Friday, February 24, 2006

salt and pepper

this is new to me. her hair isn't washed by the right shampoo and the scent of her doesn't swell in clouds and drift to me.

i'm trying to explain how i feel. i think ive been a bus or a train or the bart. i've been making the rattle of movement, but now im the track and im derailed or im looping to change the route. im the macarthur stop where i got off to play cards, im the stop before chinatown where i joined the parade to swoop and duck between segments of dragons. my left cheek felt the swooshing of flowy silky cloth spackled in golds and greens and it is always cold to touch. those are past lives and now im a guide or a trail or a road.


this is my heart now. open your palms and look at the lines. this is how we know our lifelines, or lovelines. place the palms together and rub them the way a child would. that burn on your palms is what my heart feels without her. when im with her its like that first blow into my cupped palms, its a chilly day, i can't remember this for too long, but my hands are warm.

its in my sight too. i spend nights peoplewatching. i trick myself and see her shape, the curve of her bangs, the pallid color of her arms, a glance at a profile. everyone else is scenery. everyone else is dancing shaking remembering what its like to have a pulse and heart. we're there too but barely.

thank god im not the drunk caller, not this time. it feels good to be on the other side, hearing something like 'im drunk, are you home?'

if i said the last note was to no one, i lied. it was to her. i didnt know it yet.

Monday, February 13, 2006

lindsey, friendships, guitars

l and i used to email. a lot. there was really no other way to say things.

she'd be in los angeles, i'd be in the east bay. she'd be in san diego, i'd be in vegas. she'd be in ohio or nebraska, and i'd finally be in los angeles.

then i thought we gave up on each other. there was no energy in her words. though there were a lot of words strung together. i let the string wait and slacken. months passed and i couldn't respond to this 6 pg letter that i'd read sometimes in the morning, sometimes before i slept.

when we finally talked, she told me how it is. she got it. i didn't want her.

i'd like to believe i know what love is. i'd like to believe years ago i ran up walls with her and we turned each other upside down and inside out. but i'm being truthful with myself. and its finally valentine's again. so no, i don't know what being in love is. i don't know the kind of girl i fall in love with. i don't know who i've talked to about love.

though it is a nice thing to talk about.

this is to no one. this is just a letter i have to write because i am always falling in and out of love. because i'm hypersensitive and i missed class and the sun was fighting in cloudy territory. and its gotten cold.


ok. so let's pretend we're somewhere else.

let's believe wednesday that we're so much older than we are. we're professors.

you're holding office hours at milano. i'm calling in sick because i hate my students and their spark note regurgitations. just like that, the day after valentines, the day after cards and roses, we're stirring our little brew.

for me its a drink i take for the company. i see the word kona and i think of plumeria and waves.

for you its a potion that reminds of the country. buttery pie crust, hedgerows, pollen, sage, mosquito beds.

i laugh at your stories. your younger brother is afraid his friends will hear the names you call him. they really are terrible names.


but yesterday i spent sixteen hours eating sugar hearts off the slopes of j's breasts. just in my head.


she wants the thrill of a well placed secret.

in the afternoon she wants a donut.

at midnight she needs to be walked home or fucked all night.

it is probably disturbing to read all this. it can't possibly be anything else.


let's change again.
she's driving the 20 to the 10. when she reaches california it smells of eucalyptus and oil refineries and seabreeze.

again. she's a flower. a vicious male bee stings her head. the bee dies in her hair. she uses a petal to flick away the dead, the honey, a memory that stings.

again. she plays the guitar. she plays the same song three times. we have beer and wine bottles and soup and sandwiches. i'm just glad we aren't watching tv.

again. we're fighting because she says i don't communicate. she chucks an old rotary phone at the base of my neck. i spin the dial and clench my fist.


let's just sit quietly because the only thing on our minds is finding love.

we don't get that love finds us. that love tells us when and what we need to know.

Thursday, February 09, 2006

143 assn 1

He had never been in love, never been more certain until it was Monday and he could not write what love is. All he has is a shared space in the floating world of weekends and strip clubs and book stores. He reads stories about lovelives because they aren't like his life. In life he has to give up suffering, give up his addictions and obsessions that glorify his suffering, and he does this in order to live. A poet writes him about her suffering, "the masochistic but full and sweeping way of loving that leaves you a feeling human being." But then she adds he didn't treat her right and that's usually the equation. So now she goes home to love that is not the coinciding of the vicious and romantic. It is a love that is light and breezy, less of a rocking ocean to drown herself and more of a wind that she can feel the direction to when she wets a finger. She waits on the wind to make it cold.
C says don't leave me. He won't. He needs many homes and many loves in many forms. He trips on her heel, leaves a bruise on her foot that he will massage. They sit on a pier bench. They embrace and watch the waves break. He is not hot or cold at all. The next day he will have a panic attack, and turn on the ac and defrost. She will not ask why the coolant of the car is weeping while it rains. She says she loves her fag and thanks him for not leaving her. It will be ten minutes before he can feel his head stop sweating, or make conversation about something other than where to turn.
lani is smoking cigarettes and spreading ashes all over a blue couch and his white t shirt. He does not bother using his erection on her, but he waves a waitress over and tips her for a free beer. He is thinking of a girl back in Berkeley, the girl next door whose called to say they won't be having coffee. She likes lazy Sunday brunches and coffee and loves to pretend that is all she needs. She is a girl who moves like a wisp, she can't carry or catch a drift, but he can hear the muffled sound of her hundred dollar jeans, the shifting of her thin legs that make her shy in a short cut dress.
He dreams of x all weekend. She's told him she's been in love with him for a long time. She is 19, and he hasn't known her a full year. She grabs his dick and yanks it, then releases his dick to its flaccidness, and yanks again. She repeats this jerking until he's hard and ready to compliment her. And he loves her young body that is always wet. He thinks he tastes on her cunt chroline and bubbles and kickboards. The loss of balance in her body is like a springboard's rattle on a beachball afternoon. They both jump high into the air and splash into the water. Their dive is like a painful bellyflop: the smacking sound of water when its a breaking surface, the sting of being hit between the eyes. She grabs him by the balls as if they were peach pits she had planted into his scrotum and now she wants the pits back. She grabs him like she knows where he's been rooted, and he tells her how boring sex is without her. She gets mad. "Is that it you bastard? I love you." There is water forming in her eyes and she will follow a way of love lived in tears. They are inside and she is tender with the throw of her palm onto his chest, though every so often she is forceful and cries. They are inside a house, so they cannot feel the direction of the wind. She wants him to say something, but how can he speak when he has nothing to say about love.