I got my hair cut
Again
Yesterday
In a small salon the filthy streets of Philadelphia's Chinatown;
The golden eagle
Appropriately named as I always feel wings lift me when I leave
Though the streets are grey and black with dirt and grime,
The salon is clean, chic, and welcoming
First one young lady with limited English swept me up to be dropped into the care of a second who washed my hair and luxuriously massaged my scalp with exquisitely long nails
Then I was led over to a swivel chair to ponder my reflection and bat my legs as a little child, waiting on Kelly for my grown up haircut
At last Kelly was free, and she too whisked me over to her mirror
In her most exceptional care she cut and thinned and cut and razored and thinned and cut some more
Her fingers flew, running through my hair and seeming to drop pieces of hair by magic
At last she styled and stepped back nervously asking if I liked it
Quickly scrutinising it, running my fingertips over the much-shortened hair, I looked up
And grinned
I love it
The bangs barely long enough to brush my eyebrows
The back as short as a boys, bristling when I rub it the wrong way
The front long and soft enough for tousling but short enough to stay out of my way
If I envelope my head in my hands I can easily trace the contours of my scalp
As though a couple silk scarves were draped over a barren skull
I was told I look like Emma Watson or Audrey Hepburn or a boy
But I love this
They're both stunning women
And I don't mind shocking a few old ladies with the surprise that this "strong young man" is I'm fact a girl

i am seven and in your living room
with antiques & photographs
of family that are more like strangers
and handshakes at christmas
there is a jar of circus peanuts by the armchair
and i remember being told that these are here because they are never out of stock
and that they are the only things
children will not want to take from me
i still do not like the color orange.
i am eight and round the bannister
to an upstairs that reminds me
of heaven in that
place i can't go sort of way & i am
knuckle deep in your pumpkin pie
wiping it on my uncles suede jacket
our hands still shake but the jury is still out
on if he looks at me and napkins the same
i hope you do not sleep
with my apologies under your fingernails
i will not say them out loud
i know i should have mowed your lawn
i should have been a home
for second hand smoke
if i could go back i would be your ashtray
i remember the day you forgot who i was
i bound into the room and throw my arms
around you like an armistice
and you ask who i am
we are not in church
but everyone stops singing
i am passed from child to child
while we all laugh
but my lungs feel like
they've been mugged in an ally
who's son does he look like, mom?
my father says like gospel
you pull on your cigarette
sip from your watered down wine and shrug
and i am neck deep in forgetfulness
i imagine alzheimer's
as being born again every day
so, we will spend ages
looking at captions to photographs
telling your stories to strangers
as my father begins to forget
and when i imagine probate
an unfamiliar hand unfolding a will
to be read to wayward angels
i want to burn down the house
and sleep in the ashes

Come on
and let her ******* you,
I hope the acid burns
so then I can laugh,
                                                        she will never ******* like I do

They were down to less than a hundred
When they met on the battle front
That's when they beat their weapons back into plowshares
As each of them headed home

What it was that made the difference
Is they finally took the time
To really see the enemy
And themselves in each others eyes

All the peoples in the villages
Cheered their hero's back
Who brought with them sweet freedom
And in town center hung its flag

On the pole they wrote down the names
Of those who never would return
And all made a vow that day
That their lesson had been learned

please take me into the
forest, deep
with tall redwoods and let me feel the rocks like
swords under my callous feet.
where we can watch the sunset from
up above the tilting world, sitting on our thrones
made of Marlboro filters and sticks
on a mountain cliff.
we'd be cliffhangers
and thieves and vagabonds, painting ourselves
with the blue tinted night
like the deepest parts of
the
sea
far from the wandering grasp of
reality.
watch the stars with eyes like
flickering lightbulbs,
shining yellow in empty, echoing rooms.
bring along four bottles
of wine,
one for each of us.

we'll drink until theres wine slipping past our cheeks
like some kind of blood-orange sob,
leaking out our hollowed belly-buttons
rivers running swift through the lines of our
palms.
wounded from every pore with the blood of
our intoxication;
magenta tongue stained skin.

would you let me take your hand and lead you
through the empty, knocking dark
and sing to you in the soft moments of
before morning?
would you trust me enough to
close your eyes
and let me lead you in a bruised,
tumbling
drunken journey to the top of the
highest mountain?
we could lay in the summer blanketed wind
made of dancing sky and
burning earth.
close our eyes and stop the earthquake in
our minds,
wake up with the sunshine seeping through
every corner of our aching
bodies,
roses growing out of our jigsaw jaws and puzzle piece
crumbling ribs and lungs;
see through our sober fingers and
wandering eyes
a different world than it was at
midnight.

i feel

naked

but vulnerably so;

i don't want to let you in,
show you the deepest crevices of my soul
not for fear of embarrassment,

i'm just not going to let you break me in half
like that.

"leave before getting left,"

a motto for girls like me.
                                                             you don't know the frustration
                                                           when things don't go as planned.
stop saying
                  g
                    o
                      o
                        d
                          night.