​There’s a procession of anxiety moving across the sky
dropping reeks of perspiration across my view.
It turns my thoughts to poison.
Who will line my walls with small talk of days gone bye bye of not so long ago?
There’s a treasure chest that has been sealed with mold from unwashed hands.
I don’t dare lift the lid when I can’t remember what’s inside.
Who will be brave enough to take a peek peek to see beneath the velvet lining?
There’s a memory of a mirror where I dressed in soft cream leather
with Indian head dimes down my torso
causing my ancestors to turn their heads.
It takes my breath to the other side.
Who will comb my hair when I lay my head down down on the empty aired lap?
There’s a room where the phone no longer rings causing me to go blind.
I cry when I’m alone and listen to panting beats quickening my heart.
Who will cup tears for me me when the door is locked?
There’s a shield without an emblem laying naked on the grass
melting towards the lava rock tunnels.
It can live there forever for all I care.
Who will remind me of what it means means when the sun comes up?
There’s a man that’s now a stranger drinking from a half full glass.
It escapes me why his dreams turned away so fast and smokey.
Who is it that can restore my womb womb when it has shriveled in the end?
There’s a knot I’ve forgotten how to chew open with teeth and pull apart with my nails.
It slips from my grip as I yearn to fall apart.
Who knows the combination of release release if I’m ever to breath again?
There’s a magic potion that’s told to bring about whirling Trojans stuffed to the gills.
It seems like a gift of course but looks aren’t everything.
Who can tell me where I set the opener to pry pry and set it free at last?

​We are drinking champagne and smoking the occasional cigarette at midnight on one of the bridges that overlooks the Arno. That thick vein of a river that runs through the center of Florence and makes one half of the city accessible to the other only by a series of bridges. I don’t remember the name of the bridge we are on but I do know that its the only one that has a secret ledge that juts out into the river and feels dangerous when you are on it. I love it. And so does he. The city lights are bright on either side of the river and they kiss the banks with their shine. But the stars reflecting into the black water are the real distraction. River the color of moonlight. Moonlight the color of river, and stars like fireflies shining in both. He’s in his standard outfit of jeans/white t-shirt and geek chic glasses. 
I love him in those glasses. 
I love him. 
He's my first love and I live in one of the most romantic cities in the world. 
My entire life feels like Van Gogh's Starry Night. Whimsical and magical. 
Im in a mini skirt and fishnet stockings with layers and layers of silver bangles on my arms..both arms chime like a thousand bells every time I move. I raise the clear plastic cup of champagne to my bright red lips and the bubbles kiss my nose. The City sounds whir all around while my moonlight river colored eyes take in the sights through the rim of the crystal clear cup. It's cold up here. Which is one of the reasons we like it. I hug my knee high booted thighs a little closer to my body and snuggle closer to him for warmth. Each time we come, we bring our plaid, wool blankets up to our ledge and lay them amongst pieces of old gum and trash over icy, graffiti covered concrete. We will later take these same blankets back to our room to make love on and never think twice about their cleanliness or get grossed out. Im 20 years old and I don't give a fuck about where my blankets have been. And the world belongs to me.
And him. 
And us. 
And this night. 
And this night that goes on for eons in the pockets of my mind. This is our ritual in this city, in this spot. Our spot. And hundreds of nights sipping champagne and smoking the occasional Pall Mall Cigarette have somehow become a single moment in space and time. 
This moment. 
And this moment.
And the next. 
Forever stretching time moment by moment until I am an old woman in his arms and we have lived lifetimes together. Our children are all grown and gone and our bodies show beautiful signs of wear and rejoicing. We have lived a good life and these geeky glasses of his have become more endearing with each passing year. On Sundays we walk to the cafe on the corner for fresh baked croissants and strong coffee. He stops to buy me a bouquet of yellow daisies -- always yellow daises -- and even though its been our ritual every week for the past 50 years, I always act surprised when he presents them to me from behind his back. We sit at our favorite window table dipping buttery crusts of croissant into strong cups of coffee and watch the people of the world pass us by in another lifetime.
But today it's just me and him on the bridge, sipping champagne with the occasional cigarette and the world belongs to us.  

