Will the Real Cast Please Stand

I eclipse myself

smoke and mirrors

My apartment is clean. I pulled apart the pieces of my life and cleaned. I opened my father's box. His book to me, his first card, his father's watch waited for me. I am tears, I have feelings, which makes me anxious. I move across the scope of my being, I drop things and am disassociated from my flesh. In former times this would be a moment when I look to external stimulation to emulate my internal sense of growing restlessness.

Break

I continue seeing the same person. A few days ago they slept next to me: I woke up with feelings.

Feelings do things like make me check my phone, smile to myself, have anxiety that perhaps there was no bottle and there is no genie.

They come into my apartment we are arms, legs, shirts pulling over head, sweat and lips over flesh. I listen to the beating of his heart, my head pulled, held against his chest. I hear a rhythm all its own and I exhale a breath I didn't even know I was holding.

 

A long hello stops short of goodbye

I take a long cold look at myself and am radio loud, shirt off

Legs long, wave hello to the sky

This is not a moment but a long hello

*conversations last night*

I turn to the man beside me
Dallas? I met you in Seattle

He was ready to be anything anywhere for me, since I have a thing for Native Cowboys, I was ready to let him.

Sitting near him as he rolled a cigarette he pulled his eyes down my legs. We shared the cigarette. Hot smoke burned the air between us. Come with me, he says, anywhere you want to go.

He pulls me for a moment close to him. I feel the heat of his body push through the denim of his pants. There is no reciprocal heat. I want nothing more than to run. But, I don't. I still have that fucked up thing. I walk back to his van. I sit inside for one second before I realize that this is the almost absolute last place on earth that I want to be. So I grab the handle to open the door.

Child locks prevent me from opening the door.

*I slide over the front seat and out the passenger door.*

Released into the night, into the company of C.

I have a few problems in life. Putting myself in fucked up situations by being willing to smoke a cigarette with a stranger is not something that I am proud of. It happened. I was there.

The moralist in me is judgemental: stop smoking; don't talk to strangers; don't play with fire; start being more of a grown ass lady and buy groceries.

I couldn't agree more.

So much so that I agree less. I am one day at a time the happiest, most self-expressed, darling.

I have been growing alfalfa sprouts and have a tendency to push myself to explore every aspect before my curious mind is sated. It is time to explore an entirely new world.

All my love always to you

No Now like Now

I am two short skirtz
Layered

One margarita

Not enough dinner,  no breakfast
I'll see you tomorrow says today

That's the way we roll
Solo through one to two

In the stillness

Our memories half forgotten
Breaks me in two
Dis-inhabited form
I regress, fall out of form,  recognize the bow of your lip from a distance you laugh as my knees bend
I a loss for motion
Still, finally from words
Find my mooring
Creeping moans ricochet
I between my fresh sheets which have never welcomed anyone save me
Move against time

I don't like losing to girls

Back two or three nights, I am at a party awkwardly not talking to anyone. Watching people become more loose, wild, inebriated as the night wears on. I smoke stolen cigarettes and pony up the courage to start a conversation.

Wanna wrastle? a man boy probes as he shoulders by.
Nah, I say, I don't wanna end bloody.
how about arm wresling, he persists.
left handed and you're on.

a spot is cleared for us at the table and we kneel, grasp hands.

He asks, are you even trying.

I continue to simply hold and hold, resisting only as much as necessary to wear him down, get in his head.

time passes, I am stalwart.

I don't like losing to girls, he grunts.

I smash his hand into the table:
then don't ask them to fight.

when people want to fight people against whom they think they have the inherent upper hand I rage inside: I wanted to chew his ear.

Dark Morning of the Soul

It's hazy sunshine this morning. I am having a real fit because I want to take art classes and to drop both my statistics as well as another major requirement course. What's a lady to do?

I am also struggling with a few other small things, such as laundry and not be able to completely give up smoking. I hate that the most. Laundry. In other news my focus issues have not improved in the last 36 hours. I am all over the place and exercise would help, but again, laundry.

