Wednesday, October 01, 2008

sometimes she likes to walk down the middle of the street. music blaring into her head through tiny earbuds, she walks a fine line. the neighbors shake their heads, they do not understand. but the tears that drop from bright eyes are always the most misleading. her tiny frame was meant for flying, not for walking. this street is not for defiance. it's just makes a better runway.

Sunday, July 23, 2006

she has no need to pull her sweater closer as her breath hangs in the cool midnight air. despite being hundreds of miles away, he walks with her. his warmth surrounds her and lights her up. she whispers something to him and two states away, asleep in his bed, a smile breaks across his face.

and maybe, for the first time in their lives, they know love.

Thursday, March 30, 2006

My heart feels like a little red dot on the wall next to a million others. Maybe if I close my eyes real tight the words that escape me will come rushing back like thanksgiving waves over this dusty soul. But sleep has never come easily for me. I wasn't really drunk the night I flashed that crowd. I just...well, sometimes I just I wanna feel a little naughty. So, let us be naked and roll around. I'll pull the colors right out of your head and you can open my rib cage. There's a bird in there that I named after en em ay and she'll sing you a sweet little tune. Maybe joy to the world, but probably the escape artist blues. Cos life is like bitter honey and this is my semi-sweet ballad.

Monday, March 27, 2006

A Work in Progress

One of the days I'm gonna walk right on out of my life. I'll sell my car, buy a van, move to Santa Monica where I'll sell homemade bags and jewelry on the pier and call myself Ryan. I'll set up shop next to a struggling muscian and watch him throw pieces of himself to the wind note by note, lyric by lyric. He'll fall in love with me and send some tunes my way that will perch on my shoulder and whisper sweet nothings into my ear. We'll spend our nights together, naked on the beach while the ocean breeze blows sand crystals across our bodies. One day I'll decide I've given all I can give and I'll leave that musician broken hearted staring at our indentations in the sand. I'll inspire the very song that launches his music career and he'll become a one-hit wonder. My song will fill the nation's clubs and all the hip kids will sing my story. I'll be a hermit living in a tiny run down apartment on sunset boulevard, but I'll hear that music riding the breeze through my window. I'll write the story of my life as a screenplay and sign it as Venus DeMilo. I'll never let the world on as to who I am, but you'll hold my secret in the palm of your hand. Or maybe you won't. Maybe you'll blow it to the wind and it will land somewhere in the Apalachan mountains where a hill billy will find it and not know what to do with it.

Or maybe not.

Maybe I'll just drive. I'll get that van and drive all around the country. I'll drive down south for the winter and north for the summer. If anyone asks my name I'll just smile and say "baby, you can call me anything you want." I'll woo men and make love to them when they're afraid of where their lives are going, for I can love a man because of his flaws, not despite them. Then, when I'm tired of them, I'll retire to my shadows of music and paint and words. I'll be that shy girl reading books in a bar and abandoning myself to the music-stripping down to my bra and panties and giving the boys a right good show. I'll still write that screenplay, but I'll sign it Joan of Arc instead.

Monday, February 20, 2006

I can't get over you.

I lie down to sleep and your heart chimes in and speaks to mine. It tells me to be patient, to be firm, to be beautiful and to wait.

It frightens me.

I do my best to tune it out and cry myself to sleep, but it's stll your name that's on my lips in the morning.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

Try!! Crumble...crumble away! You try to be so deep when you don't have to be. Art isn't forced, nor is it preconceived. It's your soul moving to the beat of your heart. It pushes up and boils over, forcing the pen across the page for you.

