Eight blocks, scattered my heart. This dust pan has a lot of work to do. My secrets spread across, a promise on a platter, I never saw this coming. I swear. I did my best to wrangle this beast but you never trusted my small hands. So I stand smoking in the rain and I promise the city lights that I'll never utter your name.
My lips spread when that wheal spun, and the dog in the cage behind us never moved. I saw the foot you kept outside our door, and some thing told me that you could run. But I never, never wanted to tell my heart. We saw New York from the moon, we skated on ice in the heat and you smirked at that seven year old boy with eyes as blue as yours. And I told my self, that I could keep my hands on you.
But I never, never knew that you'd run so far and I would be left with this dog and in the cage my naked body that you forgot to touch. The heart will always suffer from amnesia. This choke chain loosens a little each day, and the dog watches me sweep up the mess. I guess we'll see what we can make of the remaining pieces.
This What It's Like
Induced slumber night after night in these bare cave walls. Bear hibernates through the toughest hours of the night while lovers moan through out the city. No one cares if you fed today and tales of your nightmares go untold. Nothing to paw at, no one to stroke your fur. This is what it's like with out me.
Blue Pill Promise
I was crawling out of my skin under the sun on the most crowded island. I came to paradise to escape my life and found they have "life" here too. "That's life, you know" they say, when some one is trying to make you feel better. Or make them selves feel better. "Let's just accept it, lets not move the river shall we?" Except I didn't want to move the river, I just couldn't help the compulsion to keep trying to push it. That's all.
I swear the movie theater was on Second Street next to the organic market with old Chinese man sitting outside on a stool watching a toddler with one good eye. I've walked by this theater a million times swearing that one day I will watch one of their small screen movies with pseudo famous, attractive enough to fuck actors, and now sweat was dripping down my butt crack as I paced back and forth on Second Street. Fuck it, I'm turning onto Houston and seeing what it has to offer.
I'm getting really angry, really itchy in the brain. That's what I call it when mania hits me, itchy in the brain. I can't scratch it, I have to slam it against something to make it stop or wait it out. Some times I wait it out. Some times I can. But sometimes ugly things happen in between the first itch and the last. Blood, sweat and tears. That's all I'm gonna say about that.
So now I'm power walking on Houston and something better happen cause every thing is getting really loud and I might lose it. The sun feels good on my bare legs, but a new tattoo is rubbing on the seam of my shirt and I promised some one not to drink today. I got to get the brain to stop itching though, and there it is. A fucking movie theater on Houston. It's not the one I was looking for, but it's a theater and they don't sell alcohol and I can sit quietly in the dark and not feel one bit strange about it. I'll sit with every one else, quietly in the dark for hours.
I pick a movie with the most attractive actor. Vincent Gallo is the most attractive leading man on this roster. Great. I pay a lip biting price and run upstairs and take a seat in the back of the theater. It's a lone seat with none next to it. Is this a handicapped seat? Great, with my luck some dude in a wheel chair will roll up and flip his shit that I'm in his seat like I knew he was coming. So I move a few seats down, but still in the back row.
The back row is the masturbation row I remember, so I put my sweater on the seat and balance myself onto it. Vincent Gallo was being Vincent Gallo. I know cuz one time when I was a 20 year old waitress in LA he grabbed my arm and asked me in a panic
"Do you have oatmeal?"
I looked at my arm, then at him and slowly assured him we did. He looked relieved beyond belief. As if I said "Vincent, the baby is not yours. Don't worry. I'm gonna leave town for a while to clear my head. We had fun but I got to go now. Good bye." Oatmeal is all I could think of while I watched him on the screen for over an hour.
I had to leave Vincent Gallo early because I just couldn't sit any longer. The itchy brain again. So down I walk on Houston back to the organic store for some coffee. I don't drink coffee, no one with an itchy brain should, but itchy brains also mix up good ideas with bad ideas. I drank my coffee in large gulps through a straw until I decided that 3/4 was enough and threw it into a metal garbage can.
