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Boom Trigger Lady

Her favorite name for candy was Starburst.

Her favorite name for a recycling company that she had recently taken notice of was Cloudburst.

These expulsions. They could almost bring her to her knees. Drive away the demons. These slightest of suggestions.

Those were the days where everything had meaning. Lights turning green were indicative. If a dog barked twice. For a tangerine peel to come off, maintained in one connected piece without coming undone beneath her fingers. If the penny tossed while feeding the meter turned up on tails. Everything told something.

Everyday she wore items that fit the same description. Khaki shorts, tie died shirt of some sort, gauzy white scarf. A purposeful precaution should she turn up missing, she’d be easy to describe. Her fears over-arching, ever present. That head of hers; full of responsibility. Filled with thoughts in shapes of slippery cold poles so hard to hold with a brain like greased palms. Thin veil between psychedelic induced psychosis and one perhaps slipped into her drink. So suspicious. She could be found on the beach, laying in a tangle, trying to distinguish between which kind.

Luckily there were the calming elements. It could be sourced from a passing truck with the simplest of messages. Or the cold awake wide open feel of ocean. Ocean. Ocean. It’s own sentence. Paragraph. Novel. Her biggest self. It tousled and it soothed. And snails. How she loved them. The time they took. The swirl continuum. The iridescent remnants. Did they have a destination, or did they just go for it? A model, indeed. Be more like the snail- she would breathe this into the bottom of her belly. Someone had to own the mantra. Be more like the snail. Time is on my side. Even if this was said in rushed fashion it provided a balloon’s weight of worth off her back. She had these things. Palms unneeded. It could be nice.

This woman was the first person to be recognizable in containing a purposeful aimlessness. What an achievement. Her town’s people thought she a gentle kook. All weary smiles. She knew they knew of the springboard that lay within. Of this she was sure. Unhingable at any moment sans notice.
But what are their skeletons? She wondered often.
A good question, though not everyone’s dance like hers.

A doe-eyed doctor once told her to give up the sauce. She had taken to drinking spirits because of the name implication. The potentiality of unknown company. Another soother. Absinthe was a no-go, of course. Too close. Too witchy. She knew the limits. But challenge herself she did, and lessen her mania she had, when it came to cutting back on such a vice. Good job good job, said the voices from her sidelines, despite her bag being no stranger to a buttery cognac. Remy Martin just sounded like such a protector.

The sound of things. Eyes being the first line of defense, only once approved would her mouth take it on.  No sense in tempting fate.
Explosions always on the horizon, lest they be unuttered and ignored.
Only a sunburst could make way.

bernal

Tell for Today

I like the stories that tell of cotton trees. With free balloons’ held temporarily in branches. Where a kid cries below because their favorite yellow floated off too far. Where the breeze smells like a feeling. And feelings trigger childhood memories and swampy geese that push through thick algae, and fat locusts that blindly buzz. Where little boys did unspeakable things to lightening bugs and little girls protested. Where the lightening bugs were a plenty. Where lightening bugs called in the dusk. Where the dusk was met by the tippiest-tips of the willow trees, tickling the new-now shade sky.

I like the stories where strangers stand pigeon toed, unaware of spectators. Where their petticoats carry a mystery-feather from someone else’s journey. Where their shoes aren’t as shiny as they imagined them to be. Where they are perfectly imperfect. Where they can be used as innocent templates to ad-lib, never knowing their role in a passerbye’s made-up-tale.

The stories where markers squeak across train cars windows and lovers names are written up and crossed out with dizzying repetition, and for-a-good-times’ are scrolled liberally. Where teens smoke angel dust between the cabooses and get hyped on the Beasties. Get hyped on tunnel wonderment. Get hyped on honeys’ hi-tops.

I like stories where people make metaphors out of toast, or the common area, time travel, violins, or maybe the color grey. Stories full of description dripping. The ones bordering tangibility. Where the writer held nothing back. Where transparency is the best; the only choice.

The stories where I am surprise-kissed in the rain, in the middle of some city park while we casually walk through.

The stories that spark late night scramble drawings. Where palms get inky and paper, promised to words. Tattooed to its’ truth.

Can I ask for your allness? Is too soon such a thing? If I died tomorrow it would be a shame. So speak please, like wild horses. Free. Like a passing condor. With white magic. Not like a stegosaurus. No. Don’t be too late.

It was one of those break ups that leaves you a bag of bones. An empty vessel of a person, where all you get to be is mash up of organs working lethargically & only because they have to, long & stretched paled skin, sad mush brain, empty tired eyes, charred flaccid  heart… The kind of sadness remediable by one thing and one thing only. One golden word: vacation.

