everyday poetry

red lipstick on a white paper coffee cup

a perfumed bath and book on tape

a perfect cocktail glass, yellow with red cherry inside, smells like the beach

looking twice

petals showering down from an old bouquet

tra la la in foreign tongues

chocolate then crepe then paper holder then napkin then hand

sharp heels and marble floors click click click

table for two

wait

abide, anticipate, await, bide, bide one's time, dally, delay, expect, fill time, foresee, hang onto your hat, hang out, hold back, hold everything, hold on, hole up, keep shirt on, lie in wait, lie low, linger, look for, look forward to, mark time, put on hold, remain, save it, sit tight,stall, stand by, stay, stay up for, stick around, sweat it, tarry, watch


carry out, do, forge, forward, go, go ahead

an invitation

They are corially invited by this corially (and formally) to spend a few traversing New York days. Oh yeah and you can moreover spend a few times with me. Take 7 shoes with you, therefore we can go the city. We can buy (I do not promise diamonds).

And, if the day is --, we can take a step of return and enjoy our room

; -Jacuzzi, must offer. This offer is during a limited time
-- finally, I receive an older daily newspaper. to chamfer an act.

underwater world

She woke up in a daze. Her head hurt, badly. She didn’t want to open her eyes. The room was muggy and hot. Her body was damp in her thin cotton nightgown. She looked at the clock. 9:oo. Too late to go to class now, and besides she hadn’t done the reading. Shit. She walked out into the living room. Niko had folded up the blankets and straightened the futon: there was a note that said “I went running, call if you want to get breakfast later.” He had done the dishes, too. All the glasses and the late night snack she had made the two of them. She walked into the kitchen and immediately felt nauseated. She sat on the cold linoleum for a moment before dragging herself back to her bed. She slept a few more hours.

She woke up hungry. Hungry for something greasy and fast. She stumbled into the bathroom and took 5 pills: two prozacs, one allergy pill, and two aspirins. She peeled off her nightgown and tossed on a light sundress, not bothering with underwear or make-up. She combed her hair briefly through her fingers and flipped it into a pony tail. She went to the front door and considered for a moment whether she looked too unruly to be outside. She shrugged to herself and opened the door.

Her bike was gone! It was stolen! Who would steal this bike? The gears don’t work and only the left break functions. Oh, wait. She had left it at school the day before. Its probably still there. Crisis averted. She hopped in the car and went to the drive-thru, a fried chicken sandwich and large sweet iced tea. Her head still lightly throbbed; she was so thirsty. When she got back to the house there was a small box on the porch.

She picked it up and looked at the Fed-Ex paper attached to the front. Two day delivery from New York. She carried it upstairs and threw it on her bed. She took a long sip from her plastic sweet tea cup. She began to peel the tape up on one side of the cardboard. Then the other. Then she separated the flaps and peeked inside.

No note. She pulled out some packing paper and picked out a small box wrapped in bubble wrap. It looked like a Christmas ornament. She unraveled the packaging to reveal a small box containing a New York snowglobe. The large white snowflakes sat on the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty. She shook it—instant blizzard. Then she let it go calm again. Clear. Calm. Then blizzard again. She wanted to keep the little people in the mini buildings on their toes. Calm, storm, calm, storm, tiny rattle...

She grabbed her cell phone and sent out a text:

Thanks. That was really sweet. I don’t feel like talking today though. But thanks.

She stripped off her sundress and crawled back into the sheets, and slept until evening.

bargaining with a higher power

If I get this job

in Italy

I promise to wear

fake eyelashes and red lipstick everyday

and never ever sulk and

Remember every late night

and write every letter

and learn how to bake bread

and return every phone call, and start

to pull all the days off my day calendar again.

If you give me some direction I’ll take it with bells on,

all forward motion and sidesteps and skips

I will buy fresh flowers every week

and have clean sheets and loose leaf tea

I’ll call everyone more and remember to do my hair.

