Burried Treasure

We buried treasures, you and me
At first quite literally 
After nervous sips from brown-bagged beers
And whispering secrets on the swings
We found a plastic shovel 
Dug a hole in your front yard
And planted our seed
The grass has grown
So have we
But lately in my dreams
I've been visiting our tree
I like to lay under its memories

'Just the place to bury a crock of gold,' said Sebastian. 'I should like to bury something precious in ever place where I've been happy and then, when I was old and ugly and miserable, I could come back and dig it up and remember.'
-Brideshead Revisited

Today I bought a CD. An actual CD, from a store (well, it was a Starbucks because music stores are nearly null-n-void but you know what I mean). Do you remember what it used to be like to unwrap a CD? That damn, impossible to open, government plastic they use? I can't imagine how many Hail Mary's it would take to repudiate myself from the obscenities that flew from my mouth while wrestling with that 4 by 4 inch case. But once I finally got it opened and slid The Decemberists new record, "The King is Dead," into my car's once state-of-the-art, but now very dusty 6-disc changer, I started looking at the album artwork while listening to the first track. And thats when it hit me, one day my kids are going to be rummaging through the attic looking for my "old cd's" to collect, trade, sell, or hang on their walls just like I did with my parent's Beatles and Zeppelin albums (which are definitely still hanging on my wall). And just how record players are currently all the rage, boom-boxes will undoubtably be a hot commodity on the shelves of the next generation's Urban Outfitters. And before you start rolling your eyes, know that I'm not trying to claim this as some groundbreaking, or original thought. I guess it was simply a strange moment... to feel transfixed, almost suspended between, what was and what will be, only to realize we are all just a little bit of history repeating. 

So raise a glass to turnings of the season 
And watch it as it arcs towards the sun 
And you must bear your neighbor's burden within reason 
And your labors will be born when all is done 

And nobody, nobody knows
Let the yolk fall from our shoulders
Don't carry it all, don't carry it all
We are all our hands and holders
Beneath this bold and brilliant sun
And this I swear to all 

*The Decemberists "Don't Carry It All"- Such warm lyrics, I have been singing this song on repeat with the windows down in my Volkswagen Bug while cruising through this brilliantly sunny California January. 

JUICE

Needle to the vein

It’s the middle of the night

I’m at it again

Ten gnawed fingernails now stained

Tie the rubber tourniquet nice and tight

Needle to the vein

Can’t seem to face the pain

Not strong enough to fight

I’m at it again

The Man is driving me insane

Squeeze the syringe just right

Needle in the vein

Chemicals cloud my brain

The noise turns white (thank god)

I’m at it again

No hope remains

So night after night

I put a needle to my vein

And go at it again

demonic exhale

your smoke creeps into the air
and like a ghost 
we can't see it
but we know its there

runny eggs

i rather be compelled than told what to-do
is a list i rather not follow
the leader never led me to a field of daisies 
can grow anywhere and that is what i hope for my love 
is a punch in your drunk face
the facts that are falling off the chalkboard faster each day-
to-day i get both closer and farther away
with the rules: friday at 5pm is no better than monday at noon, 
     i don't care what you say
something provocative, i dare you, because words like 'fuck' and 'cock' 
     have stopped painting my cheeks rosy
nipples get hard when your warm whiskey whispers slip over my hip
hop is poetry after a bottle of Hennessey instead of wine
colored tears stain this paper
can be crumpled but the thoughts will prevail,
I will, if I am compelled rather than told what to do

north east south west or nothing

Either pick a direction and adhere strictly, or commit to aimless wander... for it is those in the middle... those wrestling in the purgatory between plans and chance... it is those tortured souls who will forever remain lost. 

Vintage rose gold smile, I bid you adieu.

The other day I found that earring I loved so much and once again wondered where its missing mate had fallen. It reminded me of you because one earing is useless, yet I still haven't let the thing go. To throw it away would be givinng up hope that I might ever find the other one, and I haven't been able to accept that fate. I envision myself sauntering down the street only to come upon the lonely mate in a crack, with little sunbeams gleaming from its vintage rose gold smile. And maybe thats a lofty dream, but I have been carefully carrying that same hope for you, my love. Until today, after waking from yet another night of exhausted prophets and ugly truths, my eyes flew open and I threw that useless earring out my window... along with that rotting hope in my heart. Because lets be honest, the only woman to pull off one earring was Edie Sedgwick, and darling, she died of an overdose at 28. So, all things considered, I think I'll sleep much better tonight.

I Am Not A Mother

 I am not a mother and I don’t want to be. That’s why I stopped having sex. I know I could use birth control... but the pill makes me bitchy and I hate condoms. I can barely take care of myself let alone a child; so vetoing sex seemed like a good way to avoid that responsibility. While we are dancing around the subject, I am also not YOUR mother. That’s why we didn’t work, you and me. You are an infant who needed constant supervision and I couldn’t be that person. I didn’t carry you in my womb for nine months, so why were you always looking up at me with worried eyes? I wanted a boyfriend, not a kid. Shit! I wanted a man, not a baby. I am not a mother. I don’t brush hair, make lunches, and do carpool. I don’t read bedtime stories, or offer words of encouragement. I may be there to give you a bottle but it was never milk and sadly, I think that’s what you were wishing for while you watched me pour stiff drinks. And when I blared Zeppelin at night while drinking my stiff drinks I think you were hoping for a lullaby... but it ain’t me babe, no, no, no, it ain’t me you’re lookin’ for, babe. Ha! even Dylan wasn’t soft enough for you. I remember one time you called me Janis, a supposed reference to my love of whiskey. Who cares that I like whiskey... oh wait, you cared. That wasn’t lady like. Who said I was a lady? Truth be told, I never saw the need... you were lady enough for the both of us, dude. No, I am not a mother, and I am certainly not your mother, and although one day I may be someone’s mother, I will never be yours, my friend, and that’s why we didn’t work, you and me. Because I am daisy. I am a yellow centered, white petal daisy some fancy hearted loafer picked and put in their hair. I am a daisy that sits dainty in a braid waiting for the wind to take her somewhere new. I am a turquoise stone that fell out of a ring and has been rolling ever since. A turquoise stone that pretends to know the stories of Cherokees and Peyote but really came from a cracker jack box... (but let’s keep that between you and me.) Yeah, I am a daisy that floated through Woodstock, inhaling what was to be inhaled, while passing through the strings of Jimi’s guitar as he strummed purple haze with magical--turquoise--adorned--fingers. This is my make believe, these are my bedtime stores, and that is why I am not a mother.