Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Mama's Pearls

I sent my daughter to school
in those pearls mama gave me. 

Mama bought them, full price, 
at the store on the corner of Jackson and Hull 
the only one on the street, 
she'd never been in before. 
She didnt tell Daddy 
because those pearls were just from her;
those pearls were just for me. 

I was turning thirteen 
the first time they pirouetted on my collarbone 
and suddenly my overalls were a ball gown 
suddenly my knotted hair was blonde and straight 
suddenly i was royalty, 
all because of that string of pearls- 
Mama gave me. 

I wore them to my prom, 
I wore them at my first interview, 
I wore them at my wedding, 
I wore them the day my baby was born, 
and i wore them every other day 
i was told i wore so much shine out of them- 
i could have worn them away. 

My daughter turned thirteen yesterday, 
and a gift was easy to come by. 
Her father bought her some roses and a dress, 
and signed a card from the both of us, 
but i had a gift of my own. 
My neck had never felt so empty as when she undid the clasp, 
but my heart was never so full. 
i cried and i told her "sorry baby, they don't shine like they used to"
and though her hair was blonde and straight and she stood before me in a gown,
she told me: "Mama they're a dream come true". 

She came home the next day 
with tears in her eyes. 
She told me the string just gave way, 
and the beads had fallen to the floor
like a rush of rain on my windshield. 
she said she had tried to pick the pieces up, 
but the pearl's fate was sealed. 

I told her not to cry, 
and spoke softly to her: 
"i didn't give you pearls to keep, 
their magic isnt yours or mine, 
i gave you pearls to love-
pearls of impression, 
and you took them, 
and made a million memories, 
and nothing can break from you that they were real.
and whether they sit on your neck or not baby, 
my Mama's pearls are with you, you just gotta feel"

country music

I listen to country music.

I've never liked sushi,
I don't try to bike uphill,
I let my hair knot in the summer wind, 
I'd let a man front the bill.
I drive too close to the wheel, 
and i listen to country music
cause it has taught me how to  feel. 

I'm always the first to laugh at smiles,
I'm the first to cry at screams,
I do my best contemplating on sidewalks for miles,
I do my best sharing when someone touches my skin,
and i listen to country music 
to learn who to let in. 

I am terrible with numbers, 
I think in letters and poetry, 
I dont lack excitement or enthusiasm 
I really struggle with clarity.

and you are a man-
 from a country song, 
without the boots and hat 
but this is the real world, 
so we can do without that.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Baby you dont deserve this.

She told us all,
how hard it was to feel again-
and we told her all
"baby you deserve this." 

She fell faster then she wanted to,
and hit harder then she thought her knees could take.
and she let herself be excited,
and she let the butterflies in her stomach break formation.
She let them fly,
she let herself go-
she lit her red wax candle and walked through a  locked door
into the musty unknowns of love.
All she wanted there,
were hugs and whispers.
and we all promised her-
her dark and locked room, would still be as bright and bashful-
as it had been when she first discovered it.

So she stood
beautiful and fragile-
in a greenhouse where love should grow
under scrutinizing light,
a light- that would have shined-
that would have been beautiful
if he had been there to grow too.

And when she came home,
sickened by the weight of a heart getting hard-
all we could tell her,
in our well lit gardens,
was "baby, you dont deserve this"

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

"and it is written"

I remember meeting her, in thew purple glow of her cubical by the window. She was wearing crystals around her neck and black glittered polish on her nails. i dont remember all of what she told me, but I do remember everything she said about you.
She told me that I would meet you early September-maybe late August. She told me your freckles would look like sand. She said your hair would feel like angel wings. She told me you'd love cats, and fleece. She told me you'd make a great best friend, and a better boyfriend. She told me, in her witchy wisdom, all i had to do was meet you- and that the loving you, the courting you, and the relationship would unravel in front of me.
I pray to my goddess, and i light my candles, and i hope to the earth and the skies that she's right.
But till then- as summer tip-toes into my painted landscape; i wonder with ever brush stroke if your fates will fit into the image. I wonder, if your god see's us like my goddess does. I wonder if you've dreamed a portrait of me- because i have of you.
I pray to my goddess, and i light my candles, and i hope to the earth and the skies that when i find you, you'll thank your god, that you found me. That this time, the fate the gypsy told me, is the same fate, some gypsy somewhere sees for you.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

My Gypsy Soul to Blame.

I've heard; 
when you get where you're going, you'll know you're there because the traveler in your heart will finally be ready for bed. 
and i'm left to wonder- 
what happens when he wakes up? 

Tuesday, May 10, 2011


I think once in a move i saw a woman leave for a trip with red painted nails.
Ever since, it's become one of things i do. Summer looks so much more promising when my red toes press deep into the horizontal lines of a gas petal. Spring feels so in blossom when there is dirt beneath the red tips of my nails- the kind that fills me up when my knuckles bend on the handlebars of my bike. In the winter; on my way home from way up here- as i sip my last mug of hot cocoa and let the car warm up, my hands anticipate travel. And how many of those fall runs, did i take barefoot with you following my red toes, and calling me crazy all the way.
But the night that i got on that plane last week, to go out and see you, my nails were blue.

Sunday, May 1, 2011

People are disgusting,

People are disgusting. 
He is disgusting when he runs. When he runs, and his back sticks to the cotton of his shirt with a sweat glue, and he breathes like he is taking his last breaths. It is disgusting, to see him push like that- to feel so in control, when really his body is wet, and dirty, and soiled- but high. He can't even smile in such a contortion. and he smells like all the smells a body makes that people buy air fresheners to disguise. It is disgusting, but it's admirable. 
She is disgusting too. When she eats. Watch her chewing, with her elbows on and off and on the table again. The circular motion of her jaw is rhythmic but still ever so unattractive. And the sound of bolus production is something i struggle to stomach. She eats all of everything too.Her forks scrapes at the plate, and sounds like nails on a chalkboard. She is eating, and she belches, and she accidentally opens her mouth occasionally, and she mists out the kind of saliva you produce to digest when she speaks. It's disgusting, but it's healthy. 
He is disgusting when he cries for attention. When he cries, and throws his rattle. his hair falls out of its photogenic display and into his eyes which he wipes tears from with his nasty chocolate covered hands. He cries so hard with that little body that his belly expands and contracts with every dramatic breath. Saliva  bubbles in his opened mouth, and drool dribbles from his pouted lips. He stomps his mud covered feet and lets out some ugly squeals. He is disgusting, but that is passion. 
They are disgusting together. They are disgusting behind closed doors, with the noises they make and the sighing they do. They are disgusting with the smells they create and the messes the make. Everything is so physical, a connect and disconnect- connect and disconnect me harder Baby- connect and disconnect again- again, again- faster-relationship. It is disgusting when they stick like cling wrap, and slide like butter in a frying pan. They are disgusting, and moist, and sweaty, and loud, but they are the happiest it's physically possible to be. 
She is disgusting when she is sick. Sitting in her wheelchair, her grey hair as void as a flowerbed in October. Her wrinkled skin can sit more still than she can, and she looks like her body alone is suffocating her. And she has no control-of her shaking hands, of her excretory functions, of her loose and naught body, and her illness is disgusting. No one wants her to touch them, with soiled, bent, hands or kiss them anymore with her chapped and orange juice drenched lips. She spits and spasms when she speaks, and no one wants to wait and listen to the engrossed body of what once was a woman. She is disgusting, but she is resilient, and she is alive. 
People are disgusting. But then- perhaps that is just what makes us people.