I will

Open up my heart again

and let the good ones in, I’ll hold them tight and stay all night

I’ll remember to eat

and wake before the alarm

Stop biting my nails and paying late fees

If I get a good chance, if I get a small push

I promise promise promise to be happy again.

locust plague

i haven't abandoned this space
i'm just been climbing up and down a ladder
and think its time to move horizontally

i'll let you know. you look great today, by the way.

deep roots

i
excitedly called
my mother
to tell her
about the
sudden sprouting of my new
gladiola bulbs

"i hope you planted them deep in the ground"
she said
"or they'll fall over"

"they must be deeply planted

or they'll fall over."

not me.

life is sometimes overwhelming. i am at a loss for inspiration. so I leave you with the first words of Eluard that made me love him, long ago as an undergraduate in the south....


La courbe de tes yeux fait le tour de mon coeur,
Un rond de danse et de douceur,
Auréole du temps, berceau nocturne et sûr,
Et si je ne sais plus tout ce que j'ai vécu
C'est que tes yeux ne m'ont pas toujours vu.
Feuilles de jour et mousse de rosée,
Roseaux du vent, sourires parfumés,
Ailes couvrant le monde de lumière,
Bateaux chargés du ciel et de la mer,
Chasseurs des bruits et sources de couleurs,
Parfums éclos d'une couvée d'aurores
Qui gît toujours sur la paille des astres,
Comme le jour dépend de l'innocence
Le monde entier dépend de tes yeux purs
Et tout mon sang coule dans leurs regards.


I honestly believe these are the first words of the surrealist french movement I learned. Beautiful, no?

mermaid

and the little girl said to the old man in the grey hat:

when I die I will become a mermaid, and every time someone feels that the water is cold in a spot its because I am there, kissing their knees in the ocean.

the beautiful new orleans life

on the radio:
DJ says now we're gonna play something by my neighbor over on julia street; you can't buy the recording but you can stop by the house on thursday nights for a jam session

at the post office:
old woman waiting in line next to me says I wish I had pretty legs , I would wear a dress like that;
i think i wish i wasn't too young to rock that fabulous hat.

in class:
can we drink some run and talk about why the free market doesn't work in venezuala?

and when friends stop by with bottles of wine and mini rose bushes, how can you not smile
smile
smile??

nights like now

there is a yearning
in my
heart
for paris

the yearning that comes
every time
i am
unsure
about the future.

the sky is blue.
the grass is green.
and paris is there if i need it.

a poem?

find me
a job
in (international)
women's
rights

please?

(its my only escape)

gossip

whisper whisper
about the
kindofgirl
to wear
rhinestones
on her stocking

won't you be my neighbor?

i have started a new project for 2009: a photography blog with my lovely friend in London. i am posting under the name Basil L'americaine.

check it out if you would like: neighbor//neighbour

i will still write all my poetry and fiction here, bien sur.

happy new year kittens.

dear mr beautiful

(at home for the holidays i found this letter i wrote a while ago. i don't even remember who i wrote it to or when: i think its better that way)

Dear Mr Beautiful,

You are very charming. Smooth. Slippery. And I needed to be kissed like that. But its all over before it begins. Because you already made it very clear that you are in love with someone else, and that’s where I stand. And though I don’t feel it now, I can see things developing. I can see myself envisioning chilly nights with foreign dinners, listening to songs with your face in my head, picking out wine with your taste in mind. Because I can see you are dangerous. Meanwhile you’ll be writing postcards across the sea to a girl I’ll never be, while I look at the dent on my pillow. So let me save you some time, and save myself some money on lacy lingerie- because no matter what I wear I’m still me and no matter what you do I’ll blame myself.

Thanks anyway,

me

searching. and searching.

law library catalog.
subject: non-legal careers

no matches found. nearby subjects are:
Non Par Value Stocks -- See No-par-value stocks 1
Non Performance Law -- See Breach of contract 1
Non Postal Stamps -- See Revenue-stamps 1
Non Profit Organizations -- See Nonprofit organizations 1
Non Profit Sector -- See Nonprofit organizations 1
Non Profits -- See Nonprofit organizations 1
Non Resistance To Government -- See Government, Resistance to
--subdivision Protest movements under individual wars, e.g. World War, 1939-1945--Protest movements

pigs fly

ce matin, il neigait -->

à

la nouvelle

-->

orléans

right now

marc says "the most me that i am is the me i am with you"

