![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
saturday nights are made for...
last night was good - but i think i can honestly tell you my head feels like a zombie. goddamn allergies.
the warming of home was fabulous. rhubarb pie was enjoyed, potholder was liked, flowers were cute and fingers were shocked. all in all - great!
Writer With Drinks was grand. Part of my ever charming bio was that i had won the nubile (as opposed to nobel) prize and that because of it i am constantly followed by a throng of nubile young women waiting to do my bidding. ok. i can totally work that. :)
the poetry went over well.
The other performers were great as well and the audience left happy and smarter :)
Afterwards it was off to scrounge food, which found us in a private room at Esperpento where we had a revolving crowd of four to six sangria and wine drinking folks. then we were four, and tried out a number of bar possibilties, picking up my old roommate on the way (who always screams MY LESBIANS at us when she sees us from down the block...awesome) until landing a la rondalla - where the mister got a pitcher and drinking was done. it was a good night. and i definately - despite allergies - am feeling some good things today.
For those keeping track i read (in this order)
the warming of home was fabulous. rhubarb pie was enjoyed, potholder was liked, flowers were cute and fingers were shocked. all in all - great!
Writer With Drinks was grand. Part of my ever charming bio was that i had won the nubile (as opposed to nobel) prize and that because of it i am constantly followed by a throng of nubile young women waiting to do my bidding. ok. i can totally work that. :)
the poetry went over well.
The other performers were great as well and the audience left happy and smarter :)
Afterwards it was off to scrounge food, which found us in a private room at Esperpento where we had a revolving crowd of four to six sangria and wine drinking folks. then we were four, and tried out a number of bar possibilties, picking up my old roommate on the way (who always screams MY LESBIANS at us when she sees us from down the block...awesome) until landing a la rondalla - where the mister got a pitcher and drinking was done. it was a good night. and i definately - despite allergies - am feeling some good things today.
For those keeping track i read (in this order)
Meet Me at Three
Meet me at the second hand record store at three
we need some new tapes
some gas
maybe
a map.
sweet baby– oh my baby
how this moving keeps us moving
miles of pavement of asphalt of
american history
of our history
miles miles and miles of fucking and fighting and loving
from Nashville to Memphis to the great
long Panhandle of North Texas and we never stop moving
we switch role to role
driver navigator rivers lakes
water over and through
we
beat the heat
the words
the blister lust of our love
and this need
to wander and explore and find
and love and love and love
the road is wearing wrinkles into your laugh
the mix tape is stretching out
as we drive past the roadkill of our friendship
moving into primal
in sweatsoaked clothes that freeze and chill and sharpen
the farther north we drive
I will race the buffalos in South Dakota
you will shield me from snow in Seattle
before we run down the California coast
redwoods and confederate flags blowing past our dust
And we never really get lost
And we never really get home
this roadtrip doesn’t end
not in a mad flourish with guns and car chases and cliffs
not in a safe collapse on a familiar bed
we are too full of our own futures
So, meet me at that second hand record store at three
we need some new tapes
some gas
and maybe
a map.
Meet me at the second hand record store at three
we need some new tapes
some gas
maybe
a map.
sweet baby– oh my baby
how this moving keeps us moving
miles of pavement of asphalt of
american history
of our history
miles miles and miles of fucking and fighting and loving
from Nashville to Memphis to the great
long Panhandle of North Texas and we never stop moving
we switch role to role
driver navigator rivers lakes
water over and through
we
beat the heat
the words
the blister lust of our love
and this need
to wander and explore and find
and love and love and love
the road is wearing wrinkles into your laugh
the mix tape is stretching out
as we drive past the roadkill of our friendship
moving into primal
in sweatsoaked clothes that freeze and chill and sharpen
the farther north we drive
I will race the buffalos in South Dakota
you will shield me from snow in Seattle
before we run down the California coast
redwoods and confederate flags blowing past our dust
And we never really get lost
And we never really get home
this roadtrip doesn’t end
not in a mad flourish with guns and car chases and cliffs
not in a safe collapse on a familiar bed
we are too full of our own futures
So, meet me at that second hand record store at three
we need some new tapes
some gas
and maybe
a map.
Lou
She steered the wheel
as if she were flipping off the world
middle finger
permanently affixed to one of those new
steering wheel buttons where you can control
air, volume, radio, heaven
and hell
from a small vinyl console
that makes a navigator
irrelevant
her finger
was always on the seek button
she scared me
as she stole moments of
poetry
at red lights
journal balanced on thigh
rocking with her left handed scrawl
pausing at the green
when the idea caught her
she wrote as she drove
the tuner coughing out the punk rock bluegrass soundtrack
of indie radio
while she swerved and steadied
her laugh loud
like roses dipped in whiskey
pen in her mouth
like a trucker
chainsmoking words
to stay alive.
