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
The Cecil Hotel
the Clash forever
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.
my way…
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
spread the WLS
nail biter
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
spread the WLS
couch skinning
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.
my way…
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
spread the WLS
dogs of the 90’s
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.
my way…
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
spread the WLS
in regards to Foghat
At 21, I didn’t know two things; how I got through 4 years of college and who played “Slow Ride.” But grunge was growing on me and I still had Miles and Monk, maybe a little Ginger Baker in between.
I also didn’t know what to do other than just ‘party.’ Code for self medicating and wasting life away on account of being lost in the City of Angels.
I was of the streets; my family had good bones, some education, jobs, the normal shit. I didn’t, however we were all lost together but galaxies apart.
I’d walk listening to the organically mechanical jazz of the city. Notes of deep blue pain, orange notes of sorrow, pink notes of hope and black atomic scary love oozing out of the trumpets heralding our demise. Us, all walks of life, us in that beautifully grotesque melting pot of angst.
Needless to say the bad crowd fell into me. I was high functioning, a sweetheart, and functioning high. My world was slow motion in a fast velocity world. Things came seemingly easy. I could crash at the Cecil, I was a regular at King Eddie’s, where everyone didn’t care.
I raised clenched fists, joined the movements in all languages, I was smart. I read, dissected, recollected and debated. Painted, sculpted, drank it and smoked it.
At 22 I started to suspect that in all of my boundlessness I was deeply ensnared in something I had lost sight and perspective of long, long ago. Slow ride. Taken roughly and fast, fast, fast. There was this pain, a loneliness tangled up with self loathing. I had failed. It was complicated. I wanted it to be a dream, but it wasn’t. Like the rest of my human kin I wanted to feel, but I was a coward. Defeat was a drag and at times I thought if I climb down from that upside down cross it could turn very ugly. Rage they called it. I called it ‘why did they.’ I might be able to utter it someday.
It would be two years before grad school. Two years of mayhem. I like the way that sounds. It’s cool. The reality of it is pathetic and sad.
I continually looked for the Fibonacci sequence in their eyes; for reason, for answers to questions I had no idea about. In my life, meaning had lost itself particularly when roles had to be played well to keep up appearances.
Perhaps that’s why I loved the Cecil, the humanity between its walls. The smells, the dust, filth, cheap glamour, the innovation and the sheer will to survive. These where the substances of the gods. In the sterile houses in the hills nothing clung but spiritual death. Their emptiness was empty for empty’s sake. At the Cecil we had been gutted at different points in our lives so all we could do was gasp. And sometimes sing ourselves to sleep. The ride was slow at first then my wheels fell off.
my way…
at 21 i didn’t know two things how i got through 4 years of college and who played “Slow Ride” but grunge was growing on me and i still had Miles and Monk maybe a little Ginger Baker in between
i also didn’t know what to do other than just ‘party’ code for self medicating and wasting life away on account of being lost in the City of Angels
i was of the streets my family had good bones some education jobs the normal shit i didn’t however we were all lost together but galaxies apart
i’d walk listening to the organically mechanical jazz of the city notes of deep blue pain orange notes of sorrow pink notes of hope and black atomic scary love oozing out of the trumpets heralding our demise us all walks of life us in that beautifully grotesque melting pot of angst
needless to say the bad crowed fell into me i was high functioning a sweetheart and functioning high my world was slow motion in a fast velocity world things came seemingly easy i could crash at the Cecil i was a regular at King Eddie’s where everyone didn’t care
i raised clenched fists joined the movements in all languages i was smart i read dissected recollected and debated painted sculpted drank it and smoked it
at 22 i started to suspect that in all of my boundlessness i was deeply ensnared in something i had lost sight and perspective of long long ago slow ride taken roughly and fast fast fast there was this pain a loneliness tangled up with self loathing i had failed it was complicated i wanted it to be a dream but it wasn’t like the rest of my human kin i wanted to feel but i was a coward defeat was a drag and at times i thought if i climb down from that upside down cross it could turn very ugly rage they called it i called it ‘why did they’ i might be able to utter it someday
it would be two years before grad school two years of mayhem i like the way that sounds it’s cool the reality of it is pathetic and sad
i continually looked for the Fibonacci sequence in their eyes for reason for answers to questions i had no idea about in my life meaning had lost itself particularly when roles had to be played well to keep up appearances
perhaps that’s why i loved the Cecil the humanity between its walls the smells the dust filth cheap glamour the innovation and the sheer will to survive these where the substances of the gods in the sterile houses in the hills nothing clung but spiritual death their emptiness was empty for empty’s sake at the Cecil we had been gutted at different points in our lives so all we could do was gasp and sometimes sing ourselves to sleep the ride was slow at first then my wheels fell off
spread the WLS
Yucatan
The evening was cool and the calm was fuzzy and delightful. Abbey walked through the narrow door of 4302 and laid down a paper bag full of spices and stuff. She loved going to Grand Central market to gossip and catch up on the news of her world. Abbey asked if I was going home tonight because her boyfriend was coming over and she didn’t want him to pick a fist fight with me again.
