Dirty Pretty Things

Every Beautiful Day

2011-10-30T19:43:00.000-07:00

Lyrics by Awolnation, "Sail". Original poem by Rajshree"

Every beautiful day will be tempered with crap
It doesn’t make the day any less beautiful.

The sun kissed her chest and face as she drove
(the song with its bass, the antithesis of lilting, “This is how an an-gel cries”)
            Still, the fear of how she would get through another day when                   the days weren’t so beautiful burned.
(The song broke through, “I made it in my mind because”)

Winter is coming and the cold. Will I get out of bed?
Winter wasn’t always bad.

She told him, at one point you must have liked costumes or trick-or-treating.
            She imagined him as a little boy freezing in the cold, but excited             with his pillow case, going out with other hood boys walking                   from doorbell to doorbell laughing in stride then the way he does             now as a man walking from bar to bar.
            She imagined the crisp air stinging his little boy cheeks red, and             what it felt like when he finally came home – surprisingly hot                   inside – divvying up his candy with his brother.

Wait. That was her Halloween.
            Those memories were hers and she gave them away to a boy                   who wasn’t little
(“Blame it on my A.D.D. baby”)

The edge of winter scared her.
            She did used to love Halloween, and taking walks in the night                   with her dad on Thanksgiving and Christmas
            - listening to her dad's antithesis of lilting breath
            - smelling the jasmine blooming and the clean so-cold air that                   would nest in her hair
            - at peace because then he wanted her there
(“This is how I show my love.”)

Winter did used to have beauty in it.
Somewhere in time something went wrong.

Winter was now cut with bleeding depths of salt tears.
(“Maybe I should kill myself”)
How did this come to be?
(“Maybe I should cry for help”)

And still in the truth of it, her heart danced
            The crap doesn’t make the day any less beautiful.
(“Maybe I'm not listening”)

To behold her was to see a woman’s heart open and laughing and                   beautiful
            As she cries and laughs, laughs and cries
(“Maybe I'm a different breed”)

Child of an Immigrant...

2011-10-14T10:03:00.001-07:00

Being a child of an immigrant, people don’t quite understand a few things. For me,

It means tomorrow, when I launch my own small press, a press that promotes “integrated diversity” in the face of this weird political climate and increased racism, classism, ageism, the only family who is going to show up is my younger brother and my nephew.

It means I had to fight to get into college, and fight for everything I’ve done and everything I have… on the plus side, everything I have is unquestionably mine, and everything I’ve done is to my own credit.

It means growing up with expectations, not being given any clear idea of how to get there (fine), but further, actually being hindered from getting there.

It means, when I left a mentally abusive marriage, I was told by my mother that I’m an embarrassment. Eventually, I was told by my father that I am no longer welcome in their house. They couldn’t take the pressure of my pain.

It means that I understand. I don’t hate or begrudge my family… Instead, I help other people who need help… I’m a mentor, a teacher, a confidante… I’m helping to pave the way for young men and women who come after me.

It means I am tired of being marginalized by my home culture AND marginalized by American society, and through my small press, I want to help other people’s voices be heard.

It means I will fight for others the way no one ever fought for me.

<3

Smoking...

2011-09-28T22:40:00.000-07:00

- drifting in my open windows alternates, the smell of night blooming jasmine, stargazer lilies, cigarette smoke, burning car oil. Much different from Santa Barbara (salt, ocean, flowers), Danville (flowers, water, cut grass), India (sweat, smoke, petrol, flowers, spices, dust, evaporated water or stagnant water - together better than you think - triggers memories).
- I really hate cigarettes
- there was a fire in the Haight yesterday. I just read a woman's first hand account blog about it
- I'm glad I have renter's insurance. Good for her she can rely on family. I can't.
- 2 of my dumb neighbors smoke. It's a non smoking building. We all got notices that the smoking must cease because they drop their ashes everywhere. they still smoke. the stairwell still stinks.
- a friend of mine's upstairs neighbor whose partner died last year, died himself... while smoking... burned his place and my friend's place was a slush of smoke, water, and sludge.
- What should I grab? if there's a fire...
- maybe I should stop wearing this lace nightie to bed because you can see everything. but I like that it keeps me cool and warm at the same time. not too cool, not too warm. I finally found the perfect thing. and I should stop wearing it because if there's a fire, I'll be out in the night in it standing among strangers.
- my dad's voice comes to mind. when I was eight, "you're a passenger in a car. the car is in an accident and is submerged in water. how are you going to get out?" what do you mean? that could happen? is my silent question.
- dad again. when I was nine. "there's a fire in the house in THIS room [that room, every room], how are you going to get out." great. I have to worry about this now too??
- what am I going to take if there's a fire?
- these fucking smokers better not fall asleep while smoking. fuckers
- why do smokers who smoke in their cars roll their windows down? if they like smoking so much, they should keep all that smoke to themselves rather than letting it out on the freeway where it comes into my vents and my lungs. 2nd hand.
- what about the pictures? my documents? my irreplaceable Indian clothes and jewelry that should be in a safe deposit box except that I'm still in transition?
- again, these fucking smokers better not fall asleep while smoking.

