thoughts splintered some sharp others dull and short reports wobble out from flat digital boxes hung from careless walls breath tight or not there at all walking distance from the back to the ground floor books and writing on the walls in the tunnels by the bay ocean blue line thin horizon children grow up and grow into a certain kind of thought me i haven’t grown yet so i color in the sand with tiny sea shells found around my ankles as the tide retreats from me
Punk
purple petals
when i was a teen girl
i had a teen boy lover
he was broken like James Dean
and like Brando a real bad ass mutherfucker
he kissed with a platinum tongue
as we walked along the Venice sand
he’d get into fights
all bloody and bruised
but we still caught the moonlight
sucking on the booze
we’d fuck until we couldn’t walk
not because of sex or anything
but because of all the glue we huffed
those were wild times
in the eyes of other people
to a punk skater kid
of broken inner spirit
the life style was his fort
me i was just a wanna be
looking for a Trojan Horse
to leave this solar system far behind
by sixteen i’d been dead so many times
and had gotten taken advantage of by force
all because of it
Blaine with the dirty blonde mohawk
my only refuge that boy was
we swore our love
with Sharpie marker anarchy tattoos
and shared pizza crusts
from the dumpsters down on Zephyr
at night we’d find some Gypsy camp
and howl unto the face of angels
howling at the moon just seemed so trite
but when we’d look in each other’s eyes
there were no stars in them
like with the Montagues’ and Capulets’
just an existential escape past our sullied souls
knowing that we had no plan
just living for the day
no flowers in my hair
no money for the Goddamned fare
from desperation blvd. to hole ave.
just me and Blaine alone together
simultaneous fear and madness punching in the air
we lived like Cohen and the Beats
the Velvets and Andy and Billy Name
we talked about fascism and Ollie and the gang
La Revolucion y El Che
we talked about other times
his aunt Myrtle’s minced meat pie
Constantinople and even Hemingway
he read about the Bolsheviks
while i adored Bukowski
he slept in the LA Central Library
on my bony dirty lap
one of the most beautiful
and sacred memories of my life
was my chipped fingernail polish
fingers picking out two tiny
purple flower petals
from his gentle baby hair crown
at M. Wong’s
pink vapor rises
my feet grind to the wild song
we howl hard at love
nobody told pop there’d be days like this
we listen to agent orange when were pissed leave us alone don’t come in to the room our eyes are bloodshot with rage and shrooms it comes like a wave of lava and we thrash the place cut our arms on broken bottles there they are behind in the closet leave us alone if you know what’s good for you why do you tell us what to do when you back stab your neighbors and talk about fools we demand to go back to mutti’s we don’t give a fuck what your judge says hey asshole we’re just a kid not your self-righteous toilet paper wad to wipe your evil ass with we listen to agent orange when were pissed and the neighbor called the fire department cus the front windows shattered on account of the sonic geetar’ licks and surfer grooves oh we forgot to mention the baseball bat from out in the patio and your girlfriend’s mirrors are shattered into as many bits as apologies you owe to me fuck yeah we’re still pissed and we will always scream as long as you won’t hear me
to trip
shivering in the bedroom
trying to find a slightly less mended Chanel
middle aged
anxiety on my tongue
finger nail polished half chewed off
scar tissue protrudes on my left knuckle
the difference in the mosh pits was
we all beat
each other up together
the other morning i went out
to see some band play
they weren’t quite what i remembered
slower thicker grayer
yet still crazy
jacked up rockin
in some of our heads
high on beet juice and weed
when i stand in my room
i don’t want to just be rockin in my head
i should go to the beauty clinic
and laser off this scar
but i’m not ashamed by it
besides i might read Bukowski in the waiting room
and offend some old Barbie
i’d like to be banged by that bass player
and have him pluck on my thing
and then there’s Beck on Mt. Washington
singing Spanish riffs into the mike
the band has never heard of me
but we both know how to twirl and punch
and they have to go home to their wives
standing in my bedroom
my moves aren’t quite as swift
the best band i ever knew went disco
and the new bands lack the rage
i try to start the mosh pit
and give the bass player my number
but they twitter about health
things
yoga things
beet juice recipes
CBD things
i watch the boba settle in my milk tea
i know what my fate is
but it’s too gruesome to process
i won’t land the bassist
words less spoken 