untitled

That night he needed a kiss from a stranger
And being as strange as I am, I felt awkwardly obliged to give it to him
His intellect resting higher than both of our heights combined,
floating on the light end of the playful seesaw
which was his dark eyes, balanced by his heavy heart.
A trendy display encased by square clear lenses & black frames

That night was my birthday.

And yes, boys serve as time markers for me
as do the pencil marks on your grandfather’s kitchen door.
There is a boy I can think for each season of my life thus far,
however, unfortunately this time, there is nowhere for you to fit in
There has already been a boy who has given me a birthday to remember
And he’s been featured in a poem or fourteen already to this day

I’m not the type of girl that boys tend to write songs about
I am the pen running out of ink,
The break they take between songs
Between “projects”
I’m the all talk but not the “do” of “collaboration”
I’d spend months reading you
Your words are quite interesting,
Your photos - fun to look at
& I could spend all day flipping through your ideas, your moods, your friends,
Your updates…
This is the type of love I have chosen time & again.
I get sicker & sicker as I drink my cup of poison, wait for you to die.
But that isn’t you.
That is your memory
Or my memory
My memory of you adjusting my words & taking them with you in your guitar chords
from out of my backseat that night we parked at Pennslanding to “collaborate.”

You wore sandals.
I didn’t.

I am a girl harboring resentment towards feet. & for as much as I despise them, I sure lack in footwear.
I have a drawer full of unmated socks, none of them matching another
Not in color, not in thickness, sometimes never even in size or design
But as the first wave of panic passes,
They’ve already grown use to the diversity & seem to cuddle comfortably together in the space they have been given,
Easily moving on to another mismatched mate as two are removed each morning to fulfill their protective duties.
To guard & to protect.
& to keep me at ease & moving on.

But she’s been stuck within herself now for a few months longer than eight years. Her arm & leg have not varied much in position, yet her mind is in constant overdrive.
She fights a battle everyday as do we all.
I can only imagine what it would be like to fill her shoes for a day.
Or even take just one minute to fill her foot brace & burning memory grounds of her past.
The past is where she most often sits.
Resting in yesterdays.


But she’s not alone.

Her constant quivering bottom lip somehow causes my heart to plead GUILTY
Unnecessary guilt of general happiness,
For having family who loves me,
For carrying the weight of her heavy heart on the light end of my eyes’ seesaw
A pathetic display encased by two dimly lit bedroom windows & a song crying out my windows for a guardian,
Any guardian to hear & respond.

But there is a building that stands guard though between my window & the boulevard that seems to weaken & melt like sugar in the rain, because the passing cars are much louder.
And it’s not their engine fumes that keep me awake but rather the swishing of their wet tires across the asphalt.
Happiness is that open road.
And the incessant echo reminds me with each wink I lose that I really oughtta give that building a talkin’ to….

But we all need rest.
Even our guardian structures.
That building is not responsible for me if I am careless when smearing guilt along my eyelids, along my arms & hands so none splashes or spills into our sleepless dreams
Sleepless dreamers filled with pill dust & wrapped safely in bubble wrap.
Happiness is bubble wrap.
Keeping us in one piece if we wrap ourselves tightly enough
But the POP is exciting & reminds us of where we are right here & now.

We are here with only ourselves & our choices.
And although we may not always make the choices right
or the illusions we choose to trust often disappoint & fade,
that seesaw display will eventually tip.
& no matter how many mismatched socks, swishing car tires, or pieces of bubble wrap we’ve stuffed into our pockets for rainy days will create a fair balance.

But our breath does.

& as long as we live as long as we can breathe, it’s only that breath that connects us to yesterday.
It’s our breath that connects us from one moment to the next.
& it is a blessing that i get to share each of these breaths with each & every one of you.
Breathe deeper.

Vignette from Project H.O.M.E.'s 20th Anniversary Gala (1)

Social Media Revolution

very interesting.

feet

01/11/08

“if your feet are no good, you’re no good,” is what he said to me one day.
The source, a man who spent the past five years on the street
Unfortunately, I think no feet are good anyway
So I hide mine away from eyes to see
Away from hands to touch
Away from fetishes to satisfy

His shadow no longer hovers over the hometown skyline since it’s decided to relocate somewhere to the west.
It’s a dream that’s grown use to portability & now fits perfectly in the crannies of an old storage box that’s probably now covered with dust.
It’s those things you never go out of your way to look for that manage to creep back up on you later.
Technology today makes it impossible for anyone to completely leave your life forever.

Don’t take for granted the terror that lingers behind the eyes of the men you pass each day on the curbside.
Don’t assume their search for peace is not as valid as your own.
It’s with the best of the intentions to watch my face light up, as you tell me about the circus coming to town.
And just as my heart becomes a flutter, you casually hold up a mirror to my face & I’m reminded of my fear of clowns.