I promised her that I would go to my friend’s house on the west side later tonight and asked her if she noticed anything different about her room. The Pine Sol fumes suckled her dainty caramel nose and licked in and out of her nostrils.
Thank you for cleaning mi reina, the smell takes me back to the valleys and rivers of my town in the Yucatan. Abbey had come to the US in the early 60’s on a travel visa and stayed. She started taking the dried Chiles, peppercorns, cumin and pumpkin seeds and chocolate bars out of the paper sack. Being a little high, watching her pluck each item out of the sack was like watching a jeweler study his precious stones.
Sitting back on the only chair in the room, I asked Abbey about her town in Mexico. She pursed her lips inward and let out an exhausted sigh. Staring at the dim lit ceiling she noticed the freeway knot of spider webs forming on the northern corner.
Abbey looked past the top of my head and stared of the Virgen of Guadalupe poster on the waxy wall. In a little girl voice she described the valleys as having shaded trees and cool patches of grass. The streams, as she remembered were cold enough to soak their beers and sodas when the families of the village would go pick-nicking on Sundays.
Abbey appeared lost and happy reminiscing about her country. Did you know that in the spring time we’d light big fires and because the temperature in the valley was still cold in March, the smoke looked like cloudy fumes against the pitch black sky. And the stars, Ave Maria purisima, the stars were so bright and when you saw them through the smoke fumes of the fires the whole thing looked like a fancy lace veil twinkling with diamonds.
In a melancholy tone I absent mindedly asked Abbey if she missed those nights with the firewood fumes and the stars and cool streams. She smiled wide enough that I could see her gold tooth as she looked down at her old beige pumps and she shook her head telling me no.
The door shook from four heavy thumps. Her boyfriend was in the hallway asking why the hell she wasn’t answering. Abbey cursed under her breath and ordered me to stay quiet and to leave as soon as she let him in. I tried asking her if she was going to be o.k. or did I need to alert Spare Cock.
my way…
the evening was cool and the calm was fuzzy and delightful Abbey walked through the narrow door of 4302 and laid down a paper bag full of spices and stuff she loved going to Grand Central market to gossip and catch up on the news of her world Abbey asked if i was going home tonight because her boyfriend was coming over and she didn’t want him to pick a fist fight with me again
i promised her that i would go to my friend’s house on the west side later tonight and asked her if she noticed anything different about her room the Pine Sol fumes suckled her dainty caramel nose and licked in and out of her nostrils
thank you for cleaning mi reina the smell takes me back to the valleys and rivers of my town in the Yucatan Abbey had come to the US in the early 60’s on a travel visa and stayed she started taking the dried chiles peppercorns cumin and pumpkin seeds and chocolate bars out of the paper sack being a little high watching her pluck each item out of the sack was like watching a jeweler study his precious stones
sitting back on the only chair in the room i asked Abbey about her town in Mexico she pursed her lips inward and let out an exhausted sigh staring at the dim lit ceiling she noticed the freeway knot of spider webs forming on the northern corner
Abbey looked past the top of my head and stared of the Virgen of Guadalupe poster on the waxy wall in a little girl voice she described the valleys as having shaded trees and cool patches of grass the streams as she remembered were cold enough to soak their beers and sodas when the families of the village would go pick-nicking on Sundays
Abbey appeared lost and happy reminiscing about her country did you know that in the spring time we’d light big fires and because the temperature in the valley was still cold in March the smoke looked like cloudy fumes against the pitch black sky and the stars Ave Maria purisima the stars were so bright and when you saw them through the smoke fumes of the fires the whole thing looked like a fancy lace veil twinkling with diamonds
in a melancholy tone i absent mindedly asked Abbey if she missed those nights with the firewood fumes and the stars and cool streams she smiled wide enough that i could see her gold tooth as she looked down at her old beige pumps and she shook her head telling me no
the door shook from four heavy thumps her boyfriend was in the hallway asking why the hell she wasn’t answering Abbey cursed under her breath and ordered me to stay quiet and to leave as soon as she let him in i tried asking her if she was going to be ok or did i need to alert Spare Cock
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
spread the WLS
let me count the ways
life you have this annoying way of walking by as i’m trying to see a point of view prescribed by a cold and sterile man
take today for instance i’m just whistling by on my way to the corners pungent with wet filth and frothy with human madness
every prophet will eventually go back to her house yet i am neither saint nor prophet but just a sinner looking for faith
here in front of me stands the place where we yes you my soul conscience and mind dwindled childhood away waiting for the unknown without fear bloated with arrogance
spread the WLS
never too young for T Leary
Home was cold and lonely. Waverly had gone away for the holidays with her family. I hadn’t bonded with anyone at school. I wanted hot cocoa and warm pajamas, ginger bread men cookies and a Christmas tree with glass ornaments in 1985. I wasn’t going to get it. So I bussed it to Chinatown, scored and got a bag of stale fortune cookies.
