the vinyl of the diner bench stuck to my back
while the rousing essence of burnt coffee
settled my restless feet
as the growl of his two-packs-a-day voice
calmed my mind
reminding me that the world is still beautiful

his worn fingertips traced the grooves
etched deep into my palms
while he hummed my past
present
and future
melting the edges of my vision
like candle wax
pausing just long enough to taunt me
like the light tapping of his boots
to an unknown song
against the old linoleum floor
while he talked about frank

his hat was lost
to the gusts of wind we passed through
for the cheapest cup of coffee in town

“prob’ly crushed under a bus
or making a bum’s day”

tired eyes lit up when i said this
and hiding a smirk behind his wrinkled hand
and cracked coffee mug he whispered

“there’s a song in that”

we sat and watched the roll
of each incoming wave and listened to
the passing gulls when he stilled those
fidgeting fingers in his grey curls
looking towards my bag for a cigarette

“you’re like the rocks”
pushed past his pursed lips as though
he hadn’t wanted to indulge the thought
not bothering to look over my shoulder
the click of the soft spark said it all

Following the fog
to San Francisco, I knew
I wouldn’t stay long.

Kerouac and Steve
Allen drift from shot speakers.
Talking about Jazz.

There was no message
that I was home, besides faint
Billie Holiday

and her copy of
Naked Lunch, carelessly thrown
on top of my bag.

+

The sky blushed as she
scrunched her nose – face hiding from
the soft glowing sun.

Yawning against my
neck, she sighed “good morning.” Her
voice still thick with sleep.

With a kiss to her
warm palms, I moved to sit at
the pen and paper

waiting on my desk.
Her sigh reminding me this
was our last morning.

But I can strip
ribbons from the lining
of my heart to feed
the rusty typewriter
abandoned on your desk.

Then you can fill each blank
page with every mistake
I’ve handed power to.
Especially on those nights you find
yourself bored with everything
the world has offered

in your never ending search
for the perfect letter writer,
broken spirit and mind full
of damaged memories that can
keep you entertained. I shift to
feel the drop – the keying
of my heart on these empty pages.

Laughing at the sight we made

The back patio garden of Julie’s had never seemed as welcoming as it did Saturday afternoon. I sat with my cell phone turned off, watching a young girl chase a kitten through rose bushes; while I sipped from a large glass mug of some aromatic tea that the woman at the counter promised would make things right with the world. After the drive in from San Francisco, I was more than happy to accept any help offered.

Covered in dark and jade green vines, roses and blossoms spring from between leaves that cover the walls and the small wooden gazebo. Small round tables and chairs are joined by wooden benches, filled with a mix of people that would rarely be placed together. Mothers with children, talking to local artists and activists about health care and taxes, while they are setting up their new exhibit inside of the shop. Middle-aged housewives knitting with pierced and tattooed students, gossiping about which actor or musician is cuter. The unexpected explosion of “What the hell is the deal with the Jonas brothers anyways?” was thrown into the conversation while the rest of the group laughed at missing the next stitch. The woman at the counter, who I deemed perfection in my mind (could have been pulled out of a pin up collection), was speaking to an older business man about the different types of chai tea as he joked about divorce rates paying off his mortgage.

A young girl runs after one of the cats gracing the garden. A flash a sun-lightened blonde, she giggles as she tries to pounce on the cat. With the attention span only a child could get away with, she goes back to her hot chocolate and coloring book when she realizes her mom has yet to notice her running around. When she looks up at me, and I smile and wave.

With rare sincerity she came over and said, “You must not be an adult, because you’re not talking on a phone.” Laughing without knowing a response, I move my purse over to give her room on the bench next to me. For the next hour and a half we sat coloring in her notebook and my Slavoj Žižek book. She regaled me in stories of school. Tales of monkey bars and sandboxes I could still see from my past so clearly. She drew me a picture of her dog. Brown and purple with a pink collar and blues eyes winking at me. The knowing look telling me that while he didn’t physically exist to comfort her, his pictures covered her wall and her parent’s refrigerator door; there to run after tennis balls and chew up her homework whenever her parents didn’t seem to find the time. So I drew her a picture of the bunny I remember drawing at her age. White and beige, jumping through rose bushes as she did, and eating carrots off of the dinner table. A bunny I was never able to have in an apartment in Glendale, yet graced my bedroom walls and parent’s refrigerator, there to keep me company while my dad worked and my mom was on the phone.

And I think I’ll be posting up letters and other glorious tidbits now that I have the time.

Love for all and any who find themselves wasting time to read this. I should probably promote it more than just my business card.

And for anyone finishing up their semester this week/next week – good luck and congratulations.

i perk up
when i sense
your subtle strength

you
accompany me
in the quiet moments
when the jostling
of mourning doves
knocks blossoms
off the
trees

and the thud
of the morning paper
reminds me
theres no honesty
but in you
and your bold bold
heart

but alone
in the middle
of the night
that could never
be as dark
as you
i walk along
the train tracks
humming your praises

and dive right in
burning myself
in your intensity
reminding myself
how to feel

your heat peels verses
from the lining
of my throat

and i drink
your bitterness
on nights when you
arent prepared
to be
smooth