time appears to have gone on forever and there is a big chunk of me whatever i am that has not changed on this day a very long time ago i was granted permission to come into this world to a big city that is just made of legend i learned very quickly that when the sun went down we all bled shit sleep fought hated just like each other no big difference not from the next city over not from the next country over and probably not from other planets today that old cautionary statement we only live above our demons but we never get rid of them swirls in my head i confess at times i don’t know how i think how i see things i don’t even know sometimes if i believe in pain emotional spiritual physical i don’t know the difference at times what does it feel like to be without pain does it feel the same as being in pain don’t know so here i am back at the Cecil Hotel right where i have always been obviously not in body but in soul sometimes when there is no one around to question the fuck out of me and why my face looks or doesn’t look how they want it to look that particular day i wonder am i a ghost i wonder have i been reincarnated i wonder when i look up and down Broadway and Main to the left or to the right and then i look up and turn around and i look at empty shells of buildings where gargoyles used to be decorations masonry ballrooms perhaps so much and then there will be a particular window that enraptures my eyes and i can’t look away and if i squint my third eye i swear i can see her young dark hair big green brown eyes i don’t know what her name would have been maybe Hazel maybe Dorothy who knows not a modern name and then when my third eye blinks she jumps
Grieving
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
spread the WLS
broken bottle
spider’s web on the corner
the dust and sunlight dance
a waltz
cracks in my bones books on my shelves chipped polish on my nails
the spider has gone to another land and i wonder if she was a pilgrim looking for God as well
not in the mood for anything to eat i sit and watch my cat sneak around the tables
silence in my heart and in the windows purple orange skies
no particular need for any promise i’m quite grown up
and think beyond those silly things
but every now and then the feeling flutters like a moth outside his lantern how did time
escape from me
ah yes a broken glass
in the midst of my heart
spread the WLS
black
there she is on top of the ashen tree clacking away encroaching upon the mid inky night air
moon veiled like Italian black lace and stars tinier than usual so far so far away
her feathers drenched ebony widow’s gown bereft of her heart’s departed master me thinks i named her Lilith
perhaps she asks for the blackberries in the shallow gainsboro painted stoneware plate two inches from the window with the opened livid curtains
more troubling yet she reads my murky thoughts of Aqua Man playing Chopin on the piccolo dressed like Elvis with sequined fish tail
needless to say under my breath could she be the harbinger of death yet the polish from my nails flaked from the day’s excruciating angst
spread the WLS
hey letter X
hey letter X
you’re my favorite
i relate with your
closed off heart center
but four very open ended arms
i too have closed in
and have for many years
but the more the heart shut
i kinda became vulnerable to
the dark underbelly of too much
awareness of things best left alone
some might say through this traveled winding tar soaked road that i’ve acquired more X’s than the Pussy Cat Theatre
i guess it’s the best to have open options not to get boxed in but at times in the midnight hourglass of time
the thought Xes my head that we both have four paths and our keys to the maps are rusted shut deep in our centers
spread the WLS
keepsake one Tuesday morning
as if to fall up from the
concrete cliff was so easy my night
terror often red she swallows me up
drinks me like water Venus the trapped
opens paths long to overly extended paper
planes and blocks on fire tumble over
us bursting upon an unassumingly frightening world
spread the WLS
one day in January
hush she coos
the west is nearing
the sky leaves sullen traces
angels weep a tepid rain over
graves of stoney colored flowers too wounded to proceed wherein
spread the WLS
a feather
back in the day of orange koolaid and Brady Bunch dreams candy cotton and carburetors diamonds pills and fancy ladies the news and no direct tomorrow TV dinners multiplex sorrows mop top slinky singer crooned in silky voice to the effect of time having no patience but i don’t blame those frigid tocking ticker arms because i’m a slow floating feather from a city bird molting from the Eiffel Tower statue sitting on any trinket shelf on Hollywood boulevard and through the fibers of the strain i struggle float away slowly in a deafening rage tickling the balls of all those who pose to be the royal peacock
spread the WLS
stone
a line followed not straight feet hollowed out by the bumps of life
a beat heard faintly like a radio sign from outer space on a kids ham radio
intuition dimmed heavy without direction like broken jade frowning atop the china cabinet
a kiss blown by aging beauty queens to the princess up and coming
young girl twirling on a pole old man staring at her bones she thinks of tea sets and raggedy Ann doll he thinks of the life he once so loved who is buried six feet under
the flowers radiant pinks and red stems green and full of life across a dirty street i sooth dry skin and raise my glass to Martha
spread the WLS
fancy James Brown footwork
Last night was rough at the Cecil. I invited friends from school to party at Turkish Turi’s, but they couldn’t hang. It wasn’t cool enough. Turi was salt of the earth kinda’ people. Rough and say it like it is, but protective of the people around him.