2011-09-19T19:11:00.001-07:00

Empathy. A curse of wisdom. Understanding and feeling bad for the person trying to screw you over WHILE they are trying to screw you over.

Let me die - Draupadi's plea to Karna

2011-08-31T20:56:00.000-07:00

I die a little bit every day without you... still... At the crossroad between whether you'll ever come back, or whether you'll let me die completely so that I may start anew again. Youth - too naive to value and trust what you and I both know exists. Suns set, moons rise, my heart is in my throat... Clink the glasses, drink the wine, and harbor myself in the shelter of my own design... And you? Lost in indecorous vales of your benders, your pain is waiting. I won't be there to catch you, love.

Without

2011-08-13T23:24:00.001-07:00

It’s not what a good woman would do… Sit in a mass and partake of the drone, “Onward Christian soldier…” The song turned from her throat.

Unable to imagine “without”… What it would feel like without. How else could she breathe without?... Tears spilled from her eyes as the perfected smile shielded her true intentions with the sons of farmers. It’s not what a good woman would do… sit in mass and partake of the drone, “Onward Christian solider…”

Ebb and Flow

2011-05-27T19:12:00.000-07:00

Bare at the shore's edge...
Water floods our goosebumps,
pulls the sand from beneath us...
Headiness, spinning
a lovely rapture.

... then the yearning
unembraced for a moment
impatient with time
We anticipate the next wave,
to heal the gradual unbearable
awareness
nakedness

Never will it be the same...
never leaving the same traces on the shore,
always leaving us stranded in cold wet sand.

But there will be another...
the next...
always another...
to replace the one who left,
and the one we left behind.

What's something that people do in traffic that really bothers you?

2011-03-01T23:32:00.000-08:00

It bothers me when she drives a big ass SUV and stops unexpectedly in traffic - just at the moment when I reach down to crack open a window because I'm burning up - and after I pull over - because I hit her - I say that she stopped unexpectedly and she asks me, "didn't you see all the cars were stopped?" and I say, "actually, no I didn't" when I really want to say, "Are you FUCKING kidding me? I'm not Wonder Woman and I can't see through your fucking big ass SUV!" And, I look at her car and mine and wish her Happy New Year in Feb and hug her because there is no damage... I didn't expect to smell her clean blond hair and her clean dark work suit - But then my neck hurts the next day and I didn't exchange information because with all the crap going on in my life, I don't need my fucking insurance in on this shit unnecessarily... so I drag my butt to the chiropractor with my aggravated whiplash - yes, because I already have that from the last rear end accident I was in 20 years ago.

Quirks...

2011-01-18T20:24:00.000-08:00

She didn't think anyone saw... She lifted the teacup and flicked her tongue against the glaze to dab the drip there just before bringing the cup against her lip for a sip. A slight gesture indicating she savored it. But he saw it. She knew he did because his eye sparkled when she looked up. And now, after smiling that smile, he moved across the room toward her. Stopping here, there for small talk. They both knew he was plotting a line for her.

All because of a quirk, a flick of the tip of her tongue while she savored her tea.

Today, years later... Now that he was gone, she paused at that drip on the side of the cup and remembered his eyes sparkling, his arms around her, his smell... she shivered, put the cup back down not having had more, gathered her things, and gaze low, traced a line away.

Forgiveness?