~A poem I wrote that was started by a very drunk friend. She wrote the "Try!!! Crumble...crumble away." and the "You try to be so deep when you don't have to be." was a drunken response to a conversation I was having with another friend. I really liked what she said and developed it all into a thought.~
An infatuated squirrel sings from the tree. Its voice shoots through the atmosphere preceding the unthinkable. A loquacious mime saunters up to me and in a fit of giggles declares, “I was gonna join the monastery til I met you.” His clown teeth still bloody from the human heart he had stolen. I crack, I burn, I melt when frozen, but a god always starts with humor and democracy that makes up the coat tails of America. At least that’s what people who are financially stable say. Them and Sam Julian’s left nut. I should’ve been a millionaire with the skin of tomorrow. Instead I have dreams as beautiful as a bad pastry and the Legend of the Poltergeist feeds me desire soup by the cupful. We should have seen the beginning coming. Days like five legged frogs and letters from Jesus that smell like sunshine dust. Now I’m left with root beer, sand in my ass crack and witches brew while the kid in the helmet screams at the sidewalk. Yes indeed, we should have seen this all coming.
I crash into your aquamarine stare where I am the only person in the room. You let me climb into your head full of movie star kisses, rockstar dreams, cowboy boot visions, and sunshine from a little girl named for your best friend that filters through regrets that hang in the air like cigarette smoke. I strip down til I'm naked and slip into your subconsciousness, so you'll never forget me. And as I leave, I open my skull, shake out a few stars and know that I'm the reason there's a twinkle in your eye.

Sunday, February 05, 2006

I don’t know when exactly it was that I stopped missing you. It certainly happened in stages. It was really hard for me at first. You were the person who got me through my day. I’d wake-up every morning with you on my mind. I know that sounds cliché, but it’s true. I’d look at the clock to see if it was too early to call you or text you good morning. We’d try and make other plans. You needed to write and I needed to catch up with friends. But you’d always call me back in a few minutes claiming you were stuck in your story and needed my help. That was my favorite. You gave me purpose and a place to go to where I was safe. Life at home was always a struggle for me. It still is and it always will be. It’s a reality I’ve come to accept. Its painted scars on my heart that go so deep they touch my soul. Things between my father and I are getting better actually. I forget that he too is hurt. All he wants is for someone to acknowledge his existence in this world and my mother isn’t going to give it to him. Oh, no. It’s too late for all that now. I understand her complaints against the man. They are just and valid, but she also claims Christ as her Lord and for that she is suppose to forgive., but she won’t and I don’t think she ever will. This is why my relationship with her is falling apart. She tells me I don’t go to church like I used to and tells me all of my problems are because of this. This from a woman too full of herself to see the man she sleeps in the same bed with every night is pleading for mercy. Besides, I talk to God every night. He whispers in my ear and tells me that I am beautiful. That he gave me a rainbow soul, a head full of stars and womb the size of heaven. He collects my tears in a crystal bowl and tells me he’s gonna save them to baptize my first born in them. I asked him if I was baptized in my mother’s tears, and he said no. Her tears were too bitter. He used the tears of St. Lydia, patron saint of artists and that’s how I came to be a painter. He tells me my tears are sweet and that I shouldn’t worry. And as he leaves I would ask him to stop by your bed and whisper in your ear that I love you.

Do you remember that time when we were at Sarah’s when she was upset over her boyfriend and as we left her house, I gave her a hug and said “I love you.” She didn’t know what to say and it made for an awkward moment. Do you remember what you said to me when we got into the car? You told me I liked to throw that word love around. You said I degraded its meaning. But it was you who said that you loved me, that I was your heart and that you couldn’t imagine spending the rest of your life without me. It was also you who, two weeks later, said you loved me, but was no longer in love with me. You were in love with her and that you didn’t want to hurt me, but you just had to follow your heart on that. But, you said I was your heart and I’m sure you’ve told her she was your heart as well. Maybe it is you who degrades the meaning of love. I know what it is when I say it. I meant it when I said I loved you for your ability to put your soul in my head through your words. I meant it when I said I loved you for your laughter while I threw snowballs at you in the car. I meant it when I said I loved you when you cried about missing your father, despite how he treated you and your mother. I meant it when I said I loved you for the way you kissed my ear the day I picked up the paintbrush for the first time. I meant it when I said I loved you by coming to hospital every day you were sick. I meant it when I said I love you for telling me I was right. Pain isn’t just black or blue. It’s bright orange, pale pink, ocean blue, deep plum purple and moves in ways that can frighten and inspire all in one breath. I meant it when I whispered I love you into your ear as you slipped away from me and out into the blue.

I don’t know exactly when it was that I stopped missing you. You left me here and there and allowed me to take my life back piece by piece. I’m still at home, living with my shadows, painting with my colors, planning my great escape. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but something tells me you already know how this will all end.