REPORT A PROBLEM
i am starting now because there seems nothing else to do. tired, restless, new meaning , new word:restwon't. days, muggy, ideas sluggy, i hear your voice in my head. noone's voice. all the world on two fragile shoulders - who decided? why do you keep me? two birds fly, collide on an open door - call to the future to hold on, but never shy away from the forces of nature. strong and chaotic. attach meaning to nothing and sink wholeheartedly into something. it takes strength to sit still. i would and i will. a solitary man climbs slowly up a hill.
there is a basic question in order here. there is a basic knowledge, but where? there is a basic circle that tends to play like a child or an addicted gambler, which? bright, fearless, or caught between habit and need. a bench, a ball, a bit of sunlight can be too much for an instant, then not enough. cracks in sides and carvings in moldings, broken up neon, an ad for some forgotten item. the details clues to inklings of emotion. tiny beginnings to a vast need for expression. or passion. or something like that. we stuff it down, walk.
a day. a morning. grey, the air thick and quiet like a ghost town sea port. anywhere but here, this city. i am a foreigner, stepping out on familiar, unfamiliar ground. the pigeons are gulls and the heavy chang-clang of metal on metal is the sound of mooring sea fishermen reeling in their bounty. i wish i had a basket to carry to market. where i carefully choose each necessary nourishment, and bring them to the place where clean and colorful sheets hang proudly on the rooftop to dry, and the damp, musky face of a man waits, childlike.
high heeled skinny jean too much money not a care look around they're everywhere. in the street, feel so fine, western shirt new york skyline don't need to work don't want to pay have everything but give nothing away. bottle lady and nickel guy watch the shallow kids walk by. talk about nothing then drink it away this is how it looks this is how it looks this is how it looks this is how it looks when the world starts slipping. no thoughts just cool no love just sex no art just trend what the shit is going on
once upon a time there was a room with pale red walls and bright white sheets, a clump of fresh peppermint and a bucket of books. a child in adult clothes was found sitting in a dusty green chair wrapping long adult fingers through aging adult hair. the windows splayed wide open to the possible wish carrying sparkle breeze, and checkerbox floor was ready for the magical droppings of living thoughts. daydreams filled the misty air (night dreams were impossible as sleep was never there)and words would wrap around this girl but still she sat in that motherlike chair.
i didn't go. i did not go to your funeral service. there is so much involved in love and hate and anger and forgiveness. something familiar that no song or drug, no friend nor stranger, no tarot card lady can keep me from danger. it's the mind and the memory and this belongs to me. i remember it well, the way we honered you from the back seat of that cool corvette convertable - chosen cb handles feeling older than we were ...you discovered coors in colorado, and the word of the day was tilt. strange. only takes a moment, change.
here is the air. here is that perfect satin green coffee cup. here is a quiet day that woke up right. keep this close for times in the night when sleep is foreign and skin is the enemy. hold this tight like a fragile baby child, bless it, and thank it. here is the morning. that cool drink of water, crystal clean. glimpse it and let it fall. let it spill over for your thirsty friends and others. here is a minute when everything is lost and no dream will be analyzed, and you don't know where you're going to.
royal crown (and water), i am! i am a good daughter. don't say it. come on, get out. i'm trying to think (no need to shout). i'll be back in a little while, but for now you get this substitute. i like to think of it as, um, adventurous - not unpredictable, no....just constant entertainment. it builds character, and...out of proportion ego for later in life. this is good. this is what we do. and furthermore....and, by the way, fuck you. i'm an ant. i stole the sugar. i did other bad things too. fortuneteller bobby tells true.
there are some big flies gathering in my workplace. big, slowmoving domestic flies. big mothers, and i'm not lying. this brings me to my neuroses. the possibility that they watch me work and land on me with a secret purpose. they are part of some other world's experiment to see how easy it is to drive a person crazy. how it is done, and what it looks like, this slow spiral toward mad. how did they get in there? they multiply with a vengence, speak a special language of arm rubbing, pacing flying looking landing. this time i am prepared.
think about how pleasant the cool water would feel on my knees. the ghost likes to whisper as it makes its way through tall and bended trees. i can count on it to take me back. there is a certain light at that time of night - we swing out over the water like carefree birds. it's not hot anymore, but the smell is that of certain summer nostalgia. something innocent, something so simple. i can count on it to take me back. to hold me there, caught up in the power, the thick rich air, the drama of the lake.