2010-09-15T21:40:00.000-07:00

"Inner peace by practicing forgiveness. Forgiveness is letting go of the past and is therefore the means for correcting our misconceptions. Why do you cling to pain? There is nothing you can do about the wrongs of yesterday. It's not yours to judge. Why hold on to the very thing which keeps you from hope and love? Letting go doesn’t mean giving up, but rather accepting that there are things that cannot be." Unknown

All very true... but learning from the past is equally important lest we repeat our mistakes by trusting immoral/unethical beings who never did deserve our trust in the first place. The beauty is that we did after all trust. The sadness is that in the forgiveness, the act will always have taken place. With more information, the perspective can change, but the act will have taken place... the blow can be softened, but the blow was dealt. Once you learn something, can you really unlearn it? ... Can we live without committing hurtful acts in the first place?

Butterflies

2010-08-29T14:04:00.000-07:00

She sat up in bed upon the thought, "I never told him I loved him," and wondered when she began believing in love at all. Whether she believed in it or not, here it was... in the middle of the night. The fuckin butterflies meant she was alive. God damned butterflies. A slideshow of movie clips played in her head... Clips of suicide how tos. Writers were always so inventive when it came to carefully thinking out a suicide scene. She never could have been all as inventive as that on her own.

Later, in the chill of bloodletting in the mid-night warm bath, she decided she never did have to tell him because he had to already know. We all already knew, didn't we? About love and the certainty of death. We just all didn't live with the weight of it, the futility of fighting it - the disbelief in it; we all didn't breathe knowing the one couldn't exist without the contrary, disbelief without belief, every second of every day... Like she did. Did. She never told him, didn't have to tell him, because it always existed. She closed her eyes. The butterflies were finally gone.

Feeding Poetry

2010-08-19T21:11:00.000-07:00

[This began with an excerpt from one poem and fed into other ideas. Printed with the permission of the other poets btw. Enjoy!]

****************
Sam Sax (excerpt)
****************

Your body is no temple for a temple
is nothing when not filled with song
you are always filled with song
a block party
circle of poets
bottle of spirits
and a mouthful of sage
you are a body, little more than anybody

****************
Rajshree Chauhan
"We disappear"
****************

But your body couldn't be my temple
empty until filled with dance
I am always filled with dance
moving light
circle of drums
trance of mind
I become nobody, faceless, soulful...
we disappear *

*****************
Russell Goodman http://lorele.livejournal.com/494206.html
your body is a body not your own but in your possession temporarily, perhaps
*****************

Your body is a body is a body is yours,
for love and life
Dionysian spirits and sage
filled with song
full of dance
drums of the heart
ocean of the blood
stream in your ears
the ring as you fall to sleep,
your own Aphrodisian love.

The Pendulum

2010-08-15T23:41:00.000-07:00

The prisons of the mind can be deceptive in safety
more comforting than the unnavigable currents of life

Solace can be found there
do not linger too long lest you forget how to adventure

Both will always, will always
will AL-wayS
be ready for your return

Beware... The swing.
This pendulum is not smooth
prepare yourself and respect
accept where you are.

Life in the in-between

2010-07-11T12:43:00.000-07:00

Life happens to writers.
Can't be the conscious of people.

It's a world of crazy, poor writers, or
People who don't get it, who think they do
which indicates they don't,
Of people who walk in a different world.

Collapsed in between.

Like not being white and not being black...
Being brown and flowing between the two,
Being forgotten there.

If it were as easy as that to choose.

Healing

2010-03-14T13:56:00.000-07:00

Every time I see how far I've come, it's bittersweet. It is surprising what I'm capable of, but sad to know how many tiny pieces a person can be broken into.

Whore! Slut!

2010-02-17T23:34:00.000-08:00

[Memoir Fiction. Do you know how hard it is to write about anger and have your readers/listeners care? Writing this piece really messed me up for a few days after. It had to be written somehow, but it was very difficult not only to relate it, but to be brutally honest about the reaction and deal with the shame of the reaction... In reality... Whether a person could really say these things to an old man, I don’t know. I’d like to think not... I’m afraid I just might though, given the opportunity. I would to defend someone else. I’m also afraid I wouldn’t... Would I be able to say these things if it was on my own behalf? Both scenarios are disturbing to me.]

19 years old. Friday night, 7pm. Martin Luther King long weekend. Home visiting from UC Santa Barbara. Calling Paul’s house, short for Harpal, an Indian guy friend, to see if our group of friends might be interested in a movie. His father answered.

