They came to me for no particular reason

I held them cause I thought it was the season

You can't push the greats

the greats they simply pull their weight

I thought it might be my time to be that way

Im here and that is not even here nor there

I followed cause some where I lose that silly fear

You can make you way 

But that... ways not safe from change

Life will follow you but you soon wont run away

I left it lying some where in the grass of blue

All the stillness and wishing I someday knew

You can say and say

But doing never comes that way

Life is flying by so grab it by the precious main 

Popping Bubbles.

I am gaining a new understanding of life. And it is a shocking realization.

I am not safe.

We are told that "it could happen to us".

But I think that is wrong.

It WILL happen to us. Something. Tragedy. Heartache. Death.

This is not some stanza of glooming poetry.

It is a guarantee. 

I have watched these past two years punch me harder with each blow.

I fight back like a refrained child throwing a tantrum. Powerless.

I scream. I am ignored. 

Even the ones who are meant to protect me have exited stage right.

I stand lone, venerable to the audiences persecution.

No standing ovation tonight. 

No flowers in the dressing room.

This is not my demise. This is not my surrender.

I am now numbly stating facts according to my vision.

If the bubble I believed in ever existed...

It is now safe to say it popped.

Empathy

To spot a stranger from far away.

Not knowing their name or their story.

Never having even heard their voice.

You run to them. 

Simply by the look in their eye.

Feeling the loneliness they seep.

So much so that your own eyes tear

At just a sight of their far away stare.

You embrace.

For a moment, to each other you were strangers.

Now to each other you are 

Everything.

Dear Bits and Peaces,

How unexpected. Finding you here. Seeing you here. So completely in my reach. 

I kinda didn't need you, and thats what made it nice. 

Bungalow, blow and blow.

Find us under here. 

Where we talk too much about things we shouldn't know.

Blow Bungalow Blow.

In the Park

I wade quietly through the sun and the green.

In a wounded nest of mountains. 

Browned from fires, holding only the strong and loneliest trees.

Standing embarrassed of the space around them.

I want to hold their leafy hands.

Tucked away from my noisy concrete world.

I secretly indulge myself.

In time. 

Drinking it up selfishly as though no one else will miss it.  

I inhale now. 

So deep it hurts and with the exhale...

My weapons disarm. 

I am the soft underneath.

Belly up and vulnerable.

Exoskeleton cracked and torn away by eager fingers.

Be tender with me now.

As I am guilty from ever having complained.

Life is beautiful in my nest. 

I find comfort somewhere

Unexpectedly and too sleepy for searching.

My Box of Sunsets

 I watch the sun drip away behind the Hollywood Hills as I lie on the floor, alone again in my studio apartment. We are exposed. My apartment and I. The huge window bathes the tiny room, every inch in sunlight. The lights of houses twinkle through the foothills and as I contemplate the people who occupy those homes, I can't help but feel isolated. Starting over is bittersweet. The sky fades from blue to orange, my room darkens and my dog begins to snore. Safe inside my little box I watch the city play its rush hour dance through the glass of my window. Once again watching Hollywood through a box. But somehow the magic of television could never capture what I feel tonight. 

Like a tiny bird, I sit in an open cage. There was a time not so long ago when I believed the hardest part would be the breach of my little brass door, but now that it has flung wide with illustrious vigor, and my dreams lie so close that I see them in great detail, it is my awe that cripples me. And as the last bit of paint drains from my skyline, I wonder what colors I will bring to this place and if there is room for what I can offer. If somewhere in this city of rich and poor, young and old, business suits and dreaded locks, the artist and the homeless, one little bird can leave a stoke of color no one has ever seen before. 

Jumping is hard when you know you will fall and that no other option is probable. But it is not quite enough to avoid impending doom and be content with knowing I have the option to obtain the life I want. But in reality I am not at all sure about the life that I want. Not the details, not even the big picture. The unexpected moments that make me smile when I think of them years later. That's what I want. Great moments. Ones that manage to drastically change everything that I thought I knew about life. I don't want that to ever stop happening. 

