at night we hold our knees tight chests broken
we wish see light while dark slips by unseen
the road moves fast we bend to it alone
the day its stars do smile at will between
your soul sore hands do beg for any mercy
our arms in flames scream out stop now unspoken
her eyes dull knives blood shot tits dried starving
with you i die in vain no chance running
long gone are the days
my black back pack torn on the left side
my pencils and pens leaking poking into me and each other
between the barely cracked calculus and English literature text books
hid my shame
granules and grams of daze
smoke screen of reality
that monument to beyond desperation
magic and inaudible inside the halls
carpets the only witnesses
to the end of that road
paved with bad intentions all the way
men and women have become a mush
in the gut of torn illusion
bile dripping from its fangs
a smell of the bottom line of nothingness
lingers in my eyes as tears collect like astonished ladies
my right Doc lost somewhere on the 8th floor
my spirit mortgaged to the deceiver
who at the end of the spectacle
is not the one to blame
there are no rhymes roses stars or razor blades
just a fleshbone ghost out of place
on most nights
after the good girls have gone to bed
i remain in the bastard streets
of the fancy conniving boulevard
a priest of sorts a mother to them all
a bandage a kind word a gift card to Subway a needle a pamphlet
on every corner a hefty dose of Narcan
on most days i wonder
“what will i see today”
a corpse a hooker a business man
perhaps a Hilton or a Kardashian
my reflection on a tarnished metal sheet stretches my eyes down
it streamlines my cheeks
i flush and quickly leave
the phone rings
needed now on 7th street
when a little kid i was
Broadway was the place to be
Bruce Lee double features
before the Mexican Bs poured out
from the silver sheets mariachi trumpets and cock fights
the arcade and Arab jewelry shops
the old men speaking Yugoslav
fighting over parking spots
those were my early days
it’s about 4:36 am heading on foot
to Pershing square
the tamale vendors begin to stake
a corner with the most gabacho laborers
the scents and stenches
the city moaning itself to rise
i midwife the rising baby sun
sitting on the retainer walls
of Angels Flight
noticing a stash of pookie pipes
glistening in the runoff
of the Angelino fading starlight
it’s time for coffee and a jaunt
to Werdin Alley where i collect
the ticker tape prophecies in my mind
of what i will encounter later
in the nightmares of my night
here are we
the older youngs
free we are in cages of deceit
roaming their streets
coordinates
34.043926, -118.242432
live hear in death daily
hung tooth bad finger
blue the deal of song
we hum in hallucinations
good feet bad path
lay at your door step
cardboard deluxe
population dense
in invisibility
afterglow of probability
selling
taking
smuggling
gaping
puffing away social security
for us the Depression didn’t end
soup kitchen tourist
flop house nudists
we sweat it out
ashes torches broken spirits
smarter roaches
landlords watch the flock
Jimmy lost his luck
blue like artic ice
lips parted breath is gone
some one will call kin
near Terre Haute Indiana
your fingers cured as leather
surprise my cheek and bottom lip
by instinct i recoil
i know you felt it
i smile face looking down
you look at the alley
changing the subject
to how fast flowers die
after being picked without chemical support
by instinct i recoil
paranoid that you might be talking about me
later on in the cobalt night
sitting on my kitchen counter
hoping that maybe those lived in fingers
might think of caressing me again
It was in the Fall; that’s about all I can remember. I was young and I was also compelled to punch Tennessee Abigail in the face. She showed me her cunt and said she wanted to fuck me. My mind panicked and I broke her nose. I was sixteen and two years into that life of score and run; but never running far enough from perps or skag.
You know those movies where Hollywood denies they exploit or glorify junkydom? They’re pretty accurate, but its far worse than they make you believe. No bleeding hearts please. I had choices, but I chose to accept the love with the destruction. I always had guardian angels, sometimes they were out to lunch dipping their toes in the Frankincense ashes at the nearby church’s wine cabinet.
Walking away from the bulging 200 plus pound bloody screaming mess, I felt bad for hurting her. Abigail continued to curse me out between twangs and gulps. An angry punk country song of sorts. I walked from the King Eddy to the Cecil hoping for some hope. I didn’t fear the cops, but I did fear Abigail’s Agatha Street pimp Big Chop coming after me for some down-home plastic surgery to my ribs.