“Hi, this is Rajshree. Are Paul and Glen back from San Diego yet?”
“Who is this?” thick Indian accent.
“This is Rajshree. We met at your house over Christmas break. How are you?” You see, Indian parents love me. Of course Paul’s dad would too.
“Oh, I know you… You’re that whore who is running around with that Philipino boy - Is it?”
He was referring to my ex-boyfriend. “I’m sorry sir, what? I’m just calling to see if Paul and Glen are back yet.”
“Yes, you are that slut, aren’t you?”
I realized he was drunk. Still, I had never been spoken to like this by an Indian elder. “Um, sir, yes, this is Rajshree sir, but I haven’t done anything wrong, I-“
“Don’t you talk back at me!”
“No sir, I’m not talking back. I just-“
“Calling my house in the middle of the night, asking for my son.”
“Um, it’s 7 o’clock sir. We’re only friends.”
“Look you whore, don’t you ever call my house ever again. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir. I did have a boyfriend and we are no longer seeing each other. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Shut up you whore!” he hung up.

I was 19 and up until recently had been dating my boyfriend, who happened to be Philipino. My parents, also hurt and angry, refused to call him and tell him off because he was right on the one count that I had been seeing a Philipino boy. Of course, I expected Paul to take his dad’s side… somewhere deep down I knew he would… it was still hurtful when he did. I wonder whether Paul’s dad knew Paul was dating my boyfriend’s Philipina sister at the time.

20 years later, when I was 39 years old, an Indian neighbor, much much younger than me, had hit on me. He wouldn’t stop when I told him to, reminding him I was married – instead he got more aggressive. I slapped him and left the situation. I told my husband about it afterward because it’s kind of scary when a guy won’t stop when you ask him too. “Whore! Slut!” Screamed my husband – my ex-husband. We were at the food court in the mall having this Jerry Springer moment. You see, it was my fault for being at the ice cream parlor, and in the situation in the first place where our neighbor could hit on me. I get hit on all the time. It is up to me to draw those lines and say no. Was I a whore and a slut every time a guy hit on me? Is this it then? The blame is placed on me because?? "I" am the one who needs to be torn down? Obviously none of these Indian men really knows what a whore and a slut is.

Some say I am too Americanized - not Indian enough. Too Americanized? I wake up every morning, brush and floss, and when I look in the mirror, I am already Indian. There's not a single thing I need to do to prove it. Too Americanized? You see, it's called self-preservation. I grew up with those cold cruel Indian aunties who acted as if they were better than my family. They were so insecure in their skin, that THEY competed with ME. They also tried to tear me down. And, I learned to turn it. I learned to get THEM to follow ME around. All those parties where we dressed up like peacocks... I grew up watched and stared at. I grew up being myself, walking my own path, stumbling and growing, learning to maneuver within the spotlight and diffuse the drama people will create. Too Americanized? If this is indeed the case, thank GOD for it and the choice and freedom I have because of it.

So yeah, I lived that power game among women. I choose my role in that. You see, I LEFT that power game. I know how it works, better now than I did when I was younger. So every time you call me whore and slut, it is YOU trying to tear me down. In effect, you are admitting I am above you. A-bove you. Calling me a Whore and Slut is NOT the way to control me. I will not be controlled, I cannot be controlled.

My husband I can divorce. Paul’s dad? Now that I’m older and I’ve a voice to stand up for myself, I would like to track that one down. I want to find him, dress up in my tall boots and skinny jeans, tight tank top, and ask him…

“So old man, are you getting ready to die yet - Is it? Do you remember me? Yeah, I’m that girl you called a whore and a slut. It doesn’t matter that I’m a college professor, that I’m a writer, that I was a good wife, that I take care of my parents, nieces, nephews, and goddaughter. You have no right to say anything like that to a young girl. You had no right to say such things to ME…"

Was my crime being attractive and American born? Being in a short-lived monogamous relationship until I left to go away to college? Being loved, treated well and respectfully by my first boyfriend? Whore? That’s what they think when the girl has presence, dresses nicely, and whom passers by admire?

“You have a granddaughter right? Well the kids these days... I’m American born too, and we were rebellious, but we were different. These girls grew up watching half dressed pop stars like Brittany Spears – Sir, you don’t even want to know what your 17 year old granddaughter is up to. I saw her out the other night. Tight little outfit. Too much makeup. Spiked heels. Short dress that barely covers her ass. Tits and cleavage spilling over the top of her dress… Here’s a picture! You’d have been real proud of her tight little body, long hair draping down her back. The epitome of modesty.”