Now the night washes over my view, live music and weekend voices come to me uninvited. The moon is full tonight and perhaps explains my mood. I think things that have been thought a million times by many people. I write words that have already been written, but tonight they are all my own. I am finding a big difference in knowing something and feeling it for the first time. I look forward to more firsts. And also more nights watching the sunset in this wonderful little box I call home

My Hero

 

                                                     If you don't know. You should.

Help sounds good at night time, Denial good for morn.

The words are hard to come by. 

What has happened is still so raw.

The abused abuse, I knew this.

But my charity glass was tall.

You sucked the good straight from me.

My veins left floppy and black.

You desperate, searching, loveless.

Good sense is all you lack.

When help is there and willing

You spat upon its face.

Angry seeping from your mouth,

Who let you out of your cage?

Your stories all make sense,

Though I guess they did before.

As soon as normalcy creeps in,

You shut your backwards door.

I had no pity to ring out,

Though you squeezed with all your might.

I offered love, and change and health.

Though you really had no right.

The worse part is you stole from him,

His generosity.

And flipped the tales all around,

Thanks for including me.

I had to give one breathless laugh,

Because I know its not our fault.

But how we tangled in your web,

Is locked up in my vault.

Sleep won't come. Hope your prepared,

You missed your baby's day.

Installing same ol' traditions,

You swore had gone away.

We knew before, they told me so.

I had to prove them right.

I felt I was out of the dark,

You saved it for one night.

But that's ok. I'll be just fine.

I'll write you off as past.

But you will continue on.

Until your left alone at last.

The Sweetest Thing.

The reason I love my day.

Guilty to title her work.

Dog Food.

I'm quiet today. In spirit. In mind. Only slightly lonely. Less than inspired. More than idle. Slowly stirring. Like clouds before a storm. Not angry, but full. Plump for a harvest of rain. 

So few know me. If any. The way I am when I am alone. Searching. Always. Thinking for hours of strangers and their lives. No reasoning. Just stories. How they pertain to me. And they always do. For I am the creator. No word is separate from me.

I wish for just one day to have the words of a stranger. To think in complete opposites. My repetitive vocabulary and familiar life philosophies. I feel like a dog. Same breakfast everyday. Someone throw me some left overs! To pick your brain would be delicious. 

I hate you and I love you.

Emotional puke. 

Come up already.

Stop boiling from inside out. 

Shaky veins.

We are not the same.

Though I've told you different.

Sleep won't call.

I can't stop the draw.

It's moving on with out me.

Back pedaling.

As you all race forward.

Quit, or I'm coming to get you.

Stale smoke. 

You plot to choke.

And I'm sleepy in the morn.

I know I have

What you all want.

Why don't you just come get it?

The trek to you

Is fucked and new.

I hate you and I love you.

"You on Coke? ", "Nope, I just had a good summer."

Forth of July.

From my Hollywood roof top we watched fireworks from Dodgers stadium, the Staple Center, and Santa Monica beach light of the sky around us. My closest friends and I dodged illegal fireworks being set off by small mexican children whose mother was somewhere else completely. 

Fear of being set on fire while on rooftop. Kind of fun. 

We gulped cheap beer and made toasts to being in the City of Angels. 

Completing the first set of goals, and letting out a brief sigh of release before we battle the next.

Refreshed.

Later in the car we blair the Counting Crows and know every word. We smoke varied brands of cigarettes as we drive down to Venice beach. 

We arrive just as all the crowd is leaving. That's the way we like it. We pretend we are a troup of charming assassins, or maybe just a cool band. We climb down steep rocks to a cove we spy. The waves creeping further up each lap. Girls in short skirts, only one hand void of cigarette, shimmy down the boulders and complain of having to pee. The boys stay slightly behind, perhaps for protection, probably for the view. 

We temp the unusually warm waves to hit us as we squat on jagged rocks with another drink. The boys aching to dive in. Girls thankful they didn't.  

Now in the mood for company we drive to a small Tiki dive bar in Silver Lake after we make a stop for more cigarettes and Red Bull. Upon arriving we find parking 5 yards from the door and are greeted with no cover and an invitation to smoke inside. We like this place already. The attractive, low key hipsters smiled briefly and then go back to their drinks and intellectual conversations.  The white haired bartender was tan and wore a Hawian shirt. He chanted, "BOBA, BOOBA, BAYBOO", and other random words he may or may not have known had a connection to the Tiki. Though now after thinking bout it, he he certainly knew. He had a heavy hand. We all sipped strong fruity drinks and admitted we were drunk, besides the DD, of course. 

