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.

a grady read

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

persuaded

the fusillade below my heart signaled a transformation that i hadn’t planned visions of blood fodder fingers crushing the innocence of flowers all for goodness sake further down the tunnels men bent in half praying to their shrink meanwhile ticker sounds of acreage burning does Herod have a bodyguard and the soup kitchen has run out of toe tags can we breath the breeze of ancient orange one last time before the refugees of peace become the next on your waiting list of morally inclined to do whatever to fit into the culture of the day

the four letter kit

mind your etiquette and dress you tarty mess alcoholic in wedding veil left to rot in obscurity behind SS Kress dumpster fiendish queen of violent dream three tours in the cardiac desert come home we’ve no passion for your kind that’s ok i take what i can get karma super bitch with pretty face we get what we deserve my mind is just a wasteland one step two step five step six look down at the sky while the air hits my feet swirling up blood drops on the cuff rational decisions are best served late into the night the bats are hiding near in the tall and ancient magnolia trees with falling fruits into the stream of all thought that crosses here insanity wears lace and stirs that flames of cold remorse of atomic fences way up on the hill hashtags for all reasons but what’s the use if we all like to market pain for glamour and enrichment and my teeth go down the drain

on Hill st.

she knocked over the bottles but made it up the drawer to the mirror on the shelf my tabby is alive

the helicopters rumble through the smoky skies the news vans are ready for the close up the tents the chalks the body bags three hours after the big bang

right behind the liquor bank debris in the alley empty Old English bottles and some candy wrappers big hot Cheetos Big Mac box

i saw some guy take a noisy shit on the corner of King street and wipe it off with the LA times i closed the gray gingham curtains

i’m never really sure when the psych meds will kick in but i don’t care as long as i can hear the Garcia’s next door just in case they get drived by since mother had a stroke and lost control over her boys

i do have all i need i don’t mind the four am sirens at five am i’m still not sleeping looking out my fire escape balcony the LA Rams play tomorrow and Dignity Health wants to cure my everything

oracle

it’s not that i am being difficult Majesty

my people have no food to eat

not a pond to wash their tired feet

and my sons they squabble in vain

my daughters they struggle in pain

Majesty all i‘m saying is that my words

should not offend you as you have told

me always speak truth

but i have realized that i

do not agree that my tongue should be tied

and my soul deprived of freedom

to be who i am to soar to the heavens

or to delve in the deep

i do not agree that my limbs

should be caged if i have to

wage war against the enemies of my innocent babes

i don’t mean to be ungrateful

and rebellious at times

but when my children are cut down

by your Princes and clowns

i have to attack with my voice and my heart

through words that are poison

to your ego fueled mind

the sergeants of time

will slowly creep by

and carve out a zone

where i might just languish

in your punishing hate

but don’t turn your back

on those who adore you the most

because with every flower and offering

and purse full of coins

that they render to you

will only weigh you down

to a perdition of soul of spirit and crown

you can shut my lips and burn my body down

but it’s just a body a bag made of vanishing flesh

however Majesty you cannot neglect

the truth in their eyes

the strength in their breath

the beauty in their spirit

their righteous battle call

when the war rages out

the wicked will fall

et ecce mulier

omnipotent dawn shawled in gray and pink delicately kisses her on her scarred forehead as it rests against the bus bench advertising the most prestigious real estate agent in town while seven nylon bags each with a logo from a market or a high end store warehouse her last prized belongings one ragged blue Nike sneaker and paper cups filled with grime a broken clock and red wires

militant she is in body in mind she could be anywhere beyond the stars when she smiles the image in her eyes reveal the fires from hell in a most delicate green other times she sings in laughter and waves hello across the sky to the graces never seen by human eyes the locals with finery of wear wonder why she’s there and crown her as a public nuisance not meant to be part of this community there is just too much of a great divide between her prophecy and their brittle decaying reality

look the lawmen arrive she’s more despised and made to carry her belongings down Dolores St. and then the dusk with iron claw he comes and she can’t run away from the hand of fair and righteous rule the goodly people have unanimously decided through tax forms and priority that she must go away the jury wash their hands for the people have spoken and so she takes her fate with a tired brave face not understanding the hate or what she did and where it got her

for three days she’s placed on a hold prodded with instruments of scorn and judgment pleading for her thirst to be mollified she’s forced to take bitter pills as the keepers of the places gamble on her kismet now she’s subdued her gown is sheared down to her contorted waist lacerated feet and hands are tied to the bed of loveless nails for the sake of the most upstanding people’s protection system

evermore

on the last day of Hanukkah 2001 i was hung over from too many filterless Camels and clove cigarettes the night before i couldn’t sleep and i chain smoked i made my way to the cold bland bathroom to wash up the radio was on and i danced as i walked i moved like any skinny slinky Brit androgynous heart throb it boy from the 70’s i thought and felt kinda embarrassed after my ritual i went downstairs to chew the fat with Jonathon O’Mara from the coffee shop in the Tenderloin he wasn’t home so i went for a walk the sun was hot for a San Fran morning back then i was able to ride the bus for a quarter the drivers would mistake me for a high schooler it was easy i always wore boys clothes and black chucks my gay boyfriends always gushed over me as they tried to capture my femininity i loved having gay boyfriends we’d all have fun dance etc and i didn’t have to put out and if they needed an emergency fiancé to introduce to their waspy east coast family members they’d send out the beard signal and i was there we were all excellent fucking actors but behind the good times and the jokes we all lived our lives as prisoners in very painful cells some of the folks in our circle were even handed death sentences through illness or addiction as far as i went i had to fess up to my boys that men’s clothing might keep the rapists away and that when someone had the balls to tell me i was beautiful it would hurt very badly along with a litany of other issues most of my boys would gasp and then weep because they too had been deeply hurt continually for long periods of their life but we were a rowdy bunch we had survived our way and through those unfortunate passages we realized we were all connected and that race gender orientation and any other label didn’t really define us we were very strong and wise human beings with the capacity to love hard and relentlessly  as for Jonathon and i woe upon anyone who’d mess with his sweet pea for a portion of my life i was blessed enough to know such a human capacity existed and i can move forward with this evermore