“I know you’re from a different culture, that you have different expectations and values from people like me… Still, tell me, you misogynistic, racist, farmer, what made you think you could pass judgment on me? If you want to bring caste into it, well hell, at least I’m not an Untouchable Harijan like you. Oh, is that not supposed to matter in this country anymore? Oops. Well it’s ok, is it? To remind you of your caste. Doesn’t matter how hard you’ve worked - to drag your family out of poverty, you’ll always be a low-life mean bastard to me. Die well. Die soon. At least one person on this earth will not mourn your passing.”

Look Good Naked

2010-01-31T14:19:00.000-08:00

Naked *naughty smile/wink… I could tell you about my trip to Cabo when I was 29. Someone had put a magazine clipping above the peephole in my room. It read, “Look Good Naked.” So, I did. For the rest of the trip, I walked around that room, I slept in the cool sheets… every time I came back to that room, I was naked. Looking back, there was probably a hidden camera, streaming me over the internet somewhere.

Or what about the time I, fresh from the shower, dressed in front of my windows… you see, the windows in my room open up onto a hillside of brush and trees – not a soul to be seen… usually… not until that morning. I finished dressing and looked up to see guys trimming the trees up on that hill… grinning. I felt they owed me some money for that one!

Naked

The word implies vulnerability. None of these stories leaves me open. I mean, you’re listenin’ to a gal who doesn’t have very many inhibitions sober. Black bra contest? Hold on *checking. Right on!

What I should tell you about… When I was in high school, I was never asked out. When I was in college, I was never asked out. It wasn’t until I was 24 when he asked me out. Dear Lord, his smile. His eyes. The look in his eyes when he looked at me. The way he would cradle the back of my neck as he kissed my forehead. The way he’d pull me to him, his hands on the small of my back or on both hips, pulling my body against the firmness of his. He was beautiful that one. Crème caramel skin, rugged and smooth at the same time. He was shaving his blonde head before it was cool, downy and ticklish on my palm when it grew. I mean, you could see every tiny muscle in his back – a swimmer’s back, a gymnast’s back. The echo of him, the memory of him *sigh

We went on a road trip that December between Christmas and New Year’s. From down in Joshua Tree, up into Northern California, into Oregon, into Washington, into BC. Eating, sleeping, playing games, camping near the beach. With him was the only time I’ve ever made love – we didn’t just fuck each other. It wasn’t that pure raw sex, which is good in its own right. The look on his face when he cupped, kissed and sucked on me, the fascination he had with tasting my insides, with rolling my skin and muscles under his palms and fingers. He drank me with his body. Hungry, waiting, desiring. Senses heightened, breaths held. The spark of the first touch… it wasn’t enough, never enough. It left me wanting more. I wanted to crawl into him, to be a part of him… Don’t breathe… Not yet… …

On the drive back, on a stretch of highway between Oregon and California… There was rain that night. The roads were slick. He had the window open for a hot minute to stave off the sleepiness. We both saw something in the road. I’m still not sure what it was. A deer? A coyote? I don’t know… When we hit the hillside, we lost control and flipped… he had his seatbelt on… How did he end up outside the car? What happened?

I knew there was blood streaming down my face, I knew I had hit my head… I saw him lying in the road. I didn’t matter anymore. I half crawled over to him, my hands and legs feeling thick and heavy, unable to follow through with my commands. Making my way with the cacophony of the rain raucous in my ears, on my skin, in the confusion… Or, was it the blood rush? Feeling the wet rocks in the roadway dig into my hands, imprinting them, muddying them, I had to get him out off the road.

He was on his back, his lashes touching his cheeks. The rain pooling at the inner corner of his eyes. The rain sliding down the planes of his face… There was too much rain, I couldn’t tell if he was breathing… But I had to move him. I tried… I tried… He was too heavy. I pulled his arms, and sat him up. His sweatshirt was soaked. Already? Was it water? Or?... I leaned my body behind his, his beautiful back against my chest, his head lolling, his body heavier without the spark of his smile. I moved him a little, pulling him backward. I couldn’t do this alone. Where was the adrenaline? Was that his blood or mine mixing and dripping with the rain onto him? It had to be mine. Why couldn’t I move you? Why did the seatbelt snap? How did the seatbelt snap? Why?