 

We pile into my car and make the journy home, promising the boys they will swim tomorrow.

Nadia

You were better to me than I to you. You were the only one who soaked me in then. Wide eyed and fresh, you took my words and wrapped them deeply in you. 

I got lost on a country road. You always picked up the check. I postponed our meetings. You read my sloppy middle school journal entries that weeped about boys, my mother and homework.

I secretly wanted to be you. Unimpressed. Quiet beauty. Seeping intelligence. Silently demanding respect. Picking up the pieces where people like me have failed. The void of insecurity. 

Flawless.

I never found out anymore. Where the imperfections lied. You sleep perfect in my memory. Good night.

In the shower

he will emerge smelling of my shampoo and after shave.

I wish he was as clean as he looks.

Pluck Me Up

Sometimes life is exquisite.

Like a blink that refreshes your core,

But evaporates the moment your eyes open.

Diagnose me. 

I am not a happy mourner.

Bury my feet in the ground so that I am stuck,

Forced to endure the storm without waver. 

I'm a pretty pansy.

Pluck me up.

Drag me in 

And comfort me senseless. 

Hope breeds under my skin

and I hope it plans to surface

While I  la lee gag around my city

Head so full its heavy. 

Twiggy and Embroidered Hamburgers

Kelli and I have decided we have what it takes. We have the skills require to make our own clothes. Or at the very least the skills to read a How To book. I mean... how hard can it be to make a couple Twiggy dresses in different fabrics?Sooo....

While browsing the vintage patterns online, we found something that we just had to have. Something that reeked of high fashion! Something that we were sure all our fellow fashion conscious ladies in Hollywood would kill each other for. Something no modern designer has ever fathomed. Ladies and gentlemen I give you ....

embroideries best.

Note: please notice Dad's embroidered thumbs up, Mom's semi-truck, and most importantly, little Susie's slab of meat.

Haiti

Lying in a cradle unable to move.

Flies. Urine. Mango. 

Tattered cookie monster t-shirt.

I remember you. Don't think I've forgotten. 

Sometimes my helplessness numbs the part of my brain that holds you. 

Sometimes you come to me in daydreams only with a smile. I hold your hand and worldlessly push you on a tire swing I never saw.

Other times you invade my listlessness with your hungry belly and naked bottom.

I apologize as I push you from my day promising to return to you.

I can not help but keep the promise. 

Often my eyes are dry with thoughts of you. As though you stole all the tears long ago on the day that dusty yellow bus carried me away from your world. Other days

without warning I weep for you.

Did you think I would come back? How many mornings after did you run to the gate to look for me? How long did you wait before you went on? Did you grow to hate me? Despise me? Place me in with so many others who have abandon you. I never meant to be that my sweet Haitian baby.

I sang you lullabies at night and prayed they would carry through the ocean air to you. 

Part of me knows you are dead.

Part of me hopes it. 

Witch Sock Cigs

They were his prized possessions. 

His last taste of freedom and self.

Four tucked in is sock.

In group home uniform and awkward teenage gaunt he stood venerable as they were confiscated by my boyfriend.

A confused lonely youth fascinated by the darkest things the world had to offer.

Daniel brings them home to me.

I smoke them in honor of the teenage rehab witch.

Come one Come all

They are coming. 

My most beloved friends. 

With plump cars and peanut butter they disturb the desert night with high beams. 

Slowly their clocks begin to read my time and the fears that beat in their throats will soon be soothed by the smell of ocean and the California poppy. 

I await them. 

Eager with empathy. 

I will cradle them in my Hollywood Bungalow and we will smoke and talk our throats raw on my roof. 

They mirror my bravery and I want nothing more then to plant them. 

Deep roots in my world still shaky on its own.

We will explore the canyons and unleash our budding charisma on these hills unknown by us.

Weaving stories our children will proudly tell their peers and building calluses on our soft baby skin. 