I need to stop the itchy brain desperately. It was going so fast, and the cabs and the sun and the models and the arms and legs around me were getting really close and really loud. The itchy brain came up with a good idea. I walk into the pharmacy, downstairs to the pill isle.
That's what I call it. The pill isle. I get so, so excited at the site of pills! I used to choke on them as teen, I was so scared to swallow the tiniest of spec. I remember when Tylenol came out with "teen" pills, they were not chewable child pills, but tiny "teen pills", about the size of a birth control pill. Even those made me nervous. I picked out a generic sleeping pill box. They came in blue, which meant night time in the pill world. I would take a few of these and totally bypass this day, sleep right through it like a modern day sleeping beauty and go right into tomorrow. Tomorrow would definitely be better. The itchy brain would go away. The bad thoughts gone with today's garbage.
I fight my way through the crowds with there shin height shopping bags crashing into my legs like dirty Santa Monica waves and headed for the subway. I fiddle with my 1.58 quart water bottle (have to stay very hydrated in the New York summer you know) and pop four little blue sleeping pills into my mouth, getting red lipstick on my fingers. I wonder why they made them so small if they weren't for teens? Would big ones be too powerful? I imagine doctors in a lab starring at a comatose rat, one doctor saying to the other "well it works, but we should make them much smaller, don't you think Dr. Ross?"
I carefully wobbled down the subway stairs, below the dirty streets into, the dirty subway lines and as I took another large gulp of water I heard sobbing. Little voice sobbing coming from a little person. A little girl about a foot shorter than I was rubbing one eye explaining to the subway clerk behind bullet proof glass that she was to meet her mother at her work in Brooklyn, and that she had accidentally jumped into the wrong train as not to miss it, and only realized it at that moment already into the East Village and no where near Brooklyn.
The clerk proceeded to tell this little child how to transfer onto what seemed like a million different trains to get to her to the Bedford stop, and by this time I had water running down my chin and was utterly confused. I was going home to Brooklyn not on the L but on the F to the M, knowing that the L had construction and was closed in between Lorimer and Myrtle/Wyckoff. I walked up to the little girl with stiff corn row braids and big rain drop tears and asked her where she was headed.
She wiped her face with her palm, gave me a once over and looked back at the station agent. Now I understand I may not be the most appealing guarding angel, but I know how to get to Brooklyn.....
I swear the movie theater was on Second Street next to the organic market with old Chinese man sitting outside on a stool watching a toddler with one good eye. I've walked by this theater a million times swearing that one day I will watch one of their small screen movies with pseudo famous, attractive enough to fuck actors, and now sweat was dripping down my butt crack as I paced back and forth on Second Street. Fuck it, I'm turning onto Houston and seeing what it has to offer.
I'm getting really angry, really itchy in the brain. That's what I call it when mania hits me, itchy in the brain. I can't scratch it, I have to slam it against something to make it stop or wait it out. Some times I wait it out. Some times I can. But sometimes ugly things happen in between the first itch and the last. Blood, sweat and tears. That's all I'm gonna say about that.
So now I'm power walking on Houston and something better happen cause every thing is getting really loud and I might lose it. The sun feels good on my bare legs, but a new tattoo is rubbing on the seam of my shirt and I promised some one not to drink today. I got to get the brain to stop itching though, and there it is. A fucking movie theater on Houston. It's not the one I was looking for, but it's a theater and they don't sell alcohol and I can sit quietly in the dark and not feel one bit strange about it. I'll sit with every one else, quietly in the dark for hours.
I pick a movie with the most attractive actor. Vincent Gallo is the most attractive leading man on this roster. Great. I pay a lip biting price and run upstairs and take a seat in the back of the theater. It's a lone seat with none next to it. Is this a handicapped seat? Great, with my luck some dude in a wheel chair will roll up and flip his shit that I'm in his seat like I knew he was coming. So I move a few seats down, but still in the back row.