The next car, the lights blinding me… I thought it was slowing down. I thought help had come. I put him down to wave my arms, to plead for help. I ran out in front of him to protect him. The car swerved around me too fast… spun out… crushed his skull, crushed his smile… I watched it happen even as time stopped. That last moment…

He was gone. Forever gone. He was the love of my life... Infinity pain. Clouds of infinity pain… I fell through them. There was no one to catch me.

Now… Now, I stand before you naked…

Wishing you sweet dreams to ease your pain

2010-01-31T14:00:00.000-08:00

Fog crawls over my body, blankets itself in my hair, nuzzles, musses. / The dawn is hidden. / Most still lie warm in their beds / a peaceful time for some / for others troubled / wishing you sweet dreams to ease your pain

Lately, getting out of bed before dawn was more difficult than usual. It always happened this way. She would rouse peacefully, mind drifting from one slip of dream to another. Then, her heart would remind her it was broken.

Laying in bed, she looked out her bedroom window and could only see the night thinking of making room for light. She sidled one leg and then the other over the edge of the bed, inched her sleepshirt off, and took in breath for a deep sigh. Her tentative hands moved across her body, caressing one bruise after another.

The colors were deepening in beautiful patterns tattooed across her sides, arms, back, legs... That's all she had the energy to notice for now.

She held herself close as she assembled herself for the day, every movement slow and deliberate, perhaps an effort to reclaim her body and self, perhaps to warn any further blows that she had her share already.

The warm water from the shower streamed through her hair - she tried to imagine what it might look like. When she was little, she remembered floating her head back in the tub and swishing back and forth so that her hair would sway in the water like a mermaid's she imagined. Now her hair reached below her shoulders, blanketed her back, mottled black, blue, purple and green screened through the darkness of her hair.

She drifted again to a winter’s morning when she had found the bottle wash up on the beach… cliché. But, there was a note inside. It read, “Tonight I marry a man I don’t love. I don’t know what will happen, but with you I want to share this one piece of advice that I’m counting on.” It said, “Cherish your mistakes – they are what will make your life interesting.”

It began with a shudder, a slight quiver in her breathing... Heaving sobs she didn't know were in her were forced out. Her hands were splayed on the wall of the shower. She couldn't see through her tears and the water now mixing together.

When she was drained, she sat down on the floor of the shower, the water raining down an aggravated assault. Finally, when the crying stopped, she turned off the water, wrapped herself in her towel, got out a new nightshirt, put her hair up, and collapsed back into the sheets and pillows, her damp hair wetting it all. She formed a sort of nest, a cocoon. Back to sleep... Back to sleep... Start over again.

She looked out her window one last time. The sun had risen, but it was a hazy cold light. The clouds had come down.

Crying...

2009-11-10T18:23:00.000-08:00

Crying in the face of pain,
      is a very good thing.
Masking it with laughter
      is a sign to mark,
for my heart will have lost yet another slice.
Soon there will be none left,
      and I too shall grow old.

Addictifile Innocence

2009-10-16T17:48:00.000-07:00

                notice the sky?
        blue and sunny
                looking all innocent
        as if it hadn’t done anything…
as if a storm hadn’t
        ravaged and flooded
                        and left
                shelters in ruin
there exists
        distance between
                I’m sorry... and
     I’m sorry for what happened...
and saying:
                I'm sorry this is so hard on you.
                        Turn away!
I was there
                to hear the silence
                        to bear witness
                to watch the benders
to see the peace on your face
        looking all innocent...
                as if you hadn’t done
                                        anything…

Ant'hea (an-te-hay)

2009-03-28T04:02:00.000-07:00

It’s that witching hour again.
We should be lying in each other’s arms
Having spent hours to be spent.

Put the book down

2009-02-08T11:30:00.000-08:00

Put the book down –
Time to hold you in the park under the sun content as two people can be.

We made beauty –
It was an adventure, a mem-ory. No one can take that away from me.

Put the book down –
We made beauty –

Time to hold you in the park under the sun content as two people can be.
It was an adventure, a mem-ory. No one can take that away from me.

Can I have my book back?

Nature of 4am

2008-11-16T01:56:00.000-08:00

Nature of 4am

As the wind is blowing
And the storm approaches -
        when the spirit
Of the unfinished invades thoughts…

The clear light of day does sometimes
        bring truth. But
Lovers’ prose
                 hidden confessions
poetic rhetoric
        is in time suspended darkness.