I am indecisive. Which more often than not just hurts myself. Accidental self-denial. Accidental
self-doubt. Accidental shooting myself in the dick. Because I should know better. But I don’t. I
don’t know whether to pull the trigger. When to pull the trigger. Why to pull the trigger.
She was the dove always perched upon the sill. Always. Familiar comfort and deep roots
entangled, pulling at each other through the red rubbery fragile clay. Arm wrestling in slow
motion with a thousand tendrils.
She’s back there now. Back before yesterday and the day before that. The roots aren’t fighting
each other anymore. They are growing in different directions now. The roots miss the touch, the
warmth, the intimacy of the battle.
I pulled the trigger. Brought peace to the subterranean battlefield. A sad lonely empty peace.
The dove remains. The dove is not hiding. The dove is still driving to work and working in her
garden and walking the dog. The dove is dancing and meeting new people and taking new lovers.
The dove will smell different the next time we meet.
So will I.
I’m afraid to pull the trigger again. I worry of damaging my roots further. Tearing the fibers.
Rendering them useless. Fear seeps in through the torn pores. The taste of blood in my mouth.
The buzzing of flies around my ankles. The stench of my tight puckered dirty asshole.
I breathe. I breathe and I wait and I keep on keeping on. And the world will happen if I never
make another decision and then I will not be to blame. I will be the guy who got shit upon
through no fault of my own. An innocent bystander on the shoulder of the highway. A victim of
random heartless violence.
But that’s not true and I know it. I can be more than a victim. I have the power to move things
and create a new universe. I just need to flip that switch, dial it up, pull that trigger.
I need to kill. I need to be able to kill. To take the life of another being without hesitation.
Without concern. Without indecisiveness.
Blood-soaked success smells like money in my mouth. Happiness with the taste of murder.
Disciplined deadly joyfulness.
I am a corporation. I am an organization with different levels. Managers managers and more
managers. Lovers and artists and bankers and insurance agents and fighters and killers. Layers
upon layers of complexity. I am the president. I can fire any of those motherfuckers I wanna.
Except for the dove.

The clouds paint moods across my views
guilty of shortcomings and regrets
wisdom circles cinnamon kaleidoscopes that I slowly drink in
my world
my country
my fellow man
my shame
demeaning each other
turning the skies grey
living in dark clouds
remorse stabs each phrase into my skull
cracking thunder down my spine
water gushing from my eyes
spilling my soul onto the hardwood floor
I can no longer read or listen
expressions shimmer rainbows that no longer exists
uttering ghosts that should have never been set free
recalling times that were no better than now
usage matters
rhymes matter
what comes out of ours mouths and spatters across the universe matters
I’m sick to my stomach
steading myself against the inevitable spray
infected by my gold longing for the sun
black in my heart where animals crater their teeth
the violence that lives in my bellybutton sits at stay while my eyes burn
there’s freedom in wanting to kill something
it releases chickens and gives us flexibility
I’m not saying it’s right or moral
I’m just saying it’s bloody
I hit the deck ,what a strange term for a dirty floor in a New York City club, I mean filthy with sweat and grim and cigarette butts and soot and high heals. My reflex put me here. My survival instincts need to get me out. The music is streamline loud thumping disco, not Gloria Gaynors “I Will Survive” but Donna Summers “Last Dance” and people are dancing, lots of people, elbow to elbow people all around me in spandex and sequence and dresses and tank tops and lots of make up even the guys, so all I can see now are shoes and the bottom half of everyone’s outfit. I’m on my hands and knees. My dress that lands below the knees is keeping my knees safe from this disease ridden floor. No one seems to notice me down here. My long nails painted neon purple are gripping the sticky brown floor. It’s dark except for flashing multicolored lights circling the dancers. I don’t come to this club very often. I’m either at Studio 54 snorting coke with famous druggies or CBGBs getting my punk on but my cousins wanted to come here tonight for some flavor. I can’t see them but they can’t be too far from me. I was his target from the get go. Just 5 minutes ago he whispered filth in my ear dirtier than this floor. I can smell my own sweat and I don’t sweat. I saw his gun. I don’t know if that was his intention or not but I saw him and he saw me and I saw him reach for his gun tucked in his pants. He reached right under his shirt pushing it aside and placed his hand on the gun and I saw it and I hit the floor and now I’m crawling towards the door. 

