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.