today God tried your
painting method using skies
and tiny trickled
markings on the sand
He got most of the lines right
clouds and horizon
pebbles and calm waves
well what do you think Pablo
looking at His work
thinking not half bad
you suggested a line there
between sky and land
His and your eyes met
creating soft puffs of light
witness of splendor
Carol was trying to find a few cigarette butts to gut out to make a whole cigarette although she wasn’t a smoker she’d sell them to her neighbors in the tent next door for fifty cents with her thin arms and micro wrists she’d toil for a couple of weeks to raise enough money to go to the flower store on Los Angeles street and buy her parole officer a single rose or sometimes two or three red carnations i had met Carol while i was in high school at that time she was in her thirties she befriended me at People’s Store asking me about my perfume on account that she liked it i was a young punk and i told her that i wasn’t wearing any and walked off Carol stood there looking confused but the guilt gnawed at my chest and i could feel my ears turning hot and red i told my friend to go home and i walked backward a few steps toward Carol as i turned to her i mumbled at her that i was sorry for blowing her off and offered her my snickers bar she lit up and said thanks kid but i’d rather have some of that beer you have in your back pack i froze and denied having anything in my bag although i knew damned well i had a bottle of Daniels i didn’t like beer we both smiled knowing each other’s truth in bullshit every now and again i’d go looking for her with water bottles canned food and the occasional AJ note if i could spare it we talked about DTLA and Skidrow Carol laughed and i watched her and then she started to tell me about her family out in Virginia Carol had been a victim of many unspeakable things my relationship with Carol lasted for about three years or so her sanity was remarkable but as time went on it became unbearable to watch her sleep during the day in the summer LA heat her legs were encrusted with months of dirt and when i stared long enough at the splotches they were almost artistic or hieroglyphic in a way i stopped visiting for a few months to reckon with my own demons when i returned it was during spring time and Carol did not recognize me i found her on the corner of 6th and Wall squatted down bare footed picking peas out of a tin can with half a label that read Springfield by her feet was an old pill bottle that read Retrovir a few cigarette butts and a mangled how to live with HIV pamphlet
the raven takes me
these walls of her i leave now
born as daughter moon
there is something mystic about how you held your cigarette and smiled at me with soothing turquoise eyes and a twinkle in your tone the mere idea of your touch floods me in places that i cant mention while the lilies stand alone in glasses full of wine i still think of you at dawn and how you made me woman through your arms and your voice and your dreams and your thoughts i was every femme fatale sans the silver screen a dress up doll knitted in the silk of your tongue remember your company’s party we were better than the real Rick and Ilsa when did time go by Charlie now the moons have passed and people descend lower into madness and love is threatened by my not finding my place without you my Black Flag to your Rolling Stones my Smiths to your CCR but we both liked Kurt Weill and we both loved making love and greasy fries afterwards longing is hell am i that bad as to have lost you “he’s up in heaven so i’ve got to be good” every now and again i see your pea green fedora staring at me and it says ‘mornin, angel’ with that Indiana twang
decrease the speed wild
child of the streets the Queen begs
don’t rush life away
your LA spirit
girl troubadour of the night
rock hard and steady
Hollywood sign up
ahead but it tells you to
stop and see yourself
rocket pops blue tongues
raspberry lemon salute
sweetness in my soul
bitter beer hot dog
smoke woodsy lingers in my
pony tail swooshing
the hogs growl as the
jean and leather veterans’
eyes well up with Taps
the leathery feel
of my uncle’s tired hands
while i trace his scars
a little young girl
did see the poignant pain in
his tribulations
for ever brothers
gone away heroes to the
Elysium Fields
Today’s Word of the Day is Return.
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this haiku is not
about pretty flowers or
skies of blue and love
this second one is
to notify you that i
don’t write tenderly
hate me or like me
this is who i am just know
that you’re in my heart
paint
pavement
sacred there
in the pond
on the daily traveled sidewalks
in motion forever being touched with no feeling
i see how beautiful you are comfort for the industrial spawn city child
your orange backs stop my steps from going too far without smiling in the bleakness of the day waving docile fins
your jewel backs charming treasure afterthought of the straggler in the mood of the times scientology across the street while the bed bugs do battle cry by the patisserie of my distant sullied youth
in the pavement my eyes the news of the day beguiles to think that in your face there might be happiness
around you go with the brothers in the dark pool of my mind
i walk against a tide of lukewarm panic
no Buddha’s cloak can hide
the past that
keeps me
forced
inside
it’s very late and the crickets are bedding down in the banana trees for the night and behind the brick walls yes the ones tagged with nonsense the drunkard kings are pissing i’ve been kicked out of many a slummy joint you wouldn’t be the first bouncer to pop that cherry although i give you the fact that i was a little loud when the barkeep wouldn’t take my buck for a bottle of vodka but you understand i’m petite and not of swift feet when i’ve had a few tom collins’ down my gullet ok i get it don’t call my parent’s and that is not my id card but i do resent it when you won’t admit it that i’m the best duker in the bunch and while i have rosy knuckles to prove it let’s not point out last week’s black eye but don’t worry about me by the time i’m in my forties i might have been through a few programs for exceptional drinkers but psychoanalysis has nothing to do with a girl having fun on a Saturday night and by the way can you hold my hair back i feel a wave of chili coming up
words less spoken 