I watch as light breaks the fall of the reflection on the concrete & gently places there a shadow of her crooked frame.
But she embraces it with tenderness and becomes graffiti in this wilderness, painted against buildings in this city, beneath pastel rag hats, hidden behind black frames & purple lenses which on her slender nose rest –
Her burden of being upright and her 34c cup breasts.
Each part of her body blends into the next, creating a chalky charcoal mess on the sidewalk,
amongst broken beer bottles & half empty coffee cups.
Amongst pigeon droppings & cigarette butts.
These are the wildflowers that grow rapidly throughout the land, receiving nourishment through constant forgiveness.
Dancing when we dance. Keep moving when we move. Keep moving when we are standing still. With both feet.
Both feet planted firmly on the ground. Wildflowers growing quickly between our toes, faster than we can even hear, “if your feet are no good, you are no good.”

always & for-never

he is not very specific. he is shady & at times has sketchy & blurred outlines.
he surrounds himself with robotic structures, mechanical debris & engine fumes that tend to blend into his fuzzy aura
that loom around in her mind. she is pretty specific. she is firm & justified & teeters the weight of an unbalanced figure.
she aligns dreams with destiny, surrounding herself with poetic structure,
silver hoops & drugstore perfumes that gingerly trace along that blurry line that connects them.
his hands. her smile. their city's skyline.
And when the glowing sun rises behind it, they say goodbye.
Their pulses click & gravitate towards never.
Hands wave never like ocean tides, fearful of silence, they hide in pockets when it’s daylight.
His polite & well-mannered nature speaks volumes for the public with his affection withheld in fractions, saved for later private interactions.
His thoughts are digital – almost clockwork – processed in solid intervals that rarely notice her variations.
He hears her synthetic voice, rattling. An enormous rush of colors & lights reflecting off her skin, bouncing back again and again through her eyes and her lips when her hips sin.
Her words dangle between her teeth like old broccoli.
Her tongue stained from engine smoke that also scratches her pores.
A weakened immune system can open a soul to eternal un-wellness, but her heart keeps beating, perpetually breathing.
And so it goes on.
His arms. Her hair. Their hometown’s history.
And when the glowing sun sets before it, they say hello.
Their pulses tick & gravitate towards always.

out-of-date

should i start painting my eyes dark to let you know when i am sad?
should i have made a list, a cheat sheet, to keep track of all the good times that we had?
i always pick at my scabs. i always scratch at the bug bites.
it's always the smallest things that are the hardest to fight.
i'll never understand, but i'll always give in.
you don't even have to fight back, yet you still always win.
your hair color will always change.
your teeth will never be straight.
your eyes will always be strange
and your clothes will always be out of date.

some time apart will do us some good,
yet, my brain & my heart are still glued to you
you still always ask how i'm doing & sometimes, i don't know
but damn, if you only knew...
i'm passing the time
touching & being touched
by life & men who feel those same crazy feelings i do
except for me & not for you.
i will always carry his bruises on my arm
we always parked by the river & made out in his red car.
he was the only bald guy who ever asked first before he tried to kiss me.
and i treasure that wrinkled portrait he didn't sketch for me but gave to me anyway
and i still have his roses sitting on my window sill
with crunchy brown petals
they've been dead for weeks
they're still beautiful....

and i listen to their kind words about my eyes
but i wish they would all just stop.
just like that skinny little jersey boy did
with the fucked up head & the jeff cap on top.

when i try to listen to the symphony of your thoughts
all i can hear is loud static and noise
i guess that's why momma raised us to be warned against those skinny little jersey boys
who have nothing to say & are too immature to move on past gravity
but that's not my problem
i'll just keep being me
and you'll just keep being
new jersey.

eventually everything goes bad, expires, and dies.
the foul stench of "us" rotting must have bothered your eyes
to be honest, i could feel it too
clogging up my nose
fading out of style
out of date
...just like your clothes.



sept17,2001

in progress

*this piece is unfinished, i feel. there is more to come but i wanted to get it up & out to get some feedback or inspiration.....




020809



he is not very specific. he is shady & at times has sketchy & blurred outlines.

he surrounds himself with robotic structures. Mechanical debris & engine fumes to blend into his fuzzy aura

that looms around in her mind. she is pretty specific. she is firm & justified & teeters the weight of an unbalanced figure.

she aligns dreams with destiny, surrounding herself with poetic structure.

silver hoops & drugstore perfumes that trace along that blurry line that connects them. his hands. her smile. their city's skyline.

And when the glowing sun rises behind it, they say goodbye.

They start their day.