Grasping for relief of the creeping fear, I thought about my history teacher, Mr. Hahn. He gave four honest to goodness shits about his students. I secretly enjoyed his middle of the road politics. I relished discussing the American ideal and arguing back and forth with the well to do kids in class whose moms drank in secret and their dads had a secretary to screw on Thursday evenings. It didn’t matter much though. I would yell out “the Clash forever.” Mr. Hahn would remind me that his class was strictly a Rolling Stones establishment.
I wasn’t the type of girl who thought about the accepted American ideal of what girls should be like in the 80’s. I guess I wasn’t any type at all. I arrived at the Cecil. Big Mac styrofoam boxes and empty apple juice bottles grew out of the tarmac instead of weeds. I felt sad. I thought Tennessee Abigail was my friend.
Spare Cock Amos didn’t have her drag on. We were going to go out. But I do remember her fingernails being exquisitely polished and groomed in seashell pink. Amos had a lot of hurt in her too. I told her about what I had done to Abigail. She asked why and I told her. Amos responded in a God dense given voice, “good for you.”
Dusk was gray golden and the neon flashed halfway on hooch shop fronts. I took Spare Cocks arm at her request. We waved at the half live carnage on the side walks on Los Angeles street. From one of the gutted out warehouses my mind convinced me Piaf’s ‘La foule’ was wafting out. I unclasped from Spare’s cautious restraint and twirled; neck stretched harvesting the notes in my ears like ripe peaches.
it was in the Fall that’s about all i can remember i was young and i was also compelled to punch Tennessee Abigail in the face she showed me her cunt and said she wanted to fuck me my mind panicked and i broke her nose i was sixteen and two years into that life of score and run but never running far enough from perps or skag
you know those movies where Hollywood denies they exploit or glorify junkydom they’re pretty accurate but its far worse than they make you believe no bleeding hearts please i had choices but i chose to accept the love with the destruction i always had guardian angels, sometimes they were out to lunch dipping their toes in the Frankincense ashes at the nearby church’s wine cabinet
walking away from the bulging 200 plus pound bloody screaming mess i felt bad for hurting her Abigail continued to curse me out between twangs and gulps an angry punk country song of sorts i walked from the King Eddy to the Cecil hoping for some hope i didn’t fear the cops but i did fear Abigail’s Agatha Street pimp Big Chop coming after me for some down-home plastic surgery to my ribs
grasping for relief of the creeping fear i thought about my history teacher Mr. Hahn he gave four honest to goodness shits about his students i secretly enjoyed his middle of the road politics i relished discussing the American ideal and arguing back and forth with the well to do kids in class whose moms drank in secret and their dads had a secretary to screw on Thursday evenings it didn’t matter much though i would yell out “the Clash forever” Mr. Hahn would remind me that his class was strictly a Rolling Stones establishment
i wasn’t the type of girl who thought about the accepted American ideal of what girls should be like in the 80’s i guess i wasn’t any type at all i arrived at the Cecil Big Mac styrofoam boxes and empty apple juice bottles grew out of the tarmac instead of weeds i felt sad i thought Tennessee Abigail was my friend
Spare Cock Amos didn’t have her drag on we were going to go out but i do remember her fingernails being exquisitely polished and groomed in seashell pink Amos had a lot of hurt in her too i told her about what i had done to Abigail she asked why and i told her Amos responded in a God dense given voice “good for you”
dusk was gray golden and the neon flashed halfway on hooch shop fronts i took Spare Cocks arm at her request we waved at the half live carnage on the side walks on Los Angeles street from one of the gutted out warehouses my mind convinced me Piaf’s ‘La foule’ was wafting out i unclasped from Spare’s cautious restraint and twirled neck stretched harvesting the notes in my ears like ripe peaches
we sat there just flopped on the hot sticky sidewalk waiting for inspiration to get up and walk i was the nail biter of the pack Nate was the food finder Noodle was the weed finder and one eye Byrna was just one eyed Byrna we thought that we might go panhandle in front of Clifton’s but there were two problems the first was that men thought i was a boy prostitute and after i’d animatedly correct the would be johns LAs finest would get called never a good idea for underaged Clash fans looking for meaning and a mellow yellow evening the kids got tired and took the bus home i walked over to the Cecil and loitered outside watching portly gray and brown pigeons bathing in grimy puddles under the city lights
I woke up mid morning thinking of how many ways can one skin a couch. I slept on the floor boards of the 8th floor room of a woman who used “whore” as her pronoun. I smoked too many things last night and my head was throbbing. My nose bled some too as crunchy clusters of dried blood dropped onto my arm cupping my head.