smoking cloves in the kitchen at 1AM the night before his exam
he says "i am free now

come to NY with me
and my girlfriend"

and i look at the black and white tiles
in the kitchen
the smoke blazing from the clove
the smoke hovering over the champagne glass i have offered
and honestly

i don't know

honestly

against the black and white tiles

i don't know

the buzz

all the little birdies go tweet tweet in my ear/ telling me to pack up the trunks and move up to The City/

if i can make it there i'll make it anywhere

i don't know birdie/ let me have a tête-à-tête with the economy/
whitewash my resumé/

all i know is 2009
is going to contain multitudes

two

lets go to the movies
and sit in the front row
and cuddle under my scarf 'cause its cooooollllllddd in there

then to the diner with black coffee in mugs
and i'll make some joke about the
fact that you use 'sweet n low'
and you'll act like
you think i'm funny (and blush)

we'll talk about the movie and you'll disagree with me about the ending

and we won't drink
and you won't be married
and i won't be sad and
you won't be french
and we'll get along like foam and waves

you'll bring me presents of little tea cups from flea markets and i'll paint on your bedroom door,
and you'll love me sans makeup at 6 PM, or with fake eyelashes and wigs at 8 in the morning,
and i'll love your plaid socks and your hair after showers, and you'll pretend to like my hideous lamp and i'll pretend to listen when you talk about henry miller and

our friends together will make perfect dinner party guests

June

"Oh June...." they would say.
June has red hair and sleek eyebrows. She has a long neck (like a ballerina) and a small freckle on her earlobe.

"June?" says Jake, "What do you love?"

"Whatever I love," says June, "I love the most at 4:32 AM."

June hasn't repainted the house (the outside) and the paint is chipping like her fingernails and the tip of the nose of the garden gnome. June hasn't cut the grass in ages (the monkey grass) but she personally picks all the dandelions.

"June?" says Jake, "Would you please turn that music down?"

"It is down," says June, "It is the saddest song I know."

June's grandmother lives in a room that smells like cinnamon rolls and has curtains with big yellow blossoms. She (the grandmother) crochets little snowflakes that June puts on her dresses. June's tension is off on her sewing machine.

"Grandmother," says June, "Green tea makes you defensive. Try roobinos."

June walks down one side of the street and runs down the other. She cut her hair to above her ears and bought a pair of glasses from Paris* (the thrift store).

"June?" says Jake, "No one will believe that big diamond on your finger is real, you silly goose."

"I'm married to Mr. Cordova," says June. "He is a scientist in Brazil." June lays in the grass and closes her eyes, she can see the sun through her eyelids and hear the ants scrambling nearby. She runs to the market to buy basil for her grandmother,

there are grass strains on her ballet slippers. Oh, June...

complacency

laying in the bathtub
reciting my

"opening statement"

but really i'm

reciting the mantra of
why didn't I go to art school?

its hard not to recall the
black beaches of réunion
or

listlessness

when COMPLACENCY means get inspired instead of get a new life

sigh

I'm in deep.

où?

i always thought i would end up with an artist

to blend
our create
ivity
morning noon night

i'mlooking/ until i'm allworn out

there are so many unwritten letters in myheart with no one to be sent to.

work.

cocktails
for me
and the editors of
the journal (the best journal)

everyone whispered
"you
would have been
editor-in-chief,
if
you hadn't gone to
France again"

tell me something i didn't know
like i need
another reason
to regret

(but we are going to do well
and
thats
all that matters)


law and
sexuality?
priority.
it will be good
if it kills me

even if it isn't
mine.

rusty fire escape:

talk to me

squeak squeak squoak

all.that....

all head-to-toe in designer suits from
pretending to be
all-grown-up

straight to my favorite
jazz club where
the drinks are strong
and its always sweet sweaty

the trombone player jumps onto
the bar and
the red and blue lights
dance
off his brass
instrument of entertainment;
more violent
than the couples
twirling crazy on the floor;
shuffle shuffle kick;
faster than the
amber beer
swirling in my glass as my hips shake
gyrate
to the rhythm.

