Old rings grow great
But the circles are less perfect.

Have to squint
To make the shape
Stand Stout.

Purple on black-
Looks bright!
******* on ****;
High as a kite.

Some mornings
Stay stale
As old cheese in the fridge.

Stagnant.

No matter how hard I stare,
Or how much I squint,
I can’t make the blood
On palace walls
Look like liquorish.

I cant make the holes
In my shirt
Look like button holes...
Find the perfect partner-
My hand in hand;
To lead me across this ravished land.

To make it feel alright.
Like human means human.

Laying around
about the dorm room
Bored
Looking for quick
Stupid cash
We came upon a listing
My roommate and I
in the local paper
Artist models needed
No experience necessary
That was key

The guy on the phone was chirpy
He lived
Close by in Oakland
He gave us directions to where
He would pick the two of us up
We
Would take the bus
He would be in a station wagon
Beige

He met us sure enough
Old
Old as the ******* sea
Formal suit and tie
Maybe a hat
We drove back to the apartment
And entered
First my roommate
And then myself

A ****** yellowed set of rooms
Where we will be heading to the right
To the kitchen
I’ve noticed the battered ***** *****
Mattress
Also
To the right
Stains and an attached clamp lamp
A single stark bulb

We were greeted by an even chirpier young lady
She was like a baby Joan Jett
All rocker black and leather
Sleek hair slicked back
She seemed somehow to like
really really old men

She took over and reached
for the plastic folder
She handed it to us
“You need to look at this before we go on
This is what we do”

Obediently, we cracked it open
and peered inside
Bent over we studied
Sticky plastic pages
Of brightly faced girls
Page
After
Page
Smiling with awkward innocence
No bright eyes nor youthful effanescance
No desire
Nothing wet
Except their palms with thoughts of escape
And 100 dollars

I only remember the girls whose makeup faded around the neck to betray
the true color of their flesh
Not flushed at all with sticky expectation
They left no impression in their nakedness
Ghosts
Shades
They should have been in class or doing something else

But our Joan!
Joan was a star.
Her photos were full of sass and delight
She was more than happy
to show you her ******
Over and over and over
She said
Actually
it’s a club
The guys pay a monthly fee
And they come here and shoot
In the apartment or maybe outside
They cannot touch.
There is no *******.
Mostly they shoot
Me.

Alone.
A Pixie Star.
This was were that old man’s money was.

I don’t remember what she told us
What she used to do before
this had to be a moment
A rather short moment
She would move along because
This kink was overstuffed with
impotence
and ineptitude.
Kink that might be easier to deal
With
On a properly lit stage
Or a quiet motel room with the shades drawn
Cash up front.

But for now
She was the enterprise.
And what would he do without her?
We three giggled and guffawed
in the little kitchenette.
We weren’t game for the arrangement.
She knew that.
But she liked to talk.
Men like that are pathetic.

Seriously why would we do this?
All those faces in the book!
Four on a page
Excitedly, we thought that we recognized
One or two
I know her!
Look I know her! I’ve seen her
in the Poli-Sci Building!
I’m sure we did not know any of them.

The mattress.
I could not fathom what happened on that thing.
I don’t want to know.
I had to look the other way as we left.
Did he perform
Abortions?
With hangers and kitchenware
Can ******* be that messy?
Just opening your legs?

We said goodbye to her!
She was wonderful.
She would sparkle forever.
Joan Jett!
Piling back into this hoarder’s
station wagon amongst
the musty boxes and newspapers
strewn all over the backseat with us
He drove
to the bus stop
A waste of his time
Disgruntled
Failure

He asked
How should this ad read
so that
this doesn’t happen again?
We offered no suggestions.
It had been fun
However idiotic.
I don’t remember
how long it was that
we kept our bus trip
secret.

my black nail polish is slowly chipping
and this is the one time i don’t have anything
to say to anyone sitting around me.
it’s a strange contrast between the slowly building loneliness
i feel, and all my friends celebrating,
and all the families eating ice cream and laughing around me.
i see the reflection of you laughing in a handheld mirror they sell
at fentons that says “vote myrtle”
the ice cream that’s in front of you is melting faster and faster.
it’s a sweet and sticky and perfect mess but i need to clean this up,
but the napkins are out of sight and out of reach.
i’m older now and i realize that ice cream isn’t really considered dinner, but i am my own home and this is what i want
you know we could never have played house, no matter how much
we dreamed of each other in the beginning.
i know now that happiness costs more than the price
of a shared cookie connection sundae at night with you.
and i know now that maybe there are more things in the world
that can make me happy besides you
but i just can’t help but feel a little bit alone as
i struggle with half-fulfilled fantasies i still have about you
as i’m running alone to my car parked somewhere on piedmont ave
in the dead of winter (albeit oakland winter so it’s 60 degrees)
i don’t want to believe we were just built to fall apart,
but i know i’m smarter to believe that we could’ve last.

to the brilliant minds of the warehouse
who embraced all oddities
in painted nails and tattoos,
whose hands worked wonders
and made masterpieces,
who loved the world
and spoke up
in technicolor and loud sounds...

you will always blaze brighter
than the fires that took you

When the city speaks in whispers
over the shouting of animals
and ca-cawing of birds
I trace the lines of your face
against the case of my pillow
wondering again why things have taken so long

While life is so short
one quick gulp of the fantasy
now to rest in fluidity too shallow to tread
So I think of you often
and I forget you even more
not for memory because we're timeless
but for my own idea of the calendar

It's based on howls and ghosts
on improperly relaying messages
and what I truly loved most
And what kind of test this is
and incorrectly translating
endless lists of wistfulness

What kind of test is this?