Sunday, August 21, 2011

Sunday Morning

I want Sunday to start with a little "s", as if that way, I could trick the following day into not noticing it's turn in line. When did I begin to worry about tomorrow? When did I buy into Monday being a poor broker of time, the bastard child of an incomplete two-night stand, some sort of uptight nanny? I digress. Remembering to center around the self, rather than run headlong into the tragedy of self-centeredness, I find myself ever talking a big game and slipping behind smoke and mirrors with an "I know I'm gonna get caught" grin and a craving for a cookie. Or 12.
Sometimes I think it would be better to think before I speak, but mostly I am either exhaling the impetus in my chest or putting it on lockdown, ears burning - metaphorical fuming galore. Once in a while, there is a memory....of not being willing to suffer....a calmness, that reminds me no thing matters but this, now, and breathing.
I'm either pulling a Ghandi or stirring up sh*t. Balanced between the two is the little me that's at last unaware of my size. I betray her though, in writing....desperate to give longing a voice...melancholy a microphone.......desire a dance partner.
Three hours into Sunday - sunday - sun in Santa Monica in a canopy of fog...thinking about church and GOoD, how capitalization ruins everything, space.
If I've told one person about the insatiable whole of being, i've told a thousand. Trans-versing back and forth between Me and me and I and i and obviously, not yet having had a moment free.
Then there is you. YOU. How the silence between us is enough. How your quiet soothes me.
I never wanted to be in love. I wanted to be filled.
Who would've thought it was the emptying that mattered?

Monday, June 13, 2011

hair cut

tonight i got a hair cut because i can neither smoke nor nonchalantly toss back a shot of wild turkey nor drive off a bridge. i have no desire to harm myself...i simply like change. alteration. riots.

there is something so quiet about being simple. and the silence grates on me. makes all my inner poetry a beggar. makes all my hunger mad.
i try to be quiet. not to stir up the metaphorical pot of wanting that bangs like a thousand fists upon my psyche - demanding i spill my own gunk over into your lane - and YOU - driving so fucking fast - across these freeways called los angeles moments - that you have no time - no space - no listening - for my need.
you see, the want became a need in only 44 words. imagine a life. despair.

so we give up the trying.
trade it in for some real authentic no bars held love. the good stuff. we suffer having enough (finally) like a series of jesus's in drag...i know gayle.... you will understand this. (and mostly because of the girls who broke the rule.) i'm not sure all wisdom is earned. some of it just is. like an allergy. like a curse. like a gift.

the line that is the finest is always the one one is walking. i am at odds, forever, with my mouth. she speaks. she chews. she catches breath.

because my hair is parted, there are lovers leaving each other for the last time. the way the bangs fall means the loneliest man in the world has just been given a promise. crazy glue and broken hearts and gob-stoppers and electric eels and dinosaurs and magic erasers and the wilderness and yellow work. people say thank you. they ask "how are you" and wait for an answer. married couples remember why they fell in love.

had i curls, on the day you came to cut - it could've been different. you may have been a poet and i pencil or maybe there'd be two children laughing or i'd roll you a cigarette instead of going to therapy. and maybe you would have pop tarts in your car and for that reason alone, for you, i would take a bullet or give you my parking space or maybe i would learn how to sing.
but today the hair was straight so i just said "thank you so much" and when you drove away, I said a prayer for the girls who broke the rule.