My mother agreed to meet me on Los Angeles Street and 7th on account she wanted to buy some rugs for her house. She was in a good mood and I wanted to bond with her. It had been a few days since I was at her home. I was late to our 12:30 p.m. meeting place.
As I made my way to greet her, my head looked down, avoiding eye contact just in case she was pissed. Mother was German, punctuality was no joke. She had on a beige PONY track suit, very soft and fancy; lady like and proper. Her hair pixied and dark red like cherry wood. Her neck graceful and pale was adorned by a very thin gold chain and a blue diamond pendant Star of David.
Sitting in front of the Cecil daydreaming and sobering up; anticipating meeting with my mom, I remembered a time when I was around four. She was dressed like an angel, a Charlie’s Angel, bell bottoms, pink lips, rippling feathered hair and white boots. It was the mid 70’s, but my mom loved British rock and with a little Daniel’s in her she started grooving to T.Rex.
Lucy was happy that day, like genuinely happy, laughing and dancing and talking her German tongue to her lady friends and kinfolk. We kids never learned. Then, as I was looking for my can of apple juice, she invites me to dance. “Bang a gong, get it on, bang a gong.”
As the buses swooshed by and the vagrants were getting ticketed in vain on Main, I smiled wide. I was lapping up the memory in my head; a short chubby four year old with red patent leather Mary Janes contorting like Joe Cocker. I bent back, down and sideways, but the coup de gras was the fancy James Brown footwork I threw out there for my mom to see. I’d watch him on Soul Train when my baby sitter would come on Saturday nights.
The world felt better at 1:13 p.m. I was late, but my heart was in the right place. Lucy’s was too. The edge of skid row was my home away from home. It felt like my mother’s arms or at least what I thought her arms might have felt like. It was very unnatural to see Lucy there, so beautiful, but so sick at heart. I was more of a body guard than a daughter. She stayed in a home paid for by a man who was just like the other men who had sent many of the women I knew to exile at the Nickel. Lucy was not only a victim of my father, but her of ego as well.
my way…
last night was rough at the Cecil i invited friends from school to party at Turkish Turi’s but they couldn’t hang it wasn’t cool enough Turi was salt of the earth kinda’ people rough and say it like it is but protective of the people around him
my mother agreed to meet me on Los Angeles Street and 7th on account she wanted to buy some rugs for her house she was in a good mood and i wanted to bond with her it had been a few days since i was at her home i was late to our 12:30 pm meeting place
as i made my way to greet her my head looked down avoiding eye contact just in case she was pissed mother was German punctuality was no joke she had on a beige PONY track suit very soft and fancy lady like and proper her hair pixied and dark red like cherry wood her neck graceful and pale was adorned by a very thin gold chain and a blue diamond pendant Star of David
sitting in front of the Cecil daydreaming and sobering up anticipating meeting with my mom i remembered a time when i was around four she was dressed like an angel a Charlie’s Angel bell bottoms pink lips rippling feathered hair and white boots it was the mid 70’s but my mom loved British rock and with a little Daniel’s in her she started grooving to T.Rex
Lucy was happy that day like genuinely happy laughing and dancing and talking her German tongue to her lady friends and kinfolk we kids never learned then as i was looking for my can of apple juice she invites me to dance “Bang a gong, get it on, bang a gong”
as the buses swooshed by and the vagrants were getting ticketed in vain on Main i smiled wide i was lapping up the memory in my head a short chubby four year old with red patent leather Mary Janes contorting like Joe Cocker i bent back down and sideways but the coup de gras was the fancy James Brown footwork i threw out there for my mom to see i’d watch him on Soul Train when my baby sitter would come on Saturday nights
the world felt better at 1:13 pm i was late but my heart was in the right place Lucy’s was too the edge of skid row was my home away from home it felt like my mother’s arms or at least what i thought her arms might have felt like it was very unnatural to see Lucy there so beautiful but so sick at heart i was more of a body guard than a daughter she stayed in a home paid for by a man who was just like the other men who had sent many of the women i knew to exile at the Nickel Lucy was not only a victim of my father but her of ego as well