The back row is the masturbation row I remember, so I put my sweater on the seat and balance myself onto it. Vincent Gallo was being Vincent Gallo. I know cuz one time when I was a 20 year old waitress in LA he grabbed my arm and asked me in a panic
"Do you have oatmeal?"
I looked at my arm, then at him and slowly assured him we did. He looked relieved beyond belief. As if I said "Vincent, the baby is not yours. Don't worry. I'm gonna leave town for a while to clear my head. We had fun but I got to go now. Good bye." Oatmeal is all I could think of while I watched him on the screen for over an hour.
I had to leave Vincent Gallo early because I just couldn't sit any longer. The itchy brain again. So down I walk on Houston back to the organic store for some coffee. I don't drink coffee, no one with an itchy brain should, but itchy brains also mix up good ideas with bad ideas. I drank my coffee in large gulps through a straw until I decided that 3/4 was enough and threw it into a metal garbage can.
I need to stop the itchy brain desperately. It was going so fast, and the cabs and the sun and the models and the arms and legs around me were getting really close and really loud. The itchy brain came up with a good idea. I walk into the pharmacy, downstairs to the pill isle.
That's what I call it. The pill isle. I get so, so excited at the site of pills! I used to choke on them as teen, I was so scared to swallow the tiniest of spec. I remember when Tylenol came out with "teen" pills, they were not chewable child pills, but tiny "teen pills", about the size of a birth control pill. Even those made me nervous. I picked out a generic sleeping pill box. They came in blue, which meant night time in the pill world. I would take a few of these and totally bypass this day, sleep right through it like a modern day sleeping beauty and go right into tomorrow. Tomorrow would definitely be better. The itchy brain would go away. The bad thoughts gone with today's garbage.
I fight my way through the crowds with there shin height shopping bags crashing into my legs like dirty Santa Monica waves and headed for the subway. I fiddle with my 1.58 quart water bottle (have to stay very hydrated in the New York summer you know) and pop four little blue sleeping pills into my mouth, getting red lipstick on my fingers. I wonder why they made them so small if they weren't for teens? Would big ones be too powerful? I imagine doctors in a lab starring at a comatose rat, one doctor saying to the other "well it works, but we should make them much smaller, don't you think Dr. Ross?"
I carefully wobbled down the subway stairs, below the dirty streets into, the dirty subway lines and as I took another large gulp of water I heard sobbing. Little voice sobbing coming from a little person. A little girl about a foot shorter than I was rubbing one eye explaining to the subway clerk behind bullet proof glass that she was to meet her mother at her work in Brooklyn, and that she had accidentally jumped into the wrong train as not to miss it, and only realized it at that moment already into the East Village and no where near Brooklyn.
The clerk proceeded to tell this little child how to transfer onto what seemed like a million different trains to get to her to the Bedford stop, and by this time I had water running down my chin and was utterly confused. I was going home to Brooklyn not on the L but on the F to the M, knowing that the L had construction and was closed in between Lorimer and Myrtle/Wyckoff. I walked up to the little girl with stiff corn row braids and big rain drop tears and asked her where she was headed.
She wiped her face with her palm, gave me a once over and looked back at the station agent. Now I understand I may not be the most appealing guarding angel, but I know how to get to Brooklyn.....
Weekend Dad
I took it very personal. Laying on my back, eyelids open during witching hours. Insomnia made herself comfortable in my bed for going on 47 days. You'd think if she was going to spend all this time under the covers with me, she'd at least want to fuck. But no. I lay here in a gray room listening to four paws chase something in the apartment upstairs. Back and forth, back and forth. It might as well be the ticking of a clock. Back and forth. Rain clicks down on my window sill and some drunk asshole just got home and thinks every thing is funny. I wish he'd laugh away from the window so as not to scare away my sleep if it came by.
