on kibbee street

;boots

;1hour photo

;italy talks

;shake shake

;happy hour

;video games

;screw top wine

;drat

sunlight

morones boys

a collection

also, merry christmas

evelyn pt. II

putting on a pot of
coffee at eight.
scraping dried glue
from underneath
my fingernails.
making loops with
my hair.
starting a book
together. reading
robert bly and
greek tragedy.
getting epiphanies
in the car for the
play to be staged.
'two actors, facing
forward...'
giving things ordinary
names. happy for
christmas lights
and funny shaped
trees and thinking
'it was just spring
and i was glad for
the sun to be showing.'

evelyn pt. I

come hither, again
i'm painting now
i'm stringing a web
in my fingers
i'm drinking
coffee and sitting
on the couch for hours
i cut bangs in my hair
i always wear a bun
and large sweater
i blow my nose
i file my nails
i'm staying up late
and sleeping in
dressing in black
running around
running my tongue
along my coffee teeth
i eat slices of bread
run my fingers along
the crusty edges of my
eyelashes in the morning
prop myself up with
a pillow, saying good morn

sing loudly

climbing up one side of a gnarled, twisting tree
just to get to the other side, a ribbon purple sky
and waving hands out there of ones who were
never told to cry.
a flag in the air of one, a red rag grasped in the
fingers for to scream of the rage.
a scream of a whisper of a yelp of a plea
not to screech but to inform of a voice
not usually heard of a face not usually seen
of a life not usually known or been
to the other side.
a flower turned inside out on the
fancy table plate for the selected ones.
looking through the bent back tulips
and not only seeing how the other half
lives but begging for it and how troublesome
that is. being current measures of success
are what we all dream for hope for scream
and scream and scream for.
leaning against the gnarled, twisting tree
scratched bark on our backs and rain
beginning to come only hoping to be
safe under the bare arms of a dead tree that doesn't
promise anything but whispering just to be.
heels digging in the wet dirt, toes
glittering with drops of dew, hands
bracing the earth held up by the strong
arms of a woman saying i will not apologize
for the advances made by my people i will
not apologize for demanding more i will not
apologize for making anyone feel
uncomfortable of my plight because
measuring how far we've come is sweet and pure
but it's not good enough anymore and
asking questions why why why?
why am i not paid as much as the man in
my office doing the same job who just bought
a new car? i have mouths to feed and trips
to plan because i've been dreaming of
the far away orient all my life why why why why
do i not deserve that as much as the
other? and why why why why am i crippled
like the crippling dead twisting tree
above me that i support my back upon?
crippled for to make the bills each month
each desire of mine getting further away
because i'm sorry i can' pay.
because i'm sorry honey, you're not strong
enough. i'm sorry honey, it's a man's world.
i'm sorry honey you're too pretty you're not
pretty enough. well man, you gotta stop
apologizing too because when did my
looks and the beautiful folds of my vagina
make me incompetent to handle what
you do? when did my hips and my
demeanor and the timber of my
voice mean i am less?
my daddy told me i deserve the best
and these best aren't giving to the
rest and rest can't rest because hell
it's a man's world out there.
but the ribbon purple sky doesn't
care who i am it rains on everyone
so let's take our lesson from the air
and breathe deeply, sing loudly,
thunder ravenously until every bone
and every foot and every head has
heard our voice, has felt our presence,
has needed us to survive, has respected
our product, who looks to us for omens
and wisdom and guidance and
strength and comfort.
sing loudly into the open violent violet
red rage sky until all is equal, until all
has passed, until apologies are no
longer needed and i beat on my
chest with a thunderous cry
we have overcome.

on a medicine wednesday

listening to led zeppelin and french music
looking out of dark windows, wondering,
big baggy shirts with large armholes
perfume and gilded mirrors standing
upright at the vanity.
my black, shiny asian hair
and my slippery long legs
in my big bed swishing in sheets
with books and clothes lying on top.
wearing stripey things and forgetting
to wash my face before bed.
looking up at george harrison and
thinking about gertrude stein.
having long and drawn out detailed
dreams about job interviews and
waterparks and walking on city streets
with no end.
being solitary and obsessing over my
next birthday and having the itch to
leave. tickets to streetcar and new
schedules and taking photos for
christmas always thinking about
church and eavesdropping on
conversations in coffeeshops
and thinking not much has changed
around here. someone will still
prescribe scripture to save my soul.
a cup of joe to set my head straight
again and a loving word from a
friend and telling myself be happy
be happy be happy be happy.

la môme

thanks,

*kodak 200, yes
*fujifilm SUPER 400, no
*important photos lost
*delicious food found
*new bangs
*old clothes
*sacramento
*casual

d'antoine

sweater me

crawling

walking for
blocks down K street, mounds of
leaves under our feet, boots
clacking, arm in arm, hat on head,
green and red decorations with
gold, a big band, cold air, drizzling
rain. wooden sidewalks, saloons,
a bright yellow bridge.
snapping photos with the old canon.
sittin' just four at the table
with mom and pop's food.
watching home videos, laughing
at my dad's outfits.
"fruka" -
my word for music.
waking up in my parent's
bed, 7am, looking out at
steel blue sky and crawling
tree branches, bare.
bouncing my nephew on
my knee, knowing he's
related to me. making no
plans, sleeping on the
couch, sleeping in my old
room. my dad's showing me
his jazz records, sipping
beaujolais.
this is where he usually sits,
alone, reclined and closed eyes,
soaking in the trumpets,
the bass, the movement and
woes, the swell, the speed,
the slow romance of it all.
now with company, talking
of the iliad, the bronte
sisters, harper lee, miles
davis and the birth of cool.
where he usually sits, alone.

we are feeling welcome,
making jokes, telling old
stories and kissing
cheeks. 1944 photos
of jean and charlie freeland
at bimbo's lounge, san
francisco, 1075 columbus
avenue, roaming around
north beach like us.
being connected and
calm.

we are feeling welcome, yes.
with our own kin and our not.
being autumnal of season,
trying not to try too hard,
walking for blocks,
kissing cheeks,
being calm and connected.

any old place

#5