sunset park

I have all these hours I hardly remember.

as if the minute it permeates through my body,

the liquid warmth sinking in to my satisfaction -

my memory dissipates,

coagulates,

birthing an entity that I don't know to be my own.

but it is mine, taking up this home, driving the uncontrollable fingertips, these ever expanding ribs,

spewing nonsense on autopilot,

falling asleep next to another body once the sun comes up again.

two hours

maybe

three,

throw the sheets off,

leave.

 

instinctual decisions.

sometimes they slip into evenings,

tucked away into the words, the haze of smoke and the limbs of lead,

and disappear

or slip into his hair,

leave its aroma on your skin the next day

until the warm water dances off your face

and the soap washes it all down the drain.

 

but the gaze of others,

the singe that is knowing what part of you is not for them to hold,

cannot melt

in the cold of recluse,

in the nights of gratification

having departed

and gone away for good.

 

 

california/thoughts whilst driving on highway 1

like most humans,

I am full of contradictions -

appalled at your utter boyishness

as if I was one of them.

only ever partially engaged,

playing trap music in your underwear one minute

and touching me carefully the next.

perhaps it is your own insecurity that compels you to mock me

and kiss me

and hold me

and leave me be

all in the same breath.

 

I thought I had grown accustomed to independence, loneliness,

distancing by default.

but I couldn't help but ache floating above the clouds on the airplane

revisiting those fleeting hours,

jazz, opportunism, merits,

feeling the sadness seep through my bones

having been pushed and wanting,

waiting,

to be pulled back.

 

I knew what it meant by you dropping the rope that sprung us back into reality

as I disintegrated away with those nights too temporary to embrace.

I secretly wished I bore the ability to bend time when I initially asked for its brevity.

and maybe,

even in all its infidelity,

that's what hurt most of all.

 

I never expected to care as much as I do now,

drifting off to fading enamorment 

that you don't really desire to relive,

a connection too superficial

to wake you,

a woman normally basking in integrity and confidence

wondering what went wrong here.

 

The feelings don't run crushingly deep,

they are not the trenches buckling under the weight of the earth,

but they sure do miss you.

 

Where did we go,

where did we go

I don't know.

humbert humbert

You never got your poem from me. The one you cried upon hearing I was writing it.

But I am not here to respect or admire you like I once did

because you took my home of a body

rearranged the furniture to your liking

just so you could call it yours

 

When you rang the doorbell and I never came

you picked the lock

made your way in where you didn't fit

and knew it too

you told me you weren't a thief,

yet stole all my prized possessions, unwarranted

shut the windows and formed shutter shades with your sweaty vintage clothes,

the wallpaper your zodiac pages of counterfeit seduction,

the living room your car where your fingers roamed free and refused the lease,

the bed you made from words you plucked out of my mouth and wove sheets with and wrapped yourself up in, a silk like skin, 

the kitchen your venue where your affinity for 40's era “hot” jazz never left enough room for women anyway.

a beard never felt so much like needles

a dragon in ink never felt so much like fire

and 21 extra years

never felt so heavy

on my fragile

underage

chest

like glass pressed between wood

brick collapsing onto mortar

 

The sickest thing was,

you told the neighbors I let you stay

and got by by convincing yourself I loved each visit of yours

while I sat there with my esophagus too swollen to speak from all the coercion

you followed my footprints, like I was only human when it was convenient for you

tucked me into bed with a comforter like plaster

as if my lungs had solace in finding no air

left with you lingering on my sheets, dripping on my refusing palms

so on the days I had living nightmares rampaging my mind,

I could not find safety in the confines of my own body.

 

You see, I don't care if I am a captivating artistic muse

or a mesmerizing Scandinavian love fantasy

or a sexual object and a shortcake face

because I am not the Lolita

that Vladimir speaks of

and no longer blame myself

for the narrative

I did not realize

was also my own

the controversy that you chose to ignore, then and now

as if it wasn't too impossibly a reality after all

but rather a plausible romantic story in your head. 

 

I am not where you pitch tents and make woodfires from the bones and skin of innocence,

not your outlet of Freudian utility

I am the home that stands alone

and when I desire guests,

I will invite them, voluntarily.

 

Let me be clear

while my innocence is on its way out -

I am not

and never will be

your home.

 

Aging Devotion - 7.21.16

in the midst of a chaotic universe

we are frozen

you,

feelings exposed in vulnerable air

asking for resolve

to answers I left blank

or second guessed too many times to count

interrupted by societal constructs,

to then be deconstructed by open mindedness and aural compass -

which I sometimes found myself following blindly, without explanation

and yours,

yearning for mutuality/reflexiveness

stronger with each silencing moment

half tortured and half enamored,

clashing in pursuit

hidden in the pockets of nocturnal time

away from them all

(enclosed) in silent cars

and unspoken exchanged looks

eyes searching for mine

until I look up

 

It is bittersweet

as you are unraveling

your heart has sliced open

you have fallen to your knees

at the pinnacle of your worship

and I am watching your devotion

unable to respond

and no one knows

to withdraw

or to come closer

but magnetization remains,

transfixed

inescapable

overwhelming

a crippling romance

at all hours

and all feelings

and all words

and all thoughts

Remain

Bildungsroman at Sutro Baths - 7.7.16

It is funny when I come back to this place.

familiar eucalyptus trees that were the veins of my 7 year old limbs and ladybug rainboots

and a memory of beagle-lab panting and jumping through dunes of sand and iceplants in the San Francisco fog

a place that once ignited childhood

the same place that occupied a young arts community that refused to comprehend the enigma of a scatterbrained young female jazz based musician,

alienated as an artistic voice that doesn't sound

like cracked bongs and cyber high diplomas feel.

 

My eyes have glazed over

the aspiring soundcloud rap artists with no black origins

the girls with nipple piercings who put on a front for a living

the people who shunned me because mokes were more important

putting on an all too enthusiastic beg for conformation

and from what?

For who?

The only time I really wanted an acute accelerated heart beat

or tingling in my fingers and toes

was from anticipating performance.

I had done enough with self induced propriety

before I even lifted my lips to the spliff where the tobacco had rushed through my head

and sent me spiraling to the porcelain toilet

the exact moment when I knew displacement was something I couldn't pretend didn't exist anymore.

 

And I sit in the sand

late at night

searching for the stars for once instead of public approval because exhaust had overcome it

like I was the only friend I had ever really known

straddled somewhere between adulthood and juvenility,

longing for the simplicity of childhood 

longing for a recovery

the answers

that deep down I knew 

could not be recovered here.

 

and the cement battery walls get overwritten by graffiti

and the iceplants bear the suffering of glass bottles left to wreak havoc on the ground

they throw up on the sand that I used to stick my tiny hands in and get stuck underneath my fingernails and in the crevices of my boots

I can't read my old dog's pawprints up and down the hills anymore

The sand yields more discomfort than warmth, and the fog becomes no more than a nuisance

The stairs to the beach collapse in the storms

I don't remember the ocean like I used to

my dad surfs less and less these days

 

it is far easier to be in denial

than to let go.

 

It seems as if childhood was almost a life I did not know

for it had juxtaposed everything I felt 

It would become displaced in the New York snow

where the girl started to shed self destruction

and the ladybug boots found their wings

and they left the ocean in the morning

with the trace of a night they will never fully remember.

 

I suppose I had realized the importance of moving on

in a seemingly isolated place

knowing

comfort must coexist

somewhere.