Last night, on Werdin Place there were lots of people hangin’ out and doping up. Lounge lizards sitting on about half a dozen couches, right there in the middle of the musky alley. There was one couch in particular that was just foam and wood. It was still very clean, but as hard as I looked I couldn’t see where the cloth covering had gone to.
So that morning I started off with two canned espressos and a diet coke that I had in my book bag from last week. Tiffany came in from the shared bathroom down the hall. She was pissed or maybe her traced on eye brows were crooked. I just looked out the door past her calves. Someone was getting yelled at then she slammed the door. Her eyes were hard and mean; beady as hell too. Tiffany once told me that her momma had an affair with Elvis after her daddy left them to join the Navy. I never doubted her.
Tiffany lit a bong shaped like a big purple cock. A present from one of her many admirers she gasped between inhales. She offered but I politely declined. I was a few years away from wanting to explore those kinds of shapes inside of my mouth. I could see she was offended as she smacked her lips and twisted her neck at me. It hadn’t been the first time so I hid my smile from her.
Taking three long slow drags from the bong she stood up slowly and dropped her worn out Wonder Woman beach towel. The dirty blond pubic tufts flayed from her arm pits and crotch were stiff and wire like. Tiffany sat back down and I could see skin hang like Christmas decorations from collar bones and ribs. She was beautiful in a medical way.
We didn’t talk. I stirred around my back pack and got the works and a rock out. Tiffany held her chin high and words crawled from her ashy lips. You can cook and shoot if you let me fuck you. She smiled and said she had wanted a taste since last year. I wasn’t fazed by her condition, but I was inconvenienced because I didn’t really want to walk down to Werdin. I answered under my breath. Tiffany told me to get the hell out of her house. I said ok but thanks for letting me spend the night. I was growing tired at 19. There were 700 rooms at low weekly rates and I couldn’t just yet rent one. All my assets were tied in under the counter investments.
i woke up mid morning thinking of how many ways can one skin a couch i slept on the floor boards of the 8th floor room of a woman who used “whore” as her pronoun i smoked too many things last night and my head was throbbing my nose bled some too as crunchy clusters of dried blood dropped onto my arm cupping my head.
last night on Werdin Place there were lots of people hangin’ out and doping up lounge lizards sitting on about half a dozen couches right there in the middle of the musky alley there was one couch in particular that was just foam and wood it was still very clean but as hard as i looked i couldn’t see where the cloth covering had gone to
so that morning i started off with two canned espressos and a diet coke that i had in my book bag from last week Tiffany came in from the shared bathroom down the hall she was pissed or maybe her traced on eye brows were crooked i just looked out the door past her calves someone was getting yelled at then she slammed the door her eyes were hard and mean beady as hell too Tiffany once told me that her momma had an affair with Elvis after her daddy left them to join the Navy i never doubted her
Tiffany lit a bong shaped like a big purple cock a present from one of her many admirers she gasped between inhales she offered but i politely declined i was a few years away from wanting to explore those kinds of shapes inside of my mouth i could see she was offended as she smacked her lips and twisted her neck at me it hadn’t been the first time so i hid my smile from her
taking three long slow drags from the bong she stood up slowly and dropped her worn out Wonder Woman beach towel the dirty blond pubic tufts flayed from her arm pits and crotch were stiff and wire like Tiffany sat back down and i could see skin hang like Christmas decorations from collar bones and ribs she was beautiful in a medical way
we didn’t talk i stirred around my back pack and got the works and a rock out Tiffany held her chin high and words crawled from her ashy lips you can cook and shoot if you let me fuck you she smiled and said she had wanted a taste since last year i wasn’t fazed by her condition but i was inconvenienced because i didn’t really want to walk down to Werdin i answered under my breath Tiffany told me to get the hell out of her house i said ok but thanks for letting me spend the night i was growing tired at 19 there were 700 rooms at low weekly rates and i couldn’t just yet rent one all my assets were tied in under the counter investments
Spare Cock Amos had gone to Vegas for the weekend. I had his room all to myself if I wanted to stay there. I decided that this time I would play house.
Jeremiah was a bullfrog, etc. The song oozled out of the broken down radio. First the laundry. I put in the entire box of Tide; when Tide just smelled like Tide. I spent my roll of quarters doing one load. The suds were kinda’ thick. Drying was still a dime so I was successful at that.
