Touching weathered red letters.
The perfume is still there
and it brings back the scent of the room
and Texas.
I stole the letters back.
I wish you still had them.
I wish you were still here.
I was prepared for you.
The words come out like a bad habit.
You nod and listen,
but you don't hear me.
The twisted, curvy, dark roads
leading to your house
that scare me.
I get chills every time.
Your voice for hours a day.
You are bizarre and twisted.
I had to hear everything from someone else.
Reason said it was there.
I denied.
You are still so beautiful,
those naked blue eyes.
Breathe with me.
I can't love any harder than I am.
There is nothing left.
Leave me already.
I am crying all the time now.
I am choking.
It's pulling up from my gut,
but nothing comes out,
and I scream in silence
on those dark curvy roads.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 8:46 PM UTC
Inside two hundred acres of unused land,
I’ve walked a mile out from the buildings
through rivers of leaves that don’t flow
on a muddy unused path
built for training when this was a military school
and a working farm.
Up to the ford;
the way the stream sings
this morning
I could sleep in the curl
of its voice.
Fresh light bounces on the water
like a million sparkling stars.
A ****** is setting up her spring house
one fallen piece of tree at a time.
She is all alone
swimming out to the bank
back to the dam, branch in mouth,
twigs crack as they are pushed together.
Mixing fog sifts through.
Humble rapids
rock over time-rounded stones.
The warmth.
Old water mill with an unmoving wheel.
The door never had a lock.
Upstairs to bowing wooden boards
that shake when I step.
Currents of the woods rustling, and soft wind.
The sounds make music.
I sit down
to breathe and be still.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 6:32 PM UTC
The clouds roll and tear the sky.
Flashes of light
August on the highway
hot weather heat
Thump and thunder.
Under a construction hat, pour of sweat.
The jackhammer in concrete
cement spits
humidity so thick it mists.
The crew starts after sunset
no flag person on site
steamroller melting road up ahead.
A passenger says careful now
it’s coming up
dogleg
bump in the road
makes them sway.
A cloudburst, deluge
instant blindness
through orange cones
crash landing.
Thump and hit ground.
Back turned, hit from behind.
Pounding on pavement
shower of glass
August on the highway
running in rain
knees and elbows bruised
hard hat and head
cracked.
Grabble and thump and hit ground.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 11:29 PM UTC
Night hiking through the last of the giant fields
Deserted farm land in between brand new townhouse complexes
Your new found Australian shepherd is herding us
Charging ahead and circling back to make sure we’re coming
The grass is up to our waists
We’re walking to walk
making daisy chains
testing butter cups under our chins,
******* honeysuckle
lightning bugs flicker
The twilight moon is already high in the sky
Our breath is white -
It’s just a bit too cold out
We smoke and talk and shiver
I keep looking at my watch and can’t concentrate
I start to wish I was home cuddled under blankets bingeing on junk food watching tv.
It’s been a bit too long with you today
After we walk home and you leave, then I miss you
Moonlight.
Finally – sleep.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
We’re day frolicking on the east meadow.
Shadows of sunlight push through the redwood
and play on your jagged chin.
Your eyes are dancing tunnels.
You like me because I can see through
to the opening on the other side.
When was the last time I saw a butterfly?
Oh, the print on the white velvet bell bottoms
in a boutique on the street
with all the homeless kids on the sidewalk
who harass me for cigarettes
next to the city garden where your father has
worked for forty years as a gardener.
You did not get your chin from him.
Your tongue speaks sugar water,
I’ve swallowed every story from the time you can remember.
Your faded grey glasses fall too low on your nose.
You look much better without them.
You look much better in bed.
These bad dreams I’ve been having that
we will not be us.
We will only run parallel and not cross
the intersection of compromise.
They are not small sacrifices.
My grandmother told me I had to marry for love and like and
now I know what she meant.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 5:20 PM UTC
A moth flies in through the screen
My cat decides to be mean
She chases it around
Knocks it to the ground
And eats it for the protein.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 5:12 PM UTC
Trudging in knee high mid-winter wet,
silent sidewalks.
Sun glows high
reflecting off the white making it hard to see.
Cars are buried,
slush is starting to form, as morning moves.
What a harsh day to choose celebration.
Wedding party huddled on steps,
dark cherry wood looks rusted.
Brass bells on the side of the steeple
are cracked and corroded.
One cross looms above the building.
Stained glass whispers.
Bellowing voices of broken down men,
every bar stool is taken.
A different kind of worship.
Spiked hot chocolate and then a nap.
Newspapers in the side stand are ruined,
green awnings are still pulled in,
the produce isn’t out today.
The world has forgotten itself.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
Everyone at the gym is a slasher,”
I explain,
“actress/writer/actually works the front desk full time.”
Wyatt tells me he goes to the gym to hook up with guys in the sauna.
“Yeah, I always see you boys in the see through showers
that face the front desk.
I get all hot on my shift and have to go home alone.”
“Well, you know how us guys are,”
says Wyatt,
“Why are you laughing?”
“Because it’s true.”
He gives me his number.
“We should hang out.”
“I don’t know what to do,”
says Wyatt.
“Betty Blue at The Egyptian maybe?
Maybe the shooting range in Burbank?
I want a drink.”
“So drink,” I say.
“All I need is a forty and a sack.
Why are you laughing?”
asks Wyatt.
“Wouldn’t even have to go out.”
“Hey Wyatt, thanks for callin’ all the time.
I want to do something,
but I only have seven dollars.
I tried to go dancing with my friend last night,
Made it all the way to the club,
but didn’t have the cover and had to go home.
I’m bored and tired and it’s hot.”
Wyatt reminds me, “I have my copy of Women for you to borrow.
Chianti and spaghetti at my apartment for dinner?”
“Sounds great,” I say.
“Let’s get the five dollar bottle with the straw holder,” he says.
“Maybe we can splurge on garlic bread.
You know, my roommate is fifty and broke.
I hear him crying every day.
He still tries to get money from his mother.”
“I’m broke,”
Wyatt tells me.
“I have my cds at a pawn shop.
I may have to skip town. I have some trouble.”
“These things happen,” I tell him.
“Call me once in a while.
Let me know how you’re doing.”
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 4:59 PM UTC
Let me out of here.
Let me out of this.
Stop, stop.
I need to rest. Regroup.
Let me out of here.
Stop - I need a breath.
Stop - this isn't happening,
but it is,
oh god,
let me out of this.
Stop, stop.
I can't. I must.
Let me out of here.
Let me out of this.
I can't do it.
I can't go through it.
I have no choice.
I have to emerge on the other side.
Let me out.
I want out.
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 10:07 PM UTC