the paneled walls swirl. lights in everyone's hair
it bends.
it all bends.

his shoes shuffle around rocks glasses, bottles
and the trombone bobs
precariously around heads
until he yells at everyone to
call back the tune
call back the tune
call back the tune

and we oblige. my ankles and wrists in perfect syncopation.

the singer wails
"i'll lay my
body on
canal street" and we agree
raising glass, hands, voices
until the
heat
sound
passion
sweat
overflows from sweet frenchman street
on a thursday
night
in new
orleans.

mix it up, bartender.
mix it up for me.

beep, clank

laverne scott
carries
a pocket full of magnets


looking for
a
love robot.

i shot andy warhol

andy painted life and filmed people as people and not things.

(becoming part of the machine?)

life: art and love
is art and love

um, no.
um, yes.

art can come from a machine, (but it doesn't turn the gears)

if you put the microphone in the shot people don't forget it is a movie.
because reality is not like this, um, no.

off the mark

do you have any more lessons for me??

he said before i slammed the door

somethings never,
ever
change.

i have a vocabulary word: compassion.

spell it out. use it in a sentence.

you eat grass and i'll pirouette on the hardwood floor (smells like lemons and dust); there's a million of you and only [] of me. i'll never get back that nickle and dime: is this called "making memories"?

i wouldn't eat you
even if you were wrapped in felt and syrup.

mark it down in your composition book.

lost and found

faubourg marigny, new orleans, la

sometimes i cry / thinking of sitting in your dusty bar in st germain / listening to me and bobby mcgee / drinking champagne with your friends / you would lean over the bar/ to kiss me / and i would say 'play that song again, cheri....' /

is that better
than brunch in
the marigny with
the best girls i know?

i think not, cheri....

aller retour

i stamped my passport
on the border of
my own little world

must go back
to civilization
-- out of chai
and my hair hasn't been washed
in four days

will she survive the reverse culture shock?

indian summer

i will
toss and turn
all night
in these
cotton sheets
amillionmilesaminutemythoughts

every summer
is an

indian summer

in new orleans.


take it in,
and let it out.

it doesn't have to be hard

the tightrope is only two feet from the ground

just step to the side,
its ok.

unpacking means old journal entries

April 8, 2003

And so one day I woke up and I was twenty years old, about to move out of the dorms and into my first apartment amidst boxes of schoolbooks and scrapbooks and journals now nearly a decade old or more. And one day I woke up in the arms of a boy and it was true blue love and thought "How did I get here? When did I get here?" because the waiting is supposed to be over and it seems as though it has just begun.
One day I woke up and I had credit card debt and birth control and essays about french existentialists. And my mom needed me.
One day I woke up and was drinking wine and coffee because I liked it and not because I was trying to look older. I was reading CNN and waiting to hear if my old friend was still alive in Kuwait. I was planning trips to London.
And one day I woke up and I was twenty and I asked myself "Is this where you wanted to be? Is this you? and I disregarded the increasing pounds and the diminishing funds and said
"I am where I always wanted to be."
And all of a sudden twenty seemed so young.





ed note:
twenty is so young. to be a baby again...

un-vacuation// hurrication

(acworth, ga)

gustav
gust of inter
ruption
of paris rehabilitation

underneath the florescent lights we all glow
the humidity is awe-inspiring
focus is at an all time low

i would blow into gulf waters too


afternoon bike ride in audobon park and i swear the spanish moss almost reached out and grabbed me

re: 9:39

i want to say how much i hate you
how much you have torn me
apart

and i am trying to find my way back together
how you have
shattered
me
and broken
me
and made me a different, more skeptical person

made me tired
sad

tired


i want to say how
you are a bad,
bad, person
how you took advantage of me
how you used me
and hurt me

hurt me
and hurt me
and hurt me

but i can't


so i just say
"je veux t'oublier. laisse-moi tranquille." to your

empty

empty

empty words.

evacuation

what else is new?

9:39 AM (3 hours ago)

c est dommage ce ki est arrive je suis desole j aurai voulu que ce soit autremement j espere que tu vas bien

bts

lunch box and notebooks

today is everyday
forever

its not you, its me

Dear Paris,

By the time you read this I will be gone so there is no point in trying to stop me.