Heading back to the room Bryan Boyle was waiting outside of SC’s room. He was sweaty and lost.
“Hey.”
“Oh is Amos here, I gotta talk to him bad. I need to talk to him, is he here?”
“Naw.”
“Fuuuuuccccckkkkkk, whadda ya mean he ain’t here, I need to talk to him!”
“Sorry man, he’s gone for the weekend. I’m just crashin’ before I take off. Heidi’s home though she might be able to help.”
I walked into the room and placed the clean linens on an old arm chair. Bryan had teleported off into outer space universe open wide on this arm chair on other occasions.
Turning to listen with intent to the guy on the radio drinking his bullfrog friend’s wine, I couldn’t help but wonder if Heidi had an arm chair too. Heidi despised me on account I couldn’t like her the way she wanted me to.
I got around to changing the bed and dusted some picture frames. Amos came from a good looking family. Groaning and door slamming could be heard. Heidi refused Bryan. I should have told him not to mention my name.
Joy to the fishes. The chair bothered me. It was the junk bunk. I rode it myself a few times. I felt shame. This shame was different than the other shame. The one you feel over something that happened that you couldn’t prevent. The chair, the junk, the Cecil were preventable. I had chosen to fuck up. I wondered what kind of shame Bryan felt, if any.
Bang, bong, ping, bap.
“Heeeyyy! Open the door that bitch called the cops!!”
Sheepish creak.
“Sorry man.”
Bryan sobbed and with his back to the door frame just slid down to the floor.
“I give up.” He slobbered.
“Dude, man you’ll be ok.”
I knelt beside him. His surfer shirt torn at the hems. Little yellow and pink hula girls and turquoise surfboards 3D’ed at me like flashing acid.
My heart broke as tears rolled down his chubby baby cheeks. The rain finally came. We both perked up at the opened window at the end of the hallway. Wet concrete and drunk piss wove an aromatic melody. Joy to Bryan and a little to me. City rain; we knew it well.
We talked on the floor for hours. Just about dreams and normal things and rock and roll. Sure he picked at his arms and cried a little here and there, but Bryan lived a little.
spare cock Amos had gone to Vegas for the weekend i had his room all to myself if i wanted to stay there i decided that this time i would play house
Jeremiah was a bullfrog etc the song oozled out of the broken down radio first the laundry i put in the entire box of Tide when Tide just smelled like Tide i spent my roll of quarters doing one load the suds were kinda’ thick drying was still a dime so i was successful at that
heading back to the room Bryan Boyle was waiting outside of sc’s room he was sweaty and lost
“hey”
“oh is Amos here i gotta talk to him bad i need to talk to him is he here”
“naw”
“fuuuuuccccckkkkkk whadda ya mean he ain’t here i need to talk to him”
“sorry man he’s gone for the weekend i’m just crashin’ before i take off Heidi’s home though she might be able to help”
i walked into the room and placed the clean linens on an old arm chair Bryan had teleported off into outer space universe open wide on this arm chair on other occasions
turning to listen with intent to the guy on the radio drinking his bullfrog friend’s wine i couldn’t help but wonder if Heidi had an arm chair too Heidi despised me on account i couldn’t like her the way she wanted me to
i got around to changing the bed and dusted some picture frames Amos came from a good looking family groaning and door slamming could be heard Heidi refused Bryan i should have told him not to mention my name
joy to the fishes the chair bothered me it was the junk bunk i rode it myself a few times i felt shame this shame was different than the other shame the one you feel over something that happened that you couldn’t prevent the chair the junk the Cecil were preventable i had chosen to fuck up i wondered what kind of shame Bryan felt if any
bang bong ping bap
“heeeyyy open the door that bitch called the cops”
sheepish creak
“sorry man”
Bryan sobbed and with his back to the door frame just slid down to the floor
“i give up” he slobbered
“dude man you’ll be ok”
i knelt beside him his surfer shirt torn at the hems little yellow and pink hula girls and turquoise surfboards 3d’ed at me like flashing acid
my heart broke as tears rolled down his chubby baby cheeks the rain finally came we both perked up at the opened window at the end of the hallway wet concrete and drunk piss wove an aromatic melody joy to Bryan and a little to me city rain we knew it well
we talked on the floor for hours just about dreams and normal things and rock and roll sure he picked at his arms and cried a little here and there but Bryan lived a little
words less spoken 