Alone with the Town

my last friend left to Reno

drove through wildfires with his girl

and I’m alone in town

once I told him to get out

now I’m the only one who still comes round.

nowhere to cruise

in this country night of blue

Wal-mart and traffic lights glow

warm bodies stay inside

and watch the television glow

eating jello

heating water for tea in their midnight micro-

waves, oh

hell, I’m alone

again

on tile cold.

maybe I’ll shoot the bull

with the absent-minded, directionless voices in my head,

or blow my nose,

get the smoke out of my soul.

or play reggae guitar to the light of the moon

on my bed for two

missing you…

Yearning for Big Sur and salt and even Venice Beach,

when I’m really nostalgic,

tacos and lime

even Hawaii

your tongue and lips and throat

pronouncing my name

kissing my breath

on city wind night morning light sky roof

desolation,

that we were,

shouts and ATMs and sleepless Christmas

you were drunk and passionate

I was jaded-

I remember too often,

since life is small here–

but grand and golden in my heart:

its warm nights and my father’s eyes and mother’s arms

hometown heart beating the drum of my soul tune

and I want to cut through every town

and walk on dirty cement

trip on cobblestone

sit on crumbling curb

I love to dig the city, her footprints

her red, yellow, green stars

gas station moons

and diner suns

empty cinemas 1 a.m. drinking coca cola icees

by the light of the marquee

and her violet hair

my velvet and moonshine friends,

all silent now,

in far-off places

leaving me, for a short time,

alone in Desert town,

washed-up

past high school days

lingering

in longing…

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Heart Don’t Die

neon glowing white

hot flame blank screen

pages of you to write

but I only wish to

sleep for milleniums

until I find love in the concaves

of my dreams.

aunts, neighbors, collegues

open their mouths and have an opinion

no one asks what makes me happy

only wonder in silence if I’ll ever make money.

they care profoundly

about the wrong parts of my future.

are too burrowed in their own sorrows

to manage any optimistic words.

this is the moment

when everyone demonstrates

how little

they’ve ever known me.

sitting on piles of Hard Work and Dedication

[busywork, wasted time, and bullshit

nothing is meaningful under the sun

I could only be dedicated to something I love]

vaguely, distantly proud

because I was on the path they took

that led them to such

bliss-inspiring stability.

I don’t want my heart to die

as I grow older

I want to forget routine

and bullshit.

I only want to bleed

and see the cities

breathe their smoke

cough while laughing

kiss strawberrily and sleep in a haze

film foreign obscure dark themes

and forget the American dream.

Flavor in the dark

I understand flavor, and it charges my bones like batteries

merengue drums like my sensual soul

I want to spin across the room and drink in the orange lights

the dazzling cherry gin and juice in your dark hands

and I want you to take me to heaven

is it ok that I hold it all in?

that I don’t like to stand up and I don’t like their eyes

scanning me like their fast thoughts?

is it ok that it’s hard for me

to block every inhibition from my sporadic spirit?

sometimes I forget the music and hear only shadows,

and night, and I’ll want to be alone,

cocooned in a pressureless atmosphere,

no complicated voices, 

only starry solitude. flavor filling up my soul

when I can enjoy it without fear,

then we can truly dance-

us, introverted bats and lava lamps alive with

moonlight and kisses and rocks and open air

 

 
 

Roommate Rant #2 Waking up Blues

I fell asleep at dawn, 7 a.m. pure sunshine 

when I lived alone this wouldn’t be a problem.

I work at night                                  

                                          yelled at by rich, loco, coked out managers

paid under the table, can’t report them or

get a credit card, 

making tips only when I don’t look tired,

when I’m able to hide the pissed-off vibe

from my I-hate-your-bullshit eyes,

wiping the tourists’

tables and telling them, when they ask,

that they can find weed (whispered elegantly over the cash register)

from just about any homeless person in Venice Beach,

during everyone’s 

saccharine sweet summer fun California vacation.

 

and suddenly I’m a mother again,

being woken up at 11:30 a.m. (which is daytime folk’s 3 a.m.)

to ask if I have change for the bus,

or if I could spare my laptop for a few minutes.

I don’t have change,

and my laptop is dead,

and you are 3 years older than me,

yet I am more self-sufficient than you,

and you cannot wake me up just to ask me things like this,

I am not your mother 

but while we’re at it, 

would you please move your piles of clothes

from the middle of our floor to the closet?

and wash your dishes, and pay the rent,

so they stop bugging me to make you pay

just because I’m your friend.

you’re not in Vermont anymore,

nor are you in the Hollywood Dream you thought 

life without a plan would become here in LA.