I thought about going to the Cecil and dropping there, but I didn’t want to be lectured by the old lady on the first floor. Florida was the cleaning lady she had worked the docks in San Pedro during WWII as a steel worker. Bent and grey she would polish the walnut sticks of furniture sparsely laid out.
The walk from Broadway to the park on Plaza Olvera was calm in spite of the screaming bitch called traffic. I didn’t mind. I was trailing and smiling. As always, invisible to the eyes of the world but never to my city.
I sat following the giant furry beasts that seemed to engulf the people with multiple hands and faces. Deep blues and the oranges were never more orange. The sounds of people talking or laughing were vague, but I understood the strands of human energy feeding the cosmic realm set to take off into the sky.
The Pio Pico Building sat there quiet in the chaos of the mariachi music and the stop and go low riders booming the likes of Grand Master Flash and Run DMC. Then a mirror suited man walked up to me muttering sounds and wearing a huge red dot on his nose. Thousands of me’s exploded like shrapnel landing in the pupils of my eyes.
It took an eon or two, but I finally directed him to the train depot. Satellite man gave me a balloon dog. The dog was red and the heads and tails and every little knot fanned into dozens as fireworks dazzled from my finger tips. I felt alone in the sea of people, I felt cold frozen fire under me as the Aztec dancers circled about their worshiped sun it was all the same to him.
Time moved with grace like a swan in a lake. I thought about my father and how he taught me how to shoot a gun and a rifle and how to box and use a knife. Years later I found out that it wasn’t because he wanted me to be well rounded he was just disappointed I was a girl. He was really very disappointed and I was very lost. I needed a dad. I wasn’t sure how I felt about women. My mom was tough on me. She expressed numerous times how useless I was and even wished death a few times.
I feared women; they hurt your heart tore your spirit into nothing, fucked around with your brain. Men hurt me physically. I felt like I could at least fight back, scratch or kick something. I couldn’t hurt a woman.
my way…
home was cold and lonely Waverly had gone away for the holidays with her family i hadn’t bonded with anyone at school i wanted hot cocoa and warm pajamas ginger bread men cookies and a Christmas tree with glass ornaments in 1985 i wasn’t going to get it so i bussed it to Chinatown scored and got a bag of stale fortune cookies
i thought about going to the Cecil and dropping there but i didn’t want to be lectured by the old lady on the first floor Florida was the cleaning lady she had worked the docks in San Pedro during WWII as a steel worker bent and grey she would polish the walnut sticks of furniture sparsely laid out
the walk from Broadway to the park on Plaza Olvera was calm in spite of the screaming bitch called traffic i didn’t mind i was trailing and smiling as always invisible to the eyes of the world but never to my city
i sat following the giant furry beasts that seemed to engulf the people with multiple hands and faces deep blues and the oranges were never more orange the sounds of people talking or laughing were vague but i understood the strands of human energy feeding the cosmic realm set to take off into the sky
the Pio Pico Building sat there quiet in the chaos of the mariachi music and the stop and go low riders booming the likes of Grand Master Flash and Run DMC then a mirror suited man walked up to me muttering sounds and wearing a huge red dot on his nose thousands of me’s exploded like shrapnel landing in the pupils of my eyes
it took an eon or two but i finally directed him to the train depot satellite man gave me a balloon dog the dog was red and the heads and tails and every little knot fanned into dozens as fireworks dazzled from my finger tips i felt alone in the sea of people i felt cold frozen fire under me as the Aztec dancers circled about their worshiped sun it was all the same to him
time moved with grace like a swan in a lake i thought about my father and how he taught me how to shoot a gun and a rifle and how to box and use a knife years later i found out that it wasn’t because he wanted me to be well rounded he was just disappointed i was a girl he was really very disappointed and i was very lost i needed a dad i wasn’t sure how i felt about women my mom was tough on me she expressed numerous times how useless i was and even wished death a few times
i feared women they hurt your heart tore your spirit into nothing fucked around with your brain men hurt me physically i felt like i could at least fight back scratch or kick something i couldn’t hurt a woman
words less spoken 