She steered the wheel
as if she were flipping off the world
middle finger
permanently affixed to one of those new
steering wheel buttons where you can control
air, volume, radio, heaven
and hell
from a small vinyl console
that makes a navigator
irrelevant
her finger
was always on the seek button
she scared me
as she stole moments of
poetry
at red lights
journal balanced on thigh
rocking with her left handed scrawl
pausing at the green
when the idea caught her
she wrote as she drove
the tuner coughing out the punk rock bluegrass soundtrack
of indie radio
while she swerved and steadied
her laugh loud
like roses dipped in whiskey
pen in her mouth
like a trucker
chainsmoking words
to stay alive.
In the Air
The poet and I
went to a reading
after
the perfume counter
had its hooks in us.
I was dirt and roses
sitting with
The wet garden
words between us
ink in our voices
poems falling onto our skin
leaning shoulder to shoulder
falling into the lost plains
east of Nebraska
at dusk
that we wrestled with our wills
and carried with us
into this San Francisco gallery
watching stories sparkle through the air
heady
and musky
as they land on our skin
and we walk into the night
glittering
with thoughts
and smelling
like something
I never meant to lose.
The poet and I
went to a reading
after
the perfume counter
had its hooks in us.
I was dirt and roses
sitting with
The wet garden
words between us
ink in our voices
poems falling onto our skin
leaning shoulder to shoulder
falling into the lost plains
east of Nebraska
at dusk
that we wrestled with our wills
and carried with us
into this San Francisco gallery
watching stories sparkle through the air
heady
and musky
as they land on our skin
and we walk into the night
glittering
with thoughts
and smelling
like something
I never meant to lose.
MY AFFAIR
I am having an affair
or at least resisting an affair
and my girlfriend
knows all about it
I share with her
the pull of it
the charm of other
and we both know
it could be lethal
dangerous love
because my girlfriend has asthma
and my mistress is nicotine
burning charring cough inducing
if I give in it will kill us both
And it's hard, we all know the same friends
I go places just to be around her
she was my muse a long time ago
and now I smell her and words float by
poems of dreams winking from her blue grey trail
I charm, flirt, smile
I am such a tease
she is so very willing
I always pull away at that last minute
dodge the kiss, even while I hold her, stroke her
stopping shy of consummation
I haven't fully given in
so far it's just a mind crush
I convince myself with excuses
I look for distractions
Wintergreen Extra / Dentyne Ice / Cinnamon / Bubble Gum
even fruity grape cannot draw my longings
away from the dark earthy taste of creation
that she holds
Her smell stays on my fingers
all day
reminding me of her charms
My lovely, my ex
I thought I was over her
I thought it was through
left her behind
in a haze of punk rock and whiskey
alcoholic nights and lost friendships
But she's back
and I don't remember her being so charming
I threw her away, glad to be rid of her
now she glitters at me like a diamond of fire
that burns at me
makes me want her
In every word I write
I am drawn to her
to the longing and the tragedy
of our love
that I try to turn away from
always looking back
my mind crush
fueling fantasies
that I see every time
the match lights.
I am having an affair
or at least resisting an affair
and my girlfriend
knows all about it
I share with her
the pull of it
the charm of other
and we both know
it could be lethal
dangerous love
because my girlfriend has asthma
and my mistress is nicotine
burning charring cough inducing
if I give in it will kill us both
And it's hard, we all know the same friends
I go places just to be around her
she was my muse a long time ago
and now I smell her and words float by
poems of dreams winking from her blue grey trail
I charm, flirt, smile
I am such a tease
she is so very willing
I always pull away at that last minute
dodge the kiss, even while I hold her, stroke her
stopping shy of consummation
I haven't fully given in
so far it's just a mind crush
I convince myself with excuses
I look for distractions
Wintergreen Extra / Dentyne Ice / Cinnamon / Bubble Gum
even fruity grape cannot draw my longings
away from the dark earthy taste of creation
that she holds
Her smell stays on my fingers
all day
reminding me of her charms
My lovely, my ex
I thought I was over her
I thought it was through
left her behind
in a haze of punk rock and whiskey
alcoholic nights and lost friendships
But she's back
and I don't remember her being so charming
I threw her away, glad to be rid of her
now she glitters at me like a diamond of fire
that burns at me
makes me want her
In every word I write
I am drawn to her
to the longing and the tragedy
of our love
that I try to turn away from
always looking back
my mind crush
fueling fantasies
that I see every time
the match lights.