I got tears filling my ears and I don’t know if it’s happiness or despair 
or just the wind in my eyes ‘cause I’m not wearing a helmet on the interstate.
All it took was a gallon of chocolate syrup and a momentary laps of reason.
Desert Center scares the shit out of me.
Broken down people and trailers abandoned along the road near a gas and sip in the middle of nowhere, 
halfway to nowhere. 
Life is just a carton of cigarettes, some cheap beer, and nowhere. 
Where fuckups get dumped when society doesn’t even care enough to send them to jail. 
Nobody ever comes back from this place. 
It’s a fucking death sentence.
There used to be a sign that said  You Are Now Here.
Someone had a bitter sense of humor.
When I was little, I would look out from the backseat of the chevy and think, 
“Don’t stop here. Oh god please don’t let them stop here for gas.”
He’s inside the station buying beer for a teenage ghost who wandered in from the desert.
There are  chocolate syrup fingerprints where he held the glass door open for her. 
All I can think about is alcohol, and minors, and the fact that I might be standing on the State line.
Sometimes I look at the road and I can’t tell which way is home.
Nowhere 
Now Here
Fuck.
The warrant was served, the syrup was poured. 
Shit was suddenly in motion.
It’s late and I think I screamed the whole way here. 
I don’t know if it’s fate or irony to steal a motorcycle and run out of gas in Desert Center.
They trampled children to avoid getting chocolate syrup on their clothes.
He burned every bridge on the road to nowhere
That’s why I left him there.
I don’t think he noticed or cared when I rode away.
I could have gone with him. I could have continued fucking up until someone stomped my teeth into the wooden floor of a bar in the desert somewhere, nowhere.
But, I looked into the night 
and saw the old sign that said 
YOU ARE NOW HERE.
I saw my romantic notion of rock bottom come and gone. 
A friend once told me there are no absolutes, I would never get there.
But he was wrong.            
I didn’t bother apologizing on the way back. I just took a different road.
I don’t know what happened to him. I like to think he walked north until he came to Las Vegas. It’s what I would have done.
I brought the bike back before it was reported stolen. 
But the chocolate syrup left stains that are never going wash out.

Mansplain

Does the old man at the counter tell you to “smile sweetheart” as he pours your accomplishments into beautiful bowed boxes? Do the group of guys on the street heckle and low whistle as you walk by? Did that guy on the train..the stranger you have never met, try to tell you how you need to, are supposed to, should absolutely be doing this that and the other to run your life in a successful way?
Then congratulations, you’ve just been demoralized, hypersexualized, and disregarded for your gender. What fun! 

Oh What fun it can be to attend a business conference as an equal, only to be spoken to as a child. The subtle art of mansplaining really knows know limits. There are few experiences more rewarding than being in the same business school as the other assholes in the room, getting better grades and larger accolades the entire time but still being mistaken for the coffee girl. What a special joy to be invited to an awards ceremony honoring YOU and YOUR business, accompanied by your husband; only for everyone in the room to congratulate HIM on how much effort this must have all taken to achieve so much. 
Then congratulations, you’ve just been demoralized, hypersexualized, and disregarded for your gender. What fun! 

Have you been in situations where your breast size is valued more than your IQ? where old white men decide the fate of your body, and assault goes hand in hand with the dress you decided to wear that day? 
Then congratulations, you’ve just been demoralized, hypersexualized, and disregarded for your gender. What fun! 

Slut shamed, cocks teased, egos bruised, divine feminine destroyed.  Broken hymen’s, hypocritical sermons, men in power, women in kitchens. Barefoot, pregnant, broken, bruised, underdeveloped, over exaggerate your tales of sexual prowess so that we KNOW that when you give it to us, that it’s good..it’s so so so so good and she loves it. She loves it..She loves it!!!!!!!! SHE LOVES IT!!!! YES! 
Congratulations, you’ve just been demoralized, hypersexualized, and disregarded for your gender. What fun! 

Are you so filled with rage and fire and fierceness that it’s sweeping from your pores and burns in your belly too bright where a small hiccup produces a fire fountain like a dragon that’s been caged for a century? Let it all fucking burn. Burn bright. Burn it down. Let the flames consume them all. All of them. And remember: Insecure, upper class republican white males burn the brightest! 
Fury. Fury. Fury. Rage and murder. 
Congratulations, you’ve just been demoralized, hypersexualized, and disregarded for your gender. What fun! 

No I don’t want to date you, I wouldn’t even let you work for me. Yes, i made more in an hour than you made in a month. Please put that cock away or PLEASE let someone mistake it for a hitchhikers thumb to hail me a taxi out of this nightmare. I am not here to please you, suck you, Fuck you, or be nice to you. I am not at the club for your pleasure or your entertainment of which these things you are neither. And No, you cannot buy me a Drink. 
Save your drink. 
I’ll take the money instead. 
Oh and congratulations, you’ve just been demoralized, hypersexualized, and disregarded for your gender. What fun! 

