Diners at 2am

April 5, 2010 - Leave a Response

“He drinks his coffee and he dreams.”
Mahmoud Darwish

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”

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4

April 4, 2010 - Leave a Response

the intoxicating san pedro breeze
floating across he hill dazed me
just like the ghost of his lips
as they pulled me from
the darker corners of my mind

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

Opposite Directions

April 3, 2010 - Leave a Response

“A pain stabbed my heart as it did every time I saw a girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world”
– Jack Kerouac

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.

Poem “I can’t lasso the moon”

April 2, 2010 - Leave a Response

I can’t lasso the moon.
Can’t pick the right
sandwich so you can
dream about brunettes.

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.

Poem “You bought bottles of my shampoo”

April 1, 2010 - Leave a Response

You bought bottles of my shampoo
Wanting me to feel welcome
Though I’ve never felt anything but out of place in your world
Handing me an ashtray as I sit on your balcony
We watch the clash of people walking across Venice Beach
And share a cup of coffee
Finishing the Sunday crossword

Laughing at the sight we made

Tea at Julie’s (September 2009)

March 18, 2010 - Leave a Response

I had first been introduced to this small coffeehouse on my first visit to Alameda. A stone’s throw away from the main drag of the city, the small shop offers local art and clothing, as well as some of the best tea and coffee I can remember having in California. Small bulletin boards are placed in the front with flyers for services and shows, littered in business cards and announcements of upcoming performances. On this particular night was a bluegrass-folk group. But the garden in the back, is what makes Julie’s my routine stop when driving up north, or back down to Long Beach.

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.

Under Construction

March 12, 2010 - Leave a Response

Just a little rearranging and organizing before NaPoWriMo.

Update

March 3, 2010 - Leave a Response

I know I know I dropped out. Soon I’ll be more consistent with this blog. I’ve been going over old work to add here – and decided that everything I’m writing right now is fari game for my classes, so I’ll be adding all that at the end of the semester once my portfolios are turned in. So except some prose, once everything has been edited.

Prose

December 10, 2009 - Leave a Response

When this semester is over and I have finished my rewrites, I’ll be posting up my pieces from Creative Non-Fiction.

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.

Tom Waits

December 1, 2009 - One Response

some mornings
i ease in to you
enjoy you
sip
by sip
finding stability
in the sweet drip
of your full
rich
voice

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