So, Mexico, eh? $400 some odd bucks to get myself from the dreary rainy season that wrapped itself with prodding, icy fingers around and throughout the town that my ex and I shared that felt frighteningly small? Oh God- yes, please.

So a plane. And then some wayward nights spent in a few different places. Increasing fun. Throw in some new travel friends. Sprinkle some hitchhiking adventures in. Put me on a beach with my home girl in the middle of a stashy surf hub, full of sun-kissed surfer-boy babes and feed me a couple of drinks and you got yourself a real good story on ze boiler.

caracol

I shook my ass. I let my hair down. Real Julia Roberts kinda stuff. I was holding that. If I had to wear a neon sign reflecting my mind-heart-soul state- surely it would have flicker-buzzed that tricky, multi layered word: Healing. And with the all-too-common recklessness that accompanies a proper heartbreak, I got mine.

And I met Ernesto. His tall shadow across the sand taking over my memory. His flash of black curls. Big, knowing hands. Sexy swagger. Of calculated movement. Eyes open. He had game & was connected. He was street. He was bad. So good bad. He was in a gang… I did not realize what this meant. Either way he was very yummy. I liked him, though I was on vacation- don’t forget. So naturally I dispersed my time in many different ways…

And so Ben. Another local. A lone-wolf surfer. Compact body carved by the ocean. A total romantic. Dark & deep… In a rival gang. Who knew? And I thought he yummy too.

And so haay rebound. And so you go girl n’ shit. Allathat. And ride that wave until it crashes & lord watch for the shore.

My time with Ben turned out to be probably just four intense days together before he was convinced that he was in a painful kind of love with me, which I found quickly terrifying. He went off the deep end when I cut him off, the little bit of what we had. I’m not qualified to diagnose, but still maintain that homie was certifiably crazy, & I pity the woman who may very well be stuck with him somehow at this point of life. Needless to say I spent long days after avoiding him, which was no easy task, as there were only a handful of places where the nightlife action was. I just wasn’t ready to leave.

Truth of the matter is that either of the hes’ are not what or whom I think of when I think of the week & change spent in this spot. This little beach town- a town that healed me, gave me love, restored my spine, provided amazing times, helped me develop a shining (over) appreciation for tequila… I think not of that so much. I think of one night where the boomerang effect hit me smack in the face.

zapateca

It was another night music & friends & Ernesto. Another night of avoiding poor Ben. Another night with the perfect salty air enveloping me and putting me in tropical trance… The way that breeze skimmed across my skin… I found myself on a rooftop bar where people were dancing & drinking. This is where memory & accuracy begin to get muddy. I remember free flowing, generous mezcal shots. I remember feeling annoyed that I had to keep running away from someone who wanted to work out nothing workable. I remember needing a cigarette & asking some local guy if I could have one. I thoughtlessly asked him for one in Spanish but instead of responding to me saying a simple yes or no, he chose the unscripted option of inquiring aggressively in English about where I was from. When I responded, slightly taken aback- about being from the states, he got up in my face, pointing his stranger hand right up in to my nose, to say the following: “You are from the United States and you are asking ME for a cigarette?!” And then, whilst furiously shaking: “FUCK YOUUU. FUCK YOUUUUU.” And on and on and on, with this weird stupid finger in my face, fuck youing me to pieces, backing me up until I was smashed up against the side of the building, with his terrible, angry, misdirected, spittle-maker-face against mine. And I blacked out. And did I hit him? Push? Did he push me? I’m not sure because don’t give me tequila & yell at me for your hang ups. Next thing I know, I’m in the middle of the floor but getting pulled back by two or Ernesto’s boys, while others from his crew swoop in on this guy and remorselessly remove him from my sight, pushing him down the stairs, taking him out the building, far out of my sight or anything I would ever know more of.

I remember yelling because I was shocked & drunk. Yelling because I was bugged out & confused. Yelling yelling yelling in English because I’m more used to speaking English now. Who knows what was conveyed, & I was being held back by these guys, & then there is sad, crazy head Ben with his boys, in my face- from where anyway? And now would there be a rumble? Ben- telling me to calm down and trying to hug me & drunk drunk drunk me, no memory.