Effigies scatter on the tail
Of the Northwestern wind
            whipping from behind
Leaves - whirling together their
        Unconsummated dance.

Pride and fear are the
        enemies of Fulfillment.
The vilification of happiness
                a perceived cost.
The pain of ebb and flow
        etched into the memory
                    of the heart.

As waves crash their mark upon
            the cliffs and bluffs -
the wind
            bends trees to breaking
            the tide
                    froths beaches to foam
So do we anticipate the next blow.

        How to make the crossing?
            Crushed with the stillness
of pristine night above

            Chaos hurricanes among us
            As will is stripped -
Fate wins a momentary victory.

To Be First

2008-11-16T01:50:00.000-08:00

I am sick of being last.

I am sick of being second.

from kickball to the absolute furthest thing in my parents minds
- Sick of it

what ever the reason!
kids will be kids
a-dults concerned with a-dult issues

I'm an afterthought.

I have a roof over my head and rings on my fingers
- it does NOT give you permission...

and, when I beg, and when I plead to be heard and am ignored
- what do you want me to do?

you choose your values it's not me... it's not us

don't you Dare to be surprised when loneliness guides me into someone else's arms

- I'm a one man kinda girl - ambiguity tears me up - yes, I KNOW it.
- I'm not made to be in limbo - it's just a truth - one foot is out the door.

I stand here, clutching my robe open in the front, make up from the night before still fresh, standing tall, desired and admired... hearing the horrible things you have to say, begging you to stay... because I'm your wife... I'm your wife! and you think I'm not enough.

Dirty Pretty Things

2008-11-16T01:45:00.000-08:00

Dirty Pretty Things

I pat on my face cream.
In the morning, rubbing it in
-Deep.
It protects me.

I carefully craft my makeup
To accentuate,
to highlight.
To hide behind tinted beauty

A tainted barrier,
A false barrier,
A strong barrier,
between myself
and the nature of others.

I'll shake your hand, "Hi! Good to meet you!"
Or, support you, "That's really great!"
Or, lie to you, "I'm doing really well!"

Sometimes I'll mean it,
But, I know it won't happen.
"We should get together sometime soon."
"Yes, plan it. I'll see you then!"

Sometimes I'll believe-
My own lies to myself.

It's when I take off the mask...
That the tears wet my neck,
Drench my eyes...
As the pain heaves into sobs.

Not just anyone will see it.
It is privilege.

And you...
With whom I shared such dirty pretty things...
You!
Who threw it back in my face...
You'll never see it again.

I protect myself
Even from you.

Painful Beauty

2008-11-16T01:40:00.000-08:00

Painful Beauty

It's painful to think of the beauty in the world -

Eyes Colombian coffee
Skin golden, white

Wrapped in your arms
Rocked to comfort
Dog licking my toes
Family

I am.
For now…

An illusion it is to be
The one lovely thing

Beauty exists separately

There will be another
Sitting in my place
Between your legs
Tangled in you
Arms, legs, breasts, pussy

Wrapped in your arms
Rocked to comfort
Dog licking her toes

Family -

The spice of your skin
Never forgotten
And, your tongue on my clit
Your sex coated kisses

It's painful to think of the beauty in the world –

The beauty that buries the past.

Who am I?

2008-11-16T01:39:00.000-08:00

Who am I?

I am a woman on the run
Away from time that is red.

Red of the blood in the sun.

I look out the window and I see my life – the one I have yet to live but am
Too chicken to continue and too chicken to change.

So, I'll stay on the toilet and finish.

But before I let the pilot lead me down
BOOM SHACKA LACKA BOOM BOOM BOOM
I will drive my own car like Dr. Stupid
The one that makes me feel good as Gin & Tonic
With Dre and Snoop in the 90s
Blaring on the radio
As I sidle down the sidewalk made of sandstone and glitter
In the constellation of Santa Barbara beaches.

The sunken garden of the courthouse – cold and far away
Solitary as Pluto – Sunken gardens far away from me now
Paved with Spanish Tiles
Made in California!

Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow

2008-11-16T01:38:00.000-08:00

Yesterday... I was pretty. They dressed me up and took my picture. They wanted to put me in magazines and on the runways. They told me I was too fat at 107 lbs. They ignored me. They raped me. No one was able to change the person that I was. I had my own thoughts and explored the world in my own way.