If I run any farther away from my self I will fall into the Atlantic. This brain can be so dramatic. Why is it that every fucking time I pack up those boxes, all of me shows up to the next place yet some of those boxes tend to fall off the truck? Why can't memories and character defects fall off the truck? I got a few stories I'd like to leave behind.
Life gets hard when you start living it. With out fucking it, drinking it or snorting it, I don't know what to do with it. I look around the room nervously trying to pull my cheeks up and squint my eyes, the way I see others smile. I bite my knuckles and life just looks at me, slightly disappointed, slightly bored and very resentful. It's kinda like spending the weekend with your real dad. I make little jokes and speak in foot notes. It rolls it's eyes at me and gives me a pity smile. When did this happen?
If I run any farther away from my self I will fall into the Atlantic. This brain can be so dramatic. Why is it that every fucking time I pack up those boxes, all of me shows up to the next place yet some of those boxes tend to fall off the truck? Why can't memories and character defects fall off the truck? I got a few stories I'd like to leave behind.
Life gets hard when you start living it. With out fucking it, drinking it or snorting it, I don't know what to do with it. I look around the room nervously trying to pull my cheeks up and squint my eyes, the way I see others smile. I bite my knuckles and life just looks at me, slightly disappointed, slightly bored and very resentful. It's kinda like spending the weekend with your real dad. I make little jokes and speak in foot notes. It rolls it's eyes at me and gives me a pity smile. When did this happen?
Gun Shy Heart
I stood there, like I did many years ago with my heart pounding it's way out. Choking wasn't an option in this case. A mistake meant death. My head warned me about it the whole way here. In the car, on the phone and in airplanes. Through songs and drugs, between sex and crying it warned me of all of this. But every heart suffers from amnesia. And despite the fact the brain has a firm grip on the steering wheel, well... we all doze off once in a while.
It felt heavier than I remember. Was I as shaky before? A mistake meant death. I became fully aware by the chill running through my hands, along my arms to the tips of my nipples. I set it down and looked back at you in shame and defeat.
I can't.
Your hands met my hips and you turned me back around, pushing up from behind me. I rested back on your chest.
Just relax and hold tightly.
I repeated it like a mantra. Your hands left me there, shivering. Inhaling, I pushed my shoulders back and submitted to the amnesia, and with the exhale I fired two more rounds. I think I've got a gun-shy heart.
It felt heavier than I remember. Was I as shaky before? A mistake meant death. I became fully aware by the chill running through my hands, along my arms to the tips of my nipples. I set it down and looked back at you in shame and defeat.
I can't.
Your hands met my hips and you turned me back around, pushing up from behind me. I rested back on your chest.
Just relax and hold tightly.
I repeated it like a mantra. Your hands left me there, shivering. Inhaling, I pushed my shoulders back and submitted to the amnesia, and with the exhale I fired two more rounds. I think I've got a gun-shy heart.
Dark Lover
I wake up with him. His shadow on the wall the moment I open my eyes, I feel his arms around my waist. Please go, I think, please leave me in peace. Not today. He shushes me, today we will spend the entire day together.
I pace the living room, his shadow following me, forming to every wall in my apartment. I open and close the fridge, he stands behind me. There is no reason to shower, no reason to dress. I'm not going any where, not until he's done with me.
I lay on the couch very still and silent, his arms tightly around me. No one will call today. I will exchange very few words with the outside world, if any. I'm all his today. I wait for his caresses to end, his damp hard kisses, the way he pushes himself against my groin. I close my eyes and wait for it to be over. But he stays all day, and some times over night.
Will I wake with him tomorrow? I can't bare the thought of it. Usually it's one day, but some times he lingers. A few consecutive days of this and I might not survive. He knows this too. He knows I can only take so much of the shadows, of the silence, of his body tightly wrapped around mine. Of his mouth suffocating mine. My whole life, he's been my dark lover.
I pace the living room, his shadow following me, forming to every wall in my apartment. I open and close the fridge, he stands behind me. There is no reason to shower, no reason to dress. I'm not going any where, not until he's done with me.