I know I ran. I ran I ran I did not stop until I had to because I contained breath no more. I had run to the beach, ignoring peoples warnings against going alone to at night for various unheard, far-from-convenience-reasons, but reckless & still somewhat broken, I did not care. I needed ocean solace. I ran onto the sand & I melted. I cried cried cried cried. For more than that night or the moments of shit roof. I cried out of frustration for Ben; cried for loss of my boyfriend & how the fracture was my irreparable fault; cried for fear of/for that merciless seeming roof guy who was so angry at me who was nobody to him, & how much bitterness one must carry to hate strangers. Plump drunk dehydrating tears, bent over, standing in a loosey goosey forward fold, until I felt a sudden excruciating pain grip my legs & run up the length of my body faster than lightening. Tsunami faster. I felt like I was dry brush on fire, the flames licking me, twist biting at my skin- everything terrible. Fire ants. I had chosen my melt down spot to be perfectly situated atop a hill of fire ants. Hysterical now, in retrospect. Just perfect. But holy did they hurt so unbelievably bad. With out thought or alternative I found myself bolting-same-time-stripping soon-to-be-diving into black night ocean.

By morning the bites no longer bothered me. At least my memory does not hold that. I don’t even remember how I saw Ernesto, but I know that when I did see him, did ask him about what happened to the man from the roof, his eyes serious & fast- told me never to ask about him again. Impenetrable. I remember feeling Latino 90210 town on steroids. Tired. Drama lama ding dong.

I was done. Full. I’d had enough. My heart had been restored. I’d filled in the gaps between my vitals. The blood coursing through me- purified a la beach mode, despite the maybe murder… Ready to go home.

viva mexico

Haiku Break Part 4

Crazy West coasters,

Putting Ranch on everything-

Shaming your pizzas.

 

Filled to the brim, I’m

fit and tied to team over

with proper fodder.

 

When the petals fall

on my head and in my hair,

that’s where I want them.

 

Is there a better

marriage of words than FUCKING

LOVELY? I think not.

 

party car(ty)

 

We must reclaim the

word constipation. Has

untapped potential.

 

Riding my bike brings

peace to all the right places.

What a love machine.

 

Sometimes you got it,

sometimes you don’t, but don’t fret.

Can’t all be like me.

 

Talk to me only

in minor chords. Sullen speak

goes right to my core.

 

There are no boxes

that can contain me. I’m an

irregular piece.

 

neca

 

They need a contract

making antiperspirant

mandated at gyms.

 

Somnambulant is

my new vocabulary

word. I woke up with it.

 

Just wait, icicle

Don’t pierce my heart before

I melt my own way.

 

You’re not a true friend

If I look in the mirror

to find spinach tooth.

 

Pavlovian proof-

I hunger at sitar sounds

for good Tandori.

 

One day I’ll travel

the world in the name of sweet

poetry. Just wait.

 

When it rains it pours

and your still my favorite

puddle to jump in.

Whiskey Tourette’s

I want to choke on my own words. Wavering and stuttering: not an option.
I want the full. The full frontal. The wham-bam.
I want crash course.

Come to me, speak to me, remind me of my contents. The fierce part.
And my sacred ability to express my scars, and wonder-wander constellations of light year stars, byproducts of being too-late too-long at bars, slow-blinker-for-ever-shit-drivers in cars…
I’ll take it.
Drunk ramblings.

Distracted in the door jam, I am. Waiting for the some revival jolt.
So kick my legs out and have me begging for a way to say what  my mouth hasn’t known yet.

A person can walk around feeling freed of emotions like shaker salt peppering them out liberally, honestly. You can even spread your feeble gosple, no? But it turns out that determination can’t be told between apples and oranges with out a palpable type result. Just when you thought the truth was self evident. Damn it, George.

Tell me how can you speak so frivolously about your heart mind? How can your cards show like that? Like low low low.
Was I taught to hide? There’s so much work to do. To mend oration. And delight in bent diction.
My words they tumbled but sang dust-wind as they did so, and it seems that’s all was heard, and now I understand the song well better.
Laugh; be mad; be merry.

Be alivest!
Turn lights on, convulse, define.

Daytime mimicry moderation
and
faux sun.
Pale. Silly, bright you. Glow on.
Shine fully for so I don’t slip banana-peel-optimism, sweet-tooth-cheer, cavity, crack me with your smile. I’ll take it all. Reverse purge.
Curses, blessings, mundane prayer power.–
The calmest mind gets to rest and you know that’s not why I am here.

pud

At the mention of pelvic floor to any woman, an instantaneous muscular response ensues.
The hint of simple nod towards a kegle creates a domino effect in us ladies more contagious than a yawn. ((It’s happening right now ladies, isn’t it?))

And so, as such, I glide my coffee, straight backed, unshakable thighs,  tight pantied- to my haven table amidst the oceans of tantalizing print literature and calling, glowing screens a sparse cafe does hold on a rainy day.