I remember when I first saw you, 8 years ago. You were so beautiful. I felt like we were immediately compatible.

It hasn’t always been easy. Off and on -- remember that gorgeous autumn we spent together in 2002? Or the spring trees in 2004? 2006 I’ll never forget. And summer of 2007 sealed the deal. I knew we could make it. Everything about you made me happy. When you weren’t around I thought of you constantly.

But lets face it- this year things have changed. Its been tough. I feel like I’m different, you are different... How can I put this? I need a break. I don’t think we should see each other for a while.

I realize this means I will probably have to hear stories of other girls being with you, how much fun they are having, how wonderful you are. I’m not going to pretend that it won’t be hard.

Its not you, its me. I need something different out of life now. I hope we can stay close, and, if it isn’t too improper to say, I feel we’ll be together again soon. But for now I ask that you respect my space.

Prenez soin de vous.

-Lucie

what does sabrina say?

'on va se mimoser......'
bring on the champagne

perspectives

I.
you have your australian girl but at least i have my dignity.

II.
miss maggie hall tore all he petals off of all the rosebuds.
"better to destroy it now than to let it slowly disappoint you."

III.
we were just manifestations of each other's self loathing.

kinder

berlin tea
in germany
you and me



we
will
see.

a wall is a wall is a wall

berlin is hot and shocking

two years ago
i was here

trying desperately to stop my own passivity and fall totally in love

this time
...(lets just say)
the irony is not lost on me

your sad fate

you
had
two
girlfriends
and
now
you
have
none.

la fin de la fin de la fin

maybe my heart is bigger than your heart?
and my eyes half closed.
your lies would be less bitter if you thought you were wrong

but you aren' t the only one spinning stories
i lied too-- when i told you i love you

i thought i loved you
i thought i loved you because it was hard



you can spend 10 hours making a cake

but no one will eat it

if there's no sugar inside.

the offer

a little list on yellow legal pad
one side: [france]
one side: [US]
a silly little list

both sides, started organized and with straight penmanship, suddenly falling apart- turning to scribbled words, double underlining, circles and stars

pain au chocolat*notre dame*parc des poetes*the firm*les marches aux puces*steak tartar*

my brother*convenience*a garden*thanksgiving*the comfort*service*heat

...
the autumn wind*bordeaux with the girls*cobblestone*verlan text messages*centre pompidou*

a big kitchen*craft stores*netflix nights with gin and tonic*brunches*florida beaches from my youth...



when i start listing names it gets really messy.


there is no man on either side
and my heart seems to be

just in the middle
<3

jealous

he said
i thought of you last night
\
my eyes light up
yeah?
/
i watched a film with a /very/ jealous boyfriend
he called and she didn't answer
he went all the way to her house screaming!!
\\\///

i said




from you?




not funny.

coincé

we stopped to kiss in front of the catholic church on rue poincarré after a dinner of tartar at my favorite little place. "jolie église" he said. his eyes grazed my body,

"you're wearing a white dress" he said, and lightly tugged my wrist toward the church doors.

the last time we slept together we didn't even make love. we were both so tired. so tired.

its always a problem connecting people and places. to the extent that leaving one makes leaving the other seem like the only option.

text message inbox poem; a lesson in rendez-vous

Question: whats the university downtown nola?

Be there asap - yo got into a fight with a fellow q-er

hey honey lets go to the soldes this weekend!

compte principale épuisé. pensez a appeller le 224 pour recharger.

je suis invite?

try to find a taxi baby

nous sommes a gare montparnasse

i love you too-- ne me trompe pas stp

want to meet at scossa at 6 30 or so? biz

j'arrive ma cherie

soutenir

i finally understand housewives




because i need one

the bright side

it is still blue


hate to say - - i told me so

ow

it hurts:






my heart.



tu dis des mots automatiques pendant que mon coeur brise.

slowmotion

a few weeks in s l o w m o t i o n and
existential crises at
3AM in his bathroom
he doesn’t know how to handle me like this

waiting for the bus
and some guy on a bike says
“you have beautiful blue eyes. are you lost?”
I just look at him
you have no idea....

