mock the bird

in walking Kadapul petals fall to coat my steps

but really they’re just dirty leaves

as my daydreams waft into another direction

there is a certain equalizer in knowing

something comes this way and we all feel it

thoughts crumble upon the upward pounding of my feet

instinct against the grain

follow through with the maps in my head

stop and wave at a child and her puppy

another block and sun does shine

a mother talks a husband hounds

from his sitting family

‘what do you want to drink’

with coffee in left hand

passer bys ignore me

i blend into the posted centennial wall

the one by the bronze pig heads

and the bike racks rented by the Metro line

death mask faces reflected in mine

our wrinkles in the old and young

mock the bird silhouettes of our sky

our return in trying to make sense of our lives

pieces of LA dream

dawn she comes to knock on my window like room service the same time every day

i found myself floating on a cloud with a pink hounds tooth pattern covered ironing board

on it one of L Cohen’s suits and through the little poofy clouds Motley Crüe played girls girls girls that sounded an awful lot like so long Marianne

earlier during the dark part of the 24 hours i could not sleep nor did i want to so i bought some fancy eye cream to hide those saggy violet rings

i try to journal certain things that need goodbyes but it’s not that easy i’d be writing my fingers right down to a stub

life is funny how she crouches like a tiger and pounces when least expected like when i stained my bed sheets with menstrual blood that one time and i was sad and angry for months because it was a loss a woman never really heals from

then one starts to think about the turnips on sale and how i should have bought some but at least i got my baby broccoli  so i’ll survive

dawn paves the way for morning with Chai tea and a triple espresso chaser i start to stare again out of the window of the room but today i will be ready for the sneaky tigers


the dream menu comes it’s passed around to random strangers as we zig zag through the 2nd street tunnel lined with ceramic tile once virgin white now black as desert sky my favorite graffiti walls cryptic messages like seven bones in my life i’ve only broken 8 we are used to this air nose hairs full of stuff a little boy picks at his scabs and momma holds his cup the number 81 to Eagle Rock plaza goes but we’re not ready for the home bound road instead i cruise ball heel toe over to Grand Central and order a cheese pupusa that i don’t eat and don’t know why i bought from the corner of the eye i see the three delicious ones with mint julep eye lashes calling each other a dirty trollop after a few search engine insults trollop Sassy Ass #1 goes to the ladies washroom to turn back the hands of time on her five o’clock shadow she says Adam’s apple gliding up and down i lose interest quickly as i smell a puff of clove and delay the inevitable loneliness of thought by joining the awe and admiration of booth A23 and their giant Jack fruit bowl a delicacy for the valiant but not for me today and i begin to miss Walt Whitman even though he’s never met me and Lash Larue movies on Sunday afternoon when life was very simple like begonias in the sun with the savory lure of schnitzel and Ute Lemper singing songs

pink paws

The walls spun around as the grains of steamed rice rolled off the table top like drops of mercury. Asian ladies watched in slow motion as thick moisture atop my brow trickled into a stream. My mouth parched and cottony could no longer pass air through my teeth to form words. I used my eyes to find contact, to cry for help. Nothing. Just stares. The breezes coming through to cool down the sweaty wanderers in the buzzing basement had now spun into typhoon winds crashing into my body.

Guatemalan gawkers and Salvy breast touchers hovered over my limp body laid out in crucifix formation on the concrete floor.    

“Nina, nina, are you okay?” said one Oaxacan with a blinking Bluetooth on his left ear.

From where my head laid, I could see the plastic bags filled with pea green plantains, shrimp and Jose Cuervo. One woman with thick legs and a large camel toe bent over me, almost in a bowing formation. I thought I was saved.

“Rafa, Rafa, coll de fire meinz, andale!!” She belted out as she turned her great ass toward my face and the light went out.

No one read minds. Had someone known that my chest was imploding and my soul hovered above me playing poker with John Fante, they would have called for help much sooner.


as a babe i was never the tender one in the infancy of the developing footsteps of the mind i was just a soldier trained and not raised for raising would mean a coup at some point i was rather just a little girl kid lost on the floor of Grand Central Market amongst the watch towers of produce foxholes of spices grenades of chow mein and old man coffee napalm Kurtz was at every corner and my bayonet still could never hook the salmon filets embalming in the smoky mist of downtown bus pollution of course not being an heir of Grant or Lee i fell back in the back of most everything but my duty was not to keep score but rather lead the budding anarchy of my Phoenixian heart

i hate coffee now

she came on the wave of

eggy breathes of revelers

choking on designer swine

I’d never seen a soul so simple

but in coffee intertwined she

talked of your affections

so disappointed that she wasn’t

taken to New York and how those

big blue ones scowled at her

but rest assured that my face

never betrayed the offers

made to me at our cafe

in a moment of nothing

when I thought I was something

in your words filled with emptiness