My potion, viscus, flirting just above the brim- my tool to groundation and focus. A cheap, less monitored effect than Adderall or common prescribed pill-tools over my dawdling head. One can hope. The barista gifted me with a frothy heart atop my hot palmed mug, much like my own sometimes, all afloat and warm with a penchant for the grand spill. Oh coffee, why mimic me so?

A power outage led me here today. With a swift flicker, the glow of my alarm clock- a decisive two to three electric attempts at resurgence- the whole house- as if to settle all at once with some hefty exhale- gave up it’s connection to contemporary lifestyle and customs it thoughtlessly holds. And I- up with bright grey sky hinting- arose to a more simple portalistic time. Way backish.

My thoughts went to oil-lamps. My thoughts to sweater layering. My thoughts to non-perishables. My thoughts to generating internal warmth in the loved/hated yogic chair pose. My thoughts to what if this is it and our reliance upon modernity now severed, and be damned with the freezer goods, and the ability to operate appliances like an emergency drill, or entertain myself with my nil-discussed-distracting online video shorts addiction. My thoughts to I must be more prepared for the Big Shut Off. Big Cut Off. Water supply extra and perhaps time to start canning. Not really canning, but some sort of Oregon Trail-y preparatory shit.
My thoughts to common baby light my fire. Or really more that- I could or should light a fire, but when is life not fit for a surprise song?

Back to the big Turn Off. Whilst I sip at my warm, opaque choice.  The northeastern half of the city sits in the dark and still in Little House on the Prairie mode and I wonder, as I should: what if. If when. Cowboy coffee is easy enough, but basic power is past me. I can’t coerce a bulb to brighten even though I am so so very beautiful. My own craft, how I make my bread and pay my bills- beyond limited, considering my heavy reliance upon today’s conveniences. I am ever/ we are ever~ just. so. acclimated. In time we would find our way back to elementals, but until then… amazing adaption and  tremendous tyranny.

Crossing town had it’s own absent-minded loveliness to it. The stop lights being out, forcing people to work together. Zippering. My turn your turn my turn your turn. And on so.
Despite the rare sense of cooperation, the act of the 3-D shadow of dead incandescence all but lingered upon us, overarching, with a menacing feeling. Blackened, hanging stoplights. Firelights void of heat. Red yellow green colorless, sucked dry. Swaying lifeless like rot fruit bewitched to the vine. Soulless. Burnt out and in. Nothing left to keep those lights alive passed a rewiring if possible, or our brilliant, once upon a time, memories. “When I was young, child, we had great lights that hung above the streets and told us what to do. It was beautiful. Especially the rain part, child. Especially the rain”.

What might it be like, imagining we were prepared for it. Imagining the Big Shift did happen. What would it be like? No more voltage. Sleep you electrons, so little. You’ve done so good. Thank you thank you.
Now what? Our city’s minds, our ways; back to scratch. And then? What now? My thoughts? Time to prep. A resurgence of survival skill knowledge. Time to tighten up.

dark

Two R’s

Popular vote favors math due to it’s predictability.

However, not all maths be linear. Take for example, the addition of ether with words. There is no probability. Subtract what you thought was a solid prime. What have you?

I am reluctant to call myself a writer, because the amount of writing I have produced over the last two months, since your switch from a positive to a negative, has been a big, fat, zero. Two entire months shadowed in you.

You were your own, and there was just one of you- even if your magnitude might be confusing. Sometimes you would split into more when you swallowed a certain elixir that wasn’t very magical, though in your final act it did make you disappear.

I had thought of adding to you. When you’d ask me to be your Valentine. When you would invite me to Little Africa. Or Christmas. Or cave with private, tailored confessions. I’d thought of our equation. But ultimately I feared our factoring, as I had already been in that class before.

From the beginning moment that I saw you at the hospital, two months ago, my two eyes on your half-way-there-self, I began concocting deals with the spirit world, crunching numbers, flinging promises at the heavens, summoning spells. Anything to keep you whole.

The look upon your limbo lips. You lay and you tremored. When I talked softly to you and told you secrets, and you moved your left hand- coma be damned- and we all saw. You were amidst. I did not believe you could actually be gone.

And since that day, my brain- most affected by your absence- has been coated in memory and remorse. Something is stuck to the back of my head, thus far preventing me from proceeding. Cigarette tar to lungs. I want unstuck and I still want you. Here. Now. I hope you know I would have stayed longer. And if you lived and you had a long recovery I would have stayed by your side and celebrated your health when it returned…

Amazing how the act of your omission- can disrupt my whole whole.  My entirety at times. Upon my wake. My sleep. Throughout my day. This heavy heart.

All you did is go away. But you were a constant and I didn’t believe you would die before obtaining higher numbers.

IMG_6375

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