between the devil and the deep blue sea

dolly parton keeps telling me she'll
always love me
and this cheap bottle of gin means
its exam time.

outside the rain is tapping on the glass roof
and i'm staring at droit fiscal
i know that means tax law
(and thats about all i know)

i didn't count any chickens yet, at least

but failure sounds sweeter in another tongue
and all i want is champagne and kisses
(sometimes people are too accommodating.)

peach and i lived la vie boheme for 48 hours sugary and crisp
i miss her musical voice
back in london, non-school land, lovers bliss

why did i think this was a good idea?
i've got no sense to come in when it hails.
[i'll go back to the firm tomorrow and pretend that it doesn't exist and that i am done with all this nonsense and have a joblife instead of incessant jlobbery-glook.]

if i fail the little white daisies will still be there
and the powder blue sky
B is for bombshell and buttons and ohmeomeohmy
and the champagne and kisses

even though my insides will be mustery mush moosh

slice of the south

a little part of me
is .foreverchanged.
since i found a
magnolia tree
in paris

wuv

if you were a chapter book
and i was a 5th grader


i would write my book report on you
with a shoebox diorama.

april was

april was the fastest time
the 1-2 step
to a 5-9 tempo

i'm crawling into the oasis
to drink every bit of him

one two three four

precipitation anticipation

I can’t exactly put my finger on it, but something about the walk home from Cambronne always reminds me of playing outside in the early summer in Georgia. Maybe it’s the fact that there are a lot of leafy green trees on some of the roads that I take. Maybe it’s the calm feeling I get when I leave Charlie’s apartment and stretch my legs a little, with smoky hair and my ballerina slippers. Maybe it’s the poppies in the park, or the little kids on the swingsets.

Today was not an exception. Sunday afternoon and sunny, slight breeze. And then all of a sudden the sky turned very dark and the breeze became a bit more menacing, several large raindrops fell on my forehead.

All I could think of is that moment when you are on your bike, a mile from home, circling around your little girlfriends, and that feeling arrives. The blue shifts, the wind flips your ponytail, and you know you better step on it, fast, if you want to make it home before the sky opens up and empties itself of all those hot summer raindrops.

The kind that sizzle and pop when they hit the hot hot black pavement, letting off puffs of steam.

men explain things to me

men

explain this

crazy

complicated

mixed up world

that I just can’t seem to wrap my little girl head around.

and the best part is,

I don’t even have to ask!

amazing facts

+The king of hearts is the only king without a moustache on a standard playing card//
+When glass breaks, the cracks move faster than 3,000 miles per hour//
+I'm having trouble being faithful to my new boyfriend//
+Slugs have 4 noses//
+Owls are one of the only birds who can see the color blue//

never knew

miss cecelia rose
misses people
whom
she wishes
she never knew.

he said

you look as delicious
as a pain au chocolat,
fresh out of the oven.

with me
you'll
/ always /
be spoiled.

apéro// apropos

“My cell phone doesn’t work at my house or at the house where I work.”

“You mean, at the office where you work?” he said, peering at me over his beer.

“Oh you are making fun of my french now? Do you want to talk in english? Would that be easier for you?” I said, and gave him a little dirty look.

“No, not english. I am awful at english,” he said.

“Hello, how are you? The cat is on the table. Where is the...”
before I could finish my English lesson, he smothered me in kisses.

rue losserand

wore my new blue shoes
to the dive bar
down the street

and now i'm in love
in so many ways.

its refreshing.

breathe

breathe


breathe






breathe

^manifest destiny^

i could be a french teacher in a southern high school or a divorce laywer in reno

i could be married to one of the trust fund babies that seem to find me, two kids and a penchant for baking pies

i could be slacking off in the suburbs, or sweating it back in new orleans

i could be with the german, or the californian, or the persian or the new yorker,

(but that would be too easy.)
you can’t pick what the heart wants
[and i’ve never felt that more than right now.]

truth is
its
really really really really hard.

but the second i stop challenging myself is the second i give up.

and i don’t give up.

at least,
the me i want to be
doesn’t give up.
the me i want to be,
does not fuck trust fund babies
or live in one language/or love in one country
or continue straight away.

i can’t continue straight away

i. just. can’t. trust. that. damn. map.

sunday mornings and wednesday nights i want it to be easy. those are the times i want to be with you. those are the times i want to understand. just understand. understand everything.

the me i want to be understands.
the me i want to be creates.