he said "don't mind me, i'm drinking russian water" in fact, i had noticed him sneaking sips of something from his little bag, and i told him so. he was proud of the joke, it made him smile and something quite bright was lurking under the rustcolored crust and unshaven whiskers around it. we sat and watched some kids jumping around a couple of out of control, spritzing fountains...he wondered if i ever remember being a kid. my heart feels sad and full now. i wish i had stayed just a bit longer with him in the afternoon sun.
i want to fall in love...with sleep. i want to adore it, caress it, gleefully and luxuriously wallow in it. it's been a while. a deep breath, stay put, no, i can't. so, so, so tired, and so, so, so coldly resistant. stubborn and proud. a fond and distant memory takes me back to the days of soft, clean blankets and downy fresh comforters, someone's body warm wrap on a cool crisp morning. snooze button over and over, i can't get up, i don't want to get up. i miss it, i crave it terribly, i need it horribly.
swimminghole they said.....the day was oppressive, tennessee heat, fullmoon dynamics. de-snaked for the special purpose of this gathering - how do you de-snake a pond? last week one of the dogs bitten by a copperhead. no way, i'll take a shower. then jordy comes riding up on the fourwheeler - it's pristine he says, you won't believe it. well, i guess i could take a look, jump in for just a minute. more like thirty seconds. cold. and i couldn't relax, that feeling being long gone. that faith, that giddy happiness. once a snake has been around things lose their appeal.
there was some kind of grip in that look. it's strange, i've seen it before, did not expect it here. a rage, a power threatened - well, it's good to have the cards on the table. forgive, but watch out. weakness is a spreadable fortune. a tiny bit of poison on it's breath. we take it, chew and swallow, hide it under our tongues like the body of christ. there is no judgement, but we love to judge. those eyes did what they came to do i believe, but it's for the owner of those eyes that i most deeply grieve.
little bugs and critters - we will never clean up all the dirt. i try to squash them one by one, then wonder if it's justified hurt. the world is plagued with dust and sorrow and garbage trucks full that we'll fill again tomorrow. i run my hands under water, and then , shit i've got to pee or touch some money again. with some careful adjustments i'll find some relief from the microscopic wildlife that give me the jitters, they fly into my eyes and my hair and my nose and the back of my throat and i'm itching imaginary itches.
would you pay to see a crazy person behind some glass in an ancient compound in a beautiful green meadow? it's entertaining, it really is if you're into tragedy and the slow wasting of a beautiful life. you can watch her pick up the jagged bits of any person's broken moments and stuff them ferociously down - when the pieces begin to poke out it really is something to see in all of its vulgar glory. you can watch her skin crawl and her blood boil and if you prefer to see her squirm just tell her how wonderful she is.
sitting on a pile of it, can't spend a dime of it. king midas on a throne of gold.....and every need and thought and dream hovers so close that the urge to scream is another task left undone and unwound and buried under garbage and hidden underground. this is quite a punishment - pretty darn creative - i came up with a good one! to have so much and use so little, to live the high life and never have fun. to hide it all away and never share a burden, to keep it all at bay (two crooked pigtails sway)
whew, that lady be stankin (this was vicariously yelled into my ear by a passerby - i heard her muttering ooh wee she smelt bad for at least three blocks) i kind of chuckled even though the reality of the situation was not that funny. still it was true. the bottle collector on my block carries one of the worst stenches i've come across - and my neighborhood is famous for its odiferous rotting fish chicken carcass funny herb shit piss puke nature. she carries a pole on her back to balance two big bags of bottles and tediously scours the street.
like nothing i ever imagined is the opportunity to come home, fresh food in a sack and a skip in my step. to walk through the front door and greeted by the sight of forty or fifty ducks hanging, glazed. they are on the first floor of my apartment building. they are next door to the area where our garbage piles up day after day, separated by a screen. i walk up the stairs to the sound of crying babies piled on one another, and the sickly smell of food frying on an oven that has never once been cleaned.
my place is an oasis. a secret fantasy clubhouse where noone is welcome. i always thought i would be the perfect hostess. nurturing friends with good food and comfortable beds. lounging on long, lazy mornings drinking strong coffee and talking real shit, playing tunes, laughing. everyone would be welcome and love would hover in the air. we live and breathe together and never watch the clock. i have strayed so far. i've been well protected by these beautiful and selfish havens of adult life. my sweet little place. the brunt of anger, shame, worry, despair....something only privacy can bare.