​

I don't think I could have gotten any bigger.  My round glorious belly almost always in my hands.  I loved being two people.  I learned how to skateboard that summer.  I wanted to show him I could be daring, exciting, fun.  I would tether to his bike and hold the rope through the city on her section 8 long board, weaving in and out of traffic in my pink mini skirt.  The orchids don't seem to mind the heat, neither do the bananas.  The one day it rained in the past two months was on my son's birthday.  We had an outdoor party in the rain and it was nice. it rained hard for a few minutes right before he started to crown.  Tina said it was babies blessing.  I believe it.  He survived.  He survived my body. He survived my mind.  I hope he can survive my traumas.  I hope I can.  I fell down hard on my board.  The day I decided to go down a grassy hill  - I stopped to think half way down and that's when I ate shit. My mind is constant in its betrayal.  I wanted him to stop me, to tell me it was a bad idea.  He was on his phone,  checking on the girl echo had just had his abortion.  My knee still throbs from the incision, from the uncertainty, all the instability.  I'm hard to deal with.  He tries,  but I think he'd rather not have to.  He wants simple and easy. I am neither of those things.  When I relax and trust,  I end up in a bronco passed out while the driver and his friend smoke meth the whole way back to the city in the middle of the night.  He doesn't do anything.  He just lets it happen.  We survived, I should be grateful.  I knew he loved me when my belly was full of him. Note the love feels obligatory.  Not simple.  Not easy.  That's not my lineage. My son changed me. Changed his own future.  He was born with a mouth full of shit and still survived.  He's forging his own path and I'm blessed as witness.  I stayed naked in the summer heat with my baby on my deflated belly for our first 40 days.  I sat by the fire and recounted the moments of his birth with him on my lap as he rounded his 7th cycle around the sun.  I feel his spirit in the wind on my face through my hair and past my skirt.  We all survive. 

I sit on the old stained blue and white checkered couch in the Italian boys’s living room. Virginia sits next to me with her back against one of its arms smoking a cigarette, she extends her legs  onto my lap. Her short dark hair frames her face and as she gestures and talks, ash from her cigarette lands into her lap and the seat of the couch. It's hot. Its always so hot here in August. And still. No wind at all. Like the entire city took a deep inhalation in July and never bothered to exhale. The house plants are crispy brown and the the dirt from the pots spill onto the carpet surrounding them...covering the walls with chunks of drying earth and dust where they were knocked over and righted but the contents were never replaced. 
The entire room is dusty and in the rare corner where sun is permitted to shine you can see discarded paper clips, candy wrappers and clumps of white fur from Bobbys cat. 
Outside its that twilight hour and we haven’t turned the lights on yet, so the overall effect of the room is more romantic than macabre in the dim light. 

I'm perched on the very edge of the couch trying to touch as little of myself onto its surface in my backless yellow sun dress. Beads of sweat form at the nape of my platinum blonde ponytail and begin to drip drip drip down my naked spine one vertebra at a time. My black mary Janes are nestled on the purple shag carpet in front of me where the coffee table sits. The glass coffee table is covered in tiny particles of weed, strips of rolling paper and small rolled up pieces of cardboard filters. Bobby is across from me hunched over the table on the yellow and red plaid couch. He’s wearing his long sleeve flannel shirt and his long brown hair hangs limp and stringy around his face. Held tight in both hands and working fast is his red weed grinder with the sex wax sticker on it. On the glass table in front of him lie the perfect filter and rolling paper combo designed to create a blunt worthy of the gods. On either side of him sit his two nameless and comatose friends..casualties of the first round of Bobby’s craftsmanship. Im realizing that this “epic party” Virginia invited me to is just a way for her to not have to come here to get high alone. Just then the doorbell rings and team plaid couch perks up. The coke is here. We need to leave.

I landed in a perfect storm in the middle of a rainbow field when I was the color of static snow.  Of course my color is static snow.  I took the risk in order to gain the advantage. And sometimes that means showing up like that in a place like this. Where the building blocks are thoughts run a muck and there's nowhere to go but up, and then down,  so much further down.  All the way to and through the ground. 
I swear I was up above it all. The depth surrounds and consumes the ones who got sucked in. In got sucked in. Fast.  I liked it. Shaking, shivering as the land pulsed beneath my receiving body of water. Fingertips write fire songs on my soul,  my soul quenches the thirst of the brush, strokes waiting to deliver craved balance. Catches light flowing down yellow rivers that carry energy back to the banks of rainbow fields, dissolves the static flow and fills in the spaces  - pillars sprout up and grow out into magnificent reflections of their creator, rewriting old stories in orange paint like it was the first time.  
The secret language of bubbles dances on the tongues entwined in that familiar celebration of color. Nothing makes sense taken out of context and the circles straighten me out,  just like they always have. And maybe I'm all messed up. Went left instead of right.  Then straight back to the center guided by the white arrows that know just how to bring me back- back to the front.  Back to the moment.  Back to the heartbeat beat beat. Shaken back to life. And then up up and away. The stories cross the help the suns set a hundred times in a hundred unknown ways.  These bits of land catch my feet walking in the directions of the medicine that carries and holds me.
The end of Sumer brightens the canvas,  making way for the fall of change to ignite the webs of creation... leaving behind the marks of renewal. The truth resides there, at the bottom of everything, above and below the layers upon layers of imagining, realizing and standing perfect and still in the middle of his rainbow field.