\

the me i want to be: she loves the hurt, (it means its not too easy).

april is national poetry month

30 ways to celebrate

i know some poets like to write a poem a day in april. i don't like to force my writing but i will try to write some more little poems than usual this month, or rather, post more little poems that i write that might normally fall into my archives.

my favorite poets are the american beats and the french surrealists, which, at the end of the day, describes me pretty well i think. i am thankful i have these wonderful words in my life

.

je n'ai jamais écrit
croyant le faire
je n'ai jamais aimè
croyant aimer
je n'ai jamais rien fait
qu'attendre
devant la porte
fermée

- Marguerite Duras

reality

everyone thinks i want gq
mr money
ceo
the iv

but i
crush
hard
on
chefs&carpenters
*

/pretend..

hey, do you remember the night we crawled into the coconut shell? and we kissed and kissed and kissed in the coconut milk like two little baby kittens who couldn’t stop rubbing against each other. my body isn’t warm without your body. my fingers only reach out to touch you. my tongue tastes nothing but your sweetness and salt. do you remember when we slept in the sand pail? it rubbed against our skin until we were nothing but vulnerable, nothing but innocent and pink. my body isn’t whole without your body inside of me. my ears hear only your whispers. do you remember when we crawled into the car tire? it deflated all around us and the only air we could breathe was from each others lungs, from each others chests. tummy to tummy. cheek to cheek. feet tangled.

my body aches only for your body and my body only sleeps next to your body.

the secretary

I’m not even lying when I say to you that I took ballet lessons for about 8 years out of the back of a country store.

We moved to Kennesaw, Georgia, from Stone Mountain, Georgia when I was still a baby because my father got a job there for a roofing company. His office was across the street from my “ballet studio,” which was the back room of a two story country store. It was a wonderland of peach potpourri, handmade rocking chairs, hand-dipped candles, and stuffed bears with parasols and Scarlett O’Hara dresses. My ballet instructor was the red haired, big-eyed daughter of the couple that ran the store. To me she was a goddess.

My father’s office was in a small white building across the street, across Main Street of course. Sometimes he would pick me up from ballet on his way home. I would climb up into his big pickup and listen to the radio for the three minutes it took to get to the house. One time in particular, I couldn’t have been more than 6 or 7 years old, and he told me to come with him back to the office for a minute before going home.

The office was uncharted territory for me.

We walked in and my father plopped me down on a chair in the room, straight across from his secretary, while he wandered over to the vending machine. The room smelled like paper and carpet, my chair was hard and black. The secretary sat at a big metal desk covered in architect paper and a bulky beige phone with a shoulder rest. The phone had so many buttons! His secretary was intriguing; I couldn’t divert my eyes no matter how hard I was trying to be polite. She smiled at me with her magenta lips and I rustled around on the chair in my tutu and tights.

“What’s your name, darlin’?” she asked, squinting her eyes a little. I didn’t say anything, just blushed and looked down, fingering the tulle of my tutu. She went back to typing with her long acrylic fingernails on a huge IBM.

My father returned with a moon pie from the vending machine and handed it over to me. I grabbed his hand and pulled his face down towards mine and whispered in his ear:

“But daddy, when she types on the computer she doesn’t even have to look at the keys!!”

tired

my body is tired

my mind is tired

and if i knew where my home was

i would want to go there now.

sunday morning

I wake up this morning after a rather interesting, wild night out, to a message:
Tant que c’est moi qui paie la soirée je crois qu’il n’est plus nécessaire que tu viennes a l’avenir.

For those of you who don’t speak french, here is a translation:
"You are a total bitch for not wanting to sleep with me anymore, and because I had to go home alone it makes me feel better to leave you nasty messages at 4 AM."




The thing is, even though I know this true translation......





it made me cry anyway.