Today... I am beautiful. I dress myself. I see the girls in the photoshoots and I feel sad for them. I take pictures for myself to remember what I have. I am healthier. They notice and flock to me. They admire me... But, they fear me and thus will not touch me. Only I can change the person that I am. I still have my own thoughts and explore the world in my own way.

Tomorrow... I will still be beautiful - in a different way. I will pity the young who look down on me - they still need to prove in pictures that they exist. I will admire the strong and try to help the weak-minded. I will help those who need to learn to fly and be admired. I will teach them not to be feared through kindness. I will guide them to find their own unique thoughts... That will be my legacy. I'll no longer care what they do to me. Surely I'll be replaced... That's the nature of the thing.

Pity by Erin Belieu

2008-11-16T01:37:00.000-08:00

Pity

Once I took it in my mouth, I had to admit, pity tastes good, like the sandwiches

they make in French patisseries, the loaf smeared with force-fed organs, crust
that shreds the skin behind your teeth. So bless the tongue's willingness,

for it chooses like a wartime whore, and it's the picky who end up dead against the wall. And bless also the bouncers,

who all last summer grew kindly ashamed those nights I fell backward off their stools. When A. said, "People are generous with ugly things and you're the Goodwill drop box,"

I counted the turns I've taken on that swing—

the handouts I've offered to the fucked-up and broken. It's the playground rule,

everyone gets a ride: then you're the girl at the party trashing the patio furniture, or the man, later that night, pushing her down in the street.

—Erin Belieu, from Black Box

Stop by tgf

2008-11-16T01:35:00.000-08:00

Stop by tgf

I want you in the morning
plain and beautiful
and made up
and lingerie.
I just want you
For a little while
To be mine
But, that is asking too much.
So I will stop.

Do I love you?

2007-11-17T01:51:00.000-08:00

Do I love you?

God it's quiet here. Peaceful even…

The wind blowing the clouds.
Not a thing of men: music, speech, activity
Ah but for the plane!

The plane that carries men
To their destinations
Men's destinies

Choice

We choose
So important in this world
Where nature

Nature is first
Choice is intent
Choice belongs to men

I choose you
But was it choice??
To love you.

The plane is gone
Cars whisper in the distance
It's quiet because I'm alone

The clock tocking
On the wall
Counting our march onward

To death

What is silence?
Absence of man?
Death?

Death chooses us
I did not choose to die
What is choice?

What is love?
A manmade construct
That exists only with man?

Do I love you?
Only if I choose to

And, my choice? My destiny?
Is… breath

Spoiled For You

2007-11-16T02:01:00.000-08:00

Spoiled For You

What did you do?
I’m spoiled for you…
My body will only respond
to memories of your touch.
And you left.

I look for you in others.
The look in your eye
the look of your skin
the feel of your chest:
shoulders, waist, ass.
When my eyes were closed.

It has led me down dark
paths.
Many who would readily take
if I gave.

I want you,
You want her,
She wants –
Who knows?
Do you?

Dilemma?

Is this the nature of it?
To want what we can’t have?
If that’s the case,
How is there ever fulfillment?

Why couldn’t you wait?
You knew me…
And your selfishness won.

Dodge a bullet? Or,
lose some twisted form
of Russian Roullette?If there is an answer,
time grasps it in my stead.

Your poetry has turned prose,
My prose to poetry.
Can’t you see how much
The brief time altered us?

“Why are love poems cheesy?”
You asked.
I answered:

“Because in writing,
love is twisted.
Love doesn’t have the richness
it has in life.
In life it turns to something else –
in writing it stays the same.
Love exists in conflict.”

It’s the pining,
yearning for something
that’s lost,
Not there any longer –
In that you will find
oodles of cheesiness.

As this for you is.
As what you wrote for her
is not.
Rather it was your anger.
Anger with her,
Anger with yourself.
Go light up or have a drink.
I think that is all that can
curb your anger.
Don’t be angry with me.

I try to remember the good
In you.
It was there.
It is there.
I write the story that you changed
I write the story that you revealed

You are hidden from me now as
I try to move on.

Despite the stories…
Stubbornly, I will look on you
the same
as I always have.
Admiration.
Respect.
Friend.

Mental,
Emotional,
Physical
Match…

The look in your eye
Changed.
You used to admire
Now there is nothing
The same blankness like
the first time we met.

I’m a stranger again.
I had a chance.
You had a chance.
We had a chance
Once.

Do we only get one chance?