stuck in between your them, those raw little things that have walked for what seemed like miles. You stroll along the sidewalk with your head down like the branches of some weeping willow, your eyes filled with crumbs of dirt, you’re still not sure what you’re looking for but you sure miss that little girl who’s hands always smelled like leaves after the rain, the one with hair that looked exactly like the noodles she fed you, the one who’s face you’d kiss until it would shine in the sun like the peach on the neighbors tree. Your nose drinks in the city and you try to churn and absorb those smells until you find your destination. The man in the trench coat and torn gloves scoops some canned beef and holds it in the palm of his hand for you to eat from,
“Here doggy, here ya go.”
Slobber drips down your mouth and you almost pick out whatever is left underneath his fingernails. You want more, your belly feels like its being thinned and wringed into some Norwegian fjord that gnaws and growls at your insides. A warm beam of fire coming from the trash can washes through your weary eyes but its orange arms were soon weakened by light rainfall.
You inhale the leather jacket of the man with the mohawk, the beer flowing down the sidewalk drain, the tacos the street vendor with the scar underneath his eye was selling, the overwhelming perfume on the fishnet wrapped legs of a woman, the smoke curling around the face of an infant. There is a hot dog wrapper in an alley and you press your pink nose against it to lick the remnants of the mustard.
“Mommy, he has to be around here somewhere.”
“Honey, we’ll look but we’ve called everywhere. No one has found him yet. Don’t worry, some girl just like you probably found him and he’s doing just fine.”
Your ears perk up and you see the little girl in a white satin church dress wrap her hands around your well fed waist. You see her tresses fall into your eyes and smell the lemons along the collar of her dress. That same scent passes through the alley in a paper thin kind of wisp. You look at your paw and beg for it to gather up the strength to function. Running on three legs you see the silhouette of the little girl in a balloon shaped dress holding her mother’s hand. They walk slowly down the streets with their backs towards you. Whimpering hopelessly you try to open your mouth to mumble those strange utterances you hear them communicate with. Then darkness overcomes your eyelids and the last thing you see are the ruffled lace socks and Mary Janes of a little girl. You wag your tail, huddle in between the corner of the alley and imitate the shape of the curl that hangs down the little girls head.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Meet Klaus also known as: Baby cats, Klaus Maus, Mr. Cat, Baby bottoms, Klaudius III, Professor Klaus, Mr. Baby, Tiny Toes…The list goes on.
My favorite song right now…=)
Out On The Weekend-Neil Young
Think I’ll pack it in
and buy a pick-up
Take it down to L.A.
Find a place to call my own
and try to fix up.
Start a brand new day.
The woman I’m thinking of,
she loved me all up
But I’m so down today
She’s so fine, she’s in my mind.
I hear her callin’.
See the lonely boy,
out on the weekend
Trying to make it pay.
Can’t relate to joy,
he tries to speak and
Can’t begin to say.
She got pictures on the wall,
they make me look up
From her big brass bed.
Now I’m running down the road
trying to stay up
Somewhere in her head.
The woman I’m thinking of,
she loved me all up
But I’m so down today
She’s so fine she’s in my mind.
I hear her callin’.
See the lonely boy,
out on the weekend
Trying to make it pay.
Can’t relate to joy,
he tries to speak and
Can’t begin to say.
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