I am drinking coffee and listening to the birds. The idea that they fly many thousands of miles to survive is thrilling. This season I will become a twitcher, binoculars and tweed and my camera. It seems almost indecent to watch as thousands of migrating creatures are following their instincts and I can simply follow them. I would love nothing more than to spend the spring in the Southwest. I would like to watch the desert awaken, that brief moment when the cactus flower and life in the arid expanse explodes into color. 

I had a friend in New Mexico. I wonder where the road has taken them. Some people have restless boots, other people put down long dusty roots. The energetic reserve I have saved to start school seems depleted. I think it may be working overtime almost every week. It's loud with so many people talking talking talking their voices swirl through the air, I pull a single thread of dialog out, football, beer, fall, before the voices overlap again and become a din of murmurs.

Fuck integrity, rules, and the game of love played through war

I just in the last ten fucking minutes realized a very important piece of information.

Eerie has been pressing in close the last week and I could not fucking figure out why. This morning I realized why.

The Ex kept a painting. So fucking creepy. He liked it. I am ultimately not surprised.

That's stealing.

I am relieved to know why I've been off and what that tickle in my mind has been about. It's strange having half memories that work their way to the surface. Trauma does that to a brain.

If you see this painting consider it stolen property. It looks much better in person. I promise.

Coffee and Luke Bryan

Got a little boom in my big truck...

I am top-forty country and black coffee; I just top-coated my left pointer finger in pure gold: You can't put fabulous in a box, mutha-fuckers!

Books and pillows litter my apartment. I want to remove everything and decorate as if I were living in a caravan traveling across morocco, colorful sils hanging, pillows, tea, water-p-pipes.

This week has been so up that I knew down was lurking around the edge of the almost full moon. I touched the sky yesterday, the wind buffeted me on the narrow ledge as one way or the other earth fell sharply away. Alive alive alive.

The taste of nickle in the back of my throat when I am afraid to say something, when I fight back tears, when I become so angry that I want the wind to hold me as I sail out over it all, and then I breath in deep and open my eyes and start to speak.

Hiding. Again. Perhaps. I will put my heart in a box, I will put it in glass, I will hide it in the depths of the ocean, I will put it on display in a museum. I will follow grace. I will sin. There is love to share and I push the edge of my finger to the rim of desire. I follow instinct. Alive alive alive. Remove doubt and dance.

Keen and Soon Forgotten

I, hear the sound of music in the wind,
know my ever changing and four chambered heart longs
at times to be the only dancer
swung about on the floor as dawn cracks

Back to living in a community of closed doors and open faces, I know that every word has the chance to echo across the peripheries and that echos boom where as spoken words are pushed through sweat matted hair in the secret silence, the space between lips and eyes wide open and the feeling of cold skin warming to the touch.

Echos of the past linger in my heart and I speak quietly, with my fingers and eyes. I find solace in the bottle, I find joy in the night, I fight all my urges and it ends up all the same.

Distant lands and another life linger in my fingertips.

I do not need to write or even rewrite history because now is potent. I am looking into the depths of my heart and know there is an ever growing lasting supply.

Intolerant of the natural spectrum of relation I delve into the invisible connection of desire's lubricating balm. In being a mistress, in being a survivor, in choosing the skin to put next to me I believe myself to be safe from the qualms and quandaries of human nature. I am all boots.

Long slow ache

The outside of my hips, the back of my shoulders, my eyes are all upset with me. I am tired and my ears hum along with the refrigerator.

Yesterday at coffee with E we laughed and at times our feet touched under the table. I notice a new openness within me to physical flirtation. There is a boldness in our dialog and I am relieved to have almost one friend.

Later at work I receive mixed signals from my crew. I have been upping my attire: vest, shirt, tie; trim, sharp dresses. I always carry an almost illegal knife in a pocket and use it to skin citrus. I am not invisible. Wool and stockings are around the corner, I want matte brick colored lipstick.

My apartment is a haven. We air our bodies and lay naked for hours eating melon, drinking coffee and each other. We part knowing that the long present is a tidy gift.

I am sore, tired, hungry; content with the gradual thawing of my senses I notice how much I've learned in my absence.

All my love and back