THE PINK VAN
I had this vision today as I was driving to work / which I usually don't do, since this is San Francisco and parking and driving are both evil / but it was street cleaning day / and this van, this weirdly putrid pink van was parked right near where I was waiting for the light, and this van made me want to punch it, take a sledgehammer and just destroy the fuck out of it / I was sitting there, waiting for the green light, with images of denting metal, satisfying clunking noises and glass flying / and thought how sad it would be for someone to have to call my father / conservative and ordinary / and explain how / while waiting for the light to change / the brain of his sensible normal midwestern daughter / cracked open like an overripe melon in morning rush hour traffic / and she beat a pink van to death / before dusting herself off / and driving away / singing a nick cave song / from the murder ballads album
how she was now wanted / for three similar car violence cases / currently unsolved in the Hayes Valley area / and that she may be a serial car killer
I imagined the absolute confusion / he would face / it just makes no sense / and so I pulled away on the green / pissed off / because that pink van / really had it coming
I had this vision today as I was driving to work / which I usually don't do, since this is San Francisco and parking and driving are both evil / but it was street cleaning day / and this van, this weirdly putrid pink van was parked right near where I was waiting for the light, and this van made me want to punch it, take a sledgehammer and just destroy the fuck out of it / I was sitting there, waiting for the green light, with images of denting metal, satisfying clunking noises and glass flying / and thought how sad it would be for someone to have to call my father / conservative and ordinary / and explain how / while waiting for the light to change / the brain of his sensible normal midwestern daughter / cracked open like an overripe melon in morning rush hour traffic / and she beat a pink van to death / before dusting herself off / and driving away / singing a nick cave song / from the murder ballads album
how she was now wanted / for three similar car violence cases / currently unsolved in the Hayes Valley area / and that she may be a serial car killer
I imagined the absolute confusion / he would face / it just makes no sense / and so I pulled away on the green / pissed off / because that pink van / really had it coming
The Sailors Heart
You wrote a song one time
I swore you wrote it right to me
hiding behind someone I knew
when Emily and I were getting lost
in the lust of fresh hay
and bitter apples
dancing in between the lines of corn
to the music from a barn party miles away
under a harvest of stars
You followed me
when I wasn’t looking
to the ridiculous urban circus
artists, performance and whiskey
where I lie on sidewalks and leap towards stars
You are my witness
writing it all down
somewhere my movie is being filmed and I am late for the set
you are my anonymous soundtrack
and we haven’t even met.
You wrote a song one time
I swore you wrote it right to me
hiding behind someone I knew
when Emily and I were getting lost
in the lust of fresh hay
and bitter apples
dancing in between the lines of corn
to the music from a barn party miles away
under a harvest of stars
You followed me
when I wasn’t looking
to the ridiculous urban circus
artists, performance and whiskey
where I lie on sidewalks and leap towards stars
You are my witness
writing it all down
somewhere my movie is being filmed and I am late for the set
you are my anonymous soundtrack
and we haven’t even met.
When You Friends Are Writers
I was reading your chapbook
falling in love
with words
when I saw a small piece of hair
lost on the page
photocopied in
ink DNA
a small piece of person
archived
in all that type
and text
A specific piece of you
that I want to be anonymous
a hair that I haven’t tousled
that doesn’t wink at me
leaving gummy pomade
sweet on my fingers
Hair like a fingerprint
on the page
rings of years
spun in the fibers
freezing this moment in time
Caught in the typeface machine tattoo
a moment of cinema
holding on
permanent pause
without the projector light
to burn it through
I collect more
of your books
for evidence of you
odd sized pages
with precise drawings
and vague words
Books that cost less
and stay longer than
the phone calls
we don’t make
the emails
we don’t send
because when this started
we knew
we are writers
before we are friends.
and that
isn’t negotiable
I was reading your chapbook
falling in love
with words
when I saw a small piece of hair
lost on the page
photocopied in
ink DNA
a small piece of person
archived
in all that type
and text
A specific piece of you
that I want to be anonymous
a hair that I haven’t tousled
that doesn’t wink at me
leaving gummy pomade
sweet on my fingers
Hair like a fingerprint
on the page
rings of years
spun in the fibers
freezing this moment in time
Caught in the typeface machine tattoo
a moment of cinema
holding on
permanent pause
without the projector light
to burn it through
I collect more
of your books
for evidence of you
odd sized pages
with precise drawings
and vague words
Books that cost less
and stay longer than
the phone calls
we don’t make
the emails
we don’t send
because when this started
we knew
we are writers
before we are friends.
and that
isn’t negotiable
no subject
no subject
i was sorry to have not seen you - i thought our paths were going to converge
:(
hope your day - albeit with the hand of pain - was still a good one
no subject
no subject
no subject