I lay on the couch very still and silent, his arms tightly around me. No one will call today. I will exchange very few words with the outside world, if any. I'm all his today. I wait for his caresses to end, his damp hard kisses, the way he pushes himself against my groin. I close my eyes and wait for it to be over. But he stays all day, and some times over night.
Will I wake with him tomorrow? I can't bare the thought of it. Usually it's one day, but some times he lingers. A few consecutive days of this and I might not survive. He knows this too. He knows I can only take so much of the shadows, of the silence, of his body tightly wrapped around mine. Of his mouth suffocating mine. My whole life, he's been my dark lover.
Nueva York
The mice didn't bother me. They never really have. I kind of liked watching them scurry close to the wall, their gray shiny bodies wiggling across the gray shiny cement looking for the right hole to go through. I watched one this morning stop at every other hole and poke it's head in, then quickly continue to the next.
I'd glance over to the faces
that matched the feet
the little mouse navigated by
to see their reaction.
But the faces were too busy kissing each other.
Adjusting the scarf tightly around their child's neck.
Sucking their teeth and checking their watches.
By now the mouse is gone and I'm alone again.
My train pulls up violently like an ambulance. People pour out, and more people waddle in.
I am pushed up against eighty-five people with my hands across my chest to protect my tits from smashing up against a stranger. I'm kinky, but this is not my thing. I think about my mouse friend. Is it crowded in her hole? Is that what she was doing, looking for the least crowded one to crawl into?
When you're in a human storage container blasting through tunnels under water, under an apple, under more human storage containers, you tend to day dream a little. It's as though you're brain doesn't have to really function if it's underground. Your cell phone doesn't work, why should your brain? So I day dream. I'm eleven states away and I have yet to feel homesick. Among all these strangers, I'm alone inside them and it feels great.
I like looking at the girls on the subway. When you're smashed up in a subway car, it's really hard to place your eyes any where but on a human being. Eighty people trying to look at anything but each others eyes. You find your self looking at nooks and crannies of the car. Starring intensely at advertisements for vocational schools and domestic violence hot lines. Any thing but the eyes of a stranger.
So anyways, I like to look at the girls. I look at their boots and crawl my eyes up to their shiny, pout lips. Mouths are my favorite, "the lips have it!" I say. I'm pushed against all these people when really I want to be pressed against those mouths. Pressuring them to open, like subway doors. Their love pours out as my tongue waddles in.
I'd glance over to the faces
that matched the feet
the little mouse navigated by
to see their reaction.
But the faces were too busy kissing each other.
Adjusting the scarf tightly around their child's neck.
Sucking their teeth and checking their watches.
By now the mouse is gone and I'm alone again.
My train pulls up violently like an ambulance. People pour out, and more people waddle in.
I am pushed up against eighty-five people with my hands across my chest to protect my tits from smashing up against a stranger. I'm kinky, but this is not my thing. I think about my mouse friend. Is it crowded in her hole? Is that what she was doing, looking for the least crowded one to crawl into?
When you're in a human storage container blasting through tunnels under water, under an apple, under more human storage containers, you tend to day dream a little. It's as though you're brain doesn't have to really function if it's underground. Your cell phone doesn't work, why should your brain? So I day dream. I'm eleven states away and I have yet to feel homesick. Among all these strangers, I'm alone inside them and it feels great.
I like looking at the girls on the subway. When you're smashed up in a subway car, it's really hard to place your eyes any where but on a human being. Eighty people trying to look at anything but each others eyes. You find your self looking at nooks and crannies of the car. Starring intensely at advertisements for vocational schools and domestic violence hot lines. Any thing but the eyes of a stranger.
So anyways, I like to look at the girls. I look at their boots and crawl my eyes up to their shiny, pout lips. Mouths are my favorite, "the lips have it!" I say. I'm pushed against all these people when really I want to be pressed against those mouths. Pressuring them to open, like subway doors. Their love pours out as my tongue waddles in.
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