sing me a lullaby, rock me to sleep. i need a shoulder to lean on, a place to weep. i am a closet crazy and i'm secretly mean and selfish and bitter, i keep my place clean. a full time job, tiring one at that. inherited this quality, studied it for years. you treat your friends poorly, then apologize later. then you lock yourself away and think bad thoughts. then you daydream for a little while and then you do something admirable. if someone wants to come over you say no even though you are the lonliest person on earth.
a star stands out in the sky, even in the city where the lights are bright, sticks out like a signal. every once in a while someone stops, makes a wish, smiles, feels hopeful. even here, in a place where trees grow up through concrete, nature's strong guidance, subtle reminder, call for help. pick up sticks and precious stones, bring home candles and animal bones. one trip down to the water may wash you clean and take you home. or if you must just take a stroll out under the night. look for a star it will make you right.
a string of red and yellow flags hang proudly on the thick summer breeze. faded and torn, festive yet forlorn. a row of sunflowers in a window box, sprigs of bright bamboo in fancy glass jars, lace and plastic figures on the dashboards of cars. anything to bring a little luck. girls walk tentatively in their special shoes, fancy blouses cover bellies stretched out and used. so many ways to find pleasure and relief, from the storm and the spinning, and the fear and the grief. the world that fills the senses with beauty and shame, happiness and pain, love.
little princess in her fluffy princess dress. out with daddy on a saturday, bobbles and sandals, no worries at the ice cream dripping. here's another little sunshine, fine hair in quirky tails, a dress that will never be forgotten, a life just beginning. they're everywhere, these happy children. safe, loved, protected. it's saturday morning and they're out on the town. sing a little song, take a drink in the park, pet a puppy, move along, ask a question, leave your mark. a prayer for the little ones that this world will turn, and hearts will soften, beg, listen and learn.
a perfect waltz, a slowdance - there may be nothing as simply amazing in this world. it's so easy to fall in love when bodies touch, and faces are buried in the scent of a shirt, and the chords of a song, and a man can be strong and a woman can be weak...i love to watch old couples dancing. two aging bodies clinging like their love is new and fragile, moving like their love is ancient and well-versed. dancehalls and dive bars are the places to watch hard and serious lives become enchanted and electric for a while.
i can't stand to see the bodies lying in the streets. they are multiplying like hungry flies buzzing. limp and lanky in strange poses, mostly men dusty and damaged. heads crushed under shoulders, arms and legs flail, asleep or, sometimes awake...one i saw drinking from a special cup - a beautiful artifact, maybe found but his to drink from. two friendly allies were holding him up barely alive but speaking politically and with dignity. others, simply felled with noone standing by, crumpled on the ground, fried and frazzled from the sun - we all walk by cuz nothing can be done.
summertime should be in the country with the lakes and the streams and wildflowers and dreams. with the slow talk front porch and the people you love. with the dogs running wild and the smell of cut grass, and the vegetable stand on the corner, and the free weaving bikes. and the rain on the old tin roof and the little tree frogs, and the drunken barbecue backyards, and the moss stained crooked laned graveyard. but i don't want to go home, though i do miss it so. i don't want to go home, so i just let it go.
music, please don't leave me like my voice that fell and wanes and shrinks and barely speaks . stay by my side and take me to places i remember, faces that have faded, teach me troubles, hold me together, take me with you, just don't leave me here. if i say i don't need you and can't bare to see you or have you around. if i ever ignore you or take you for granted or yell like a wild dog and put you down. forgive me and love me despite my confusion, i'm sorry i'm human and broken and real.
independence day is coming. independently shopping and wearing the uniform. independently depending on filtered knowledge and guarded information. i am not paranoid or politically active, brainwashed or falsely cynical. i vote and try to count my blessings. i am incredibly free, but not so proud. we independently learn from television and billboards how to be shallow and greedy, lost in our selves and dependent on things. all of the cars on my chinatown street have american flags. fireworks will burn and give us the fix that we're looking for, but if i'm to be independent, i am looking for more.
it's been a tough year for the artists, the sensitive peoples have taken a hit. they are dropping like flowers these precious and haunted souls. the weight and the sorrows of the world, just a little too much this year. my friends are leaving. hanging from a tree, falling from the sky, quieting the curtains with needles glass and wire. the lovliest creatures that walk this sacred ground decorate this world with special suprises, the hearts of fire and steel. where do hearts like this come from? hearts of shamed wisdom. going and gone not right and not wrong, missed.
The Tip Jar