Anticipating what make most cringe and selfishly devouring all that is presented. 

Come December our families will peek their curious heads from the Bluegrass and request our return. 

We will gather pennies for a two way ticket.

From this time forward. A two way ticket. 

Hascal

Every time I peel an orange I remember him. From that one corner of the porch where he always sat, I felt like I could see the world. Maybe even a rare peek of his.  He scared all the children besides me. Thats how I felt his love. The fear enticed me. 

His skin was grayish from decades of smoke lapping it, and mine was pink with summer sunburn. The tobacco in his barn rotted away like I knew his insides were. Even at six I could feel death with him. We sat. In our silence we spoke. Connected by blood and separated by all that was left. 

One day we were alone on the porch. I sat beside him in silence while he peeled an  orange. He handed me a slice. I took it with no words. It was like I was eating his love. Devouring all I knew he would ever give to me. He never looked in my eyes. It was as though what we shared in that moment was to big for him feel. He softened to me.

I would never know his abuse. What he yielded or what he endured. I would never fathom his demons or even witness his laughter. But one single smile he allowed. My whole life. One that I knew was honor for my eyes. One that I would tell my young family members as they looked back in disbelief. 

I found love for a man ten times my age. He was my epiphany of death, acceptance and intimacy. To know that I did so little to gain the warmth of a heart so hardened. I was enough. In silence, in presence. He said, "you're alright, kid." 

For years after his death I would play in his barn. Nap in his bed with longing and fear of his ghost. But every time we would travel down that dirt road to the place that held his memory, I would spend a moment on that porch corner shedding tears for a man I felt only I knew. 

Hollywood DMV

Dear Persian man with gold medallions,

 No amount of questions concerning the DMV will turn me on. Nor will your Armani pants and oozing lip sores. Your chest hair does not make me want to think about what you look like naked and your cologne made me choke a little. 

 Whomever told you that marriage proposals were most romantic when made in a DMV line surrounded by drag queens, illegal immigrants, and wanna be celebs and attached to words such as 'business deal', 'green card', and 'HUGE favor', should be forced to watch a Shot at Love 2 with Tila Tequila until they have to suck their thumbs and plead for their mommy. Though I suppose your friends make up the majority of its audience.

Lastly, and for the benefit of your future proposal attempts. Never before have I have sex with a man simply because he wore sunglasses inside. Not ever. 

You are like a unicorn. I did not know you existed. You are a walking stereotype. Hang your head in shame, dear sir. Hang your head in shame.

Twist and Turn Baby Burn

Mmmm. Another day.

Pain away.

Mmmm. Numb today.

Feels ok.

Chill my bones.

Please don't cry.

Squeezing tears

From my life.

Bye bye birdie.

Sing tomorrow

Another sad song

Five strings of sorrow.

Cracking leaves

Breathe for me.

Mama, please

Forget all of me.

Painted noise

Of tranquility.

Papa please

Remember me.

Lying here

Upright and warm

Another calm before the storm

Twist and turn

Baby burn

Through my boots

Sustain my roots.

Follow me.

Let's go away.

Yellow birds

In winter day

How we'll cry

How we'll play.

Closing gates

Of gardens dead.

Sweet concrete

Let's rest our heads.

Rosy eyes, supple cheeks.

Be the drug

That my vein seeks.

Scrambled Legs

Owl eyes through orange tree.

Chill my bones, lock my knees.

Painted lips in photographs.

Sex shaped brow, hollow laugh.

 

Seducing me, I play once more.

Shut me up, lock the door.

All that leaves, in shallow breath,

May keep the cold, I'll take the rest.

 

Shattered mess, we lay scrambled

Yellow eggs, content in shambles.

Wanting only this we breathe,

Dust and pain and whom we see.

Evolution

Soon I will have the most slippery back. Things will never be able to stick. My legs are too weak to carry the load, my muscles to weak to sustain. So my back will learn to loose you.

Envious

For her they are the reason for living. The motivation she needs to propel her every motion. They can mend any heart break and soothe every pain. She dreams of them and in her sleep she speaks of them. It is her drug, her comfort, her joy.

I wish I liked Jelly Beans that much.