Monday, April 18, 2011


The assistant principal at my school is a preacher. Ordained, from where, or from whom, I do not know. But I have seen many preachers in my time. The repentant. The former junkies and hustlers with new found tools. It is true. Idle hands are the devil’s playground.

He thought me stupid and came to my office with un-welcomed talk about his conversion. He wanted to spar with the Bible. I was more than prepared having been a member of a cult-like church in my early twenties--oh, the ignorance of youth. Through his newly found weapon, scripture, I reminded him that he is no judge, just a fellow sinner, like me. Or perhaps worse. A Pharisee.

He gave me a handshake at the end of an hour long conversation and left my office. I finished eating my pizza.

His first mistake was believing he had something to offer me. Religion blinds men. I could have, and probably should have thrown some legal jargon on the table to make him realize he was stepping in to the realm of harassment, for which I surely would document our encounter. But I never give warning before I strike.

He did not see the weapon hidden behind my back.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

The force

I am, unto my self, a non-logical axiom. Twisted, hard and slow. Damp and cold. Wasting around my knees.

I am here. Holding together. In the face of winds blowing up against me. I cover my face with wool scarf and hope for a sudden miracle.

There are two of me. The rising and the falling. Sometimes I do not know which one comes and goes, whispering in my ear, oh friend.

I construct fear because I want. Fear because I need. And when it arrives again with shiny sentiments. I just might...scrape away.

To know what I am offers no solace.

Just calm-like complicity.

Thursday, April 07, 2011

Just because I can

I'm going to get up. get out. get on. and love. Skinny dip wearing rainboots. Free fall backward. Sky dive in skin. Cartwheel with my heart strung around my neck.

Monday, April 04, 2011

in the sun

i want to adorn my hair with flowers. wear leopard tights. draw stars around my eyes. i’ll be that old lady, alright. the one with two different loafers, a rainbow bag fresh from the dumpster, and yellow knit gloves in the blazing summer heat. it wont matter what u think of me. for i will already have been thought of. having outsmarted u. out maneuvered u. outshone u in my existence. 

my lover will be beside me. for she loved the core of me. beyond the tired flesh, crinkled scarf, and silver dust in my hair. and i will be my best self. for her. for you. 

just wait.

Sunday, April 03, 2011

Emergency Broadcast System

After 55 days, I am no longer sexless in the city! The terrible, self-imposed drought is over!

My mood: pensive. That night. The first night. I peered into the darkness to see a crack forming down her spine, and light pouring forth. Instead of looking away, as I have so often done, I held her in my gaze. Something inside of me caught fire.

I met her, this woman, the day after I decided to cease frivolous communications and superficial sexual encounters of little consequence. She is self-possessed and fully owned.

This connection is weighty. Heady.
Scary, indeed.

I'm petitioning the universe to give me the strength to hold her tight. Keep my primal self at bay.