Wednesday, September 23, 2015

5:39 am

Listening to an oxygen machine upstairs. He used to sleep with his doors closed. We decided that changed two nights ago. Damn I'm gonna miss the Super Bowl he said yesterday. It's all metaphor. You begin to adore pop culture for the relief it brings in shiny glimmering metaphor.

I think our greatest accomplishment is that we all found each other cuz love redefines time. 

It is in evidence. I hear him gently clear his throat. Like he always has and will.

Tuesday, September 22, 2015

sep 22

my dad watches people's court. my dad cries. i hang on his every word. you're gonna get me goin. like for clues to eternity.

Monday, September 21, 2015

follow up

brave ants. damn they're courageous. travelling far and wide to find the water droplets in my bathroom.

it was a dandelion that adorned the left side of her back. too captivated by the way she arched it to discern the first time.

it's here. lick your fingers.

it's here. sit on my face.

i massaged my dad's leg. i gently worked the doughy dense fluid into shape. the ligament. bone. my hands finally peaceful to heal with only love unclouded. he said i have nice hands.

it hurts. sometimes it just hurts. and our only job is to feel it and get a few good ones in. before it hurts again. no telling when that next one will be. only how we meet it. whether an instant or a biblical travail like Job.

the ants got sprayed. then we left em alone i think. i don't know. i don't have the heart to tell the ants to leave. cuz you know, nothing novel here, but sometimes i feel like one.

Friday, September 18, 2015

no horse with a name

Tuesday, September 15, 2015


Her dad was a private airplane pilot who flew away. I didn't handle her much better. And I think about it. She called me once later. Told me she'd been meditating. Said something about my hair. That she loved it. She used to tell me I looked like a lion. That's a nice thing for a man to hear from a young woman.

The thing is, I don't remember how to spell her last name. Even if I did. She could be married. She could be lost on purpose. She is nowhere on the internet that I can track. She is nowhere on the westside where she used to be. UCLA. Bad Brentwood bars. Her work. I don't remember where that was either.

She lived with her mom in a one bedroom apartment in Van Nuys. I liked speaking to her on the phone. She would purr when pleased. Actually purr. It would've been weird if she weren't Eastern European. No, it still was weird. And I liked that about her.

Monday, September 14, 2015

composition notebook

A cave

And in this cave

the essentials:

A box of old baseball cards that were kept in and out of bicycle spokes

A memory of a backyard football soft spiraling along a father's arc

Two empty bottles of Dramamine

A photograph of You and one of the Lovers whom you delighted and suffered in never understanding

Ghastly face, the one you made when remembering it all and not being able to do a damn thing about it. The time is running out to fix things that can not be fixed. The opportunity to correct is dim. There is not enough energy and not enough time yes time, that gold.

Your own reflection in soft aquifer pool. Close your own eyes. This is all you own. And this is the last of it now.

Wake. Dispersed. You were so silly to think it all was dependent on the toil of the physical world. Like if in a dream you panicked and then awoke to physical life. Now, it's like that. Only, physical life becomes the spirit world

What you did in the physical world is perfect. What you do now is prone to eternity. We were all so lucky. The physical life, like a cup of coffee in the grand scheme of things.

It never agreed with my heartbeat.

And you always ordered decaf.

And merrily merrily merrily we all cry Love

Saturday, September 5, 2015

oh lord please don't let me be misunderstood

I'm wearing a beret. You see. We stroll along the avenue of Montana sharing a croissant. The pastry's flakes sail to the ground beneath our decorative shoes as we tread along one December morning. Holes in our socks. No one can see those. Nor the holes in our souls. Our hearts are so damn full.

I have six dollars in my pocket. You have a hundred Euros, a thousand Egyptian pounds, and several coins from Cambodia in your Moroccan bag. You are colorful like a peacock while I am muted in black and blue, hair astray beneath beret.

A portrait artist begs to paint us. Old photographers stumble over one another trying to capture our likeness on their 8mm film burned indelible. Wanting us badly to themselves in darkrooms.

While a writer with a typewriter sits on one of the patio tables outside of a Starbucks, oh so bohemian, oh so bloody, he's sitting at his typewriter and bleeding, as us his muse. Is it blood or their passionfruit iced tea that spills from his mouth and fingertips. One can only venture a guess in hindsight. For at the time neither of us would've questioned blood. Our world was awash in it. We lived in spells of a Haitian menstruation. We swallowed red in blackened sealed tombs. We drank each other like airport duty free champagne.

I never carried a wallet in those days. I still don't. I collected my latex from trees in humid plantations gone wild and made a contraception. Cuz we feared the amount of people we'd birth together.

And the way we walked, it was not oblivious to the world, no, it was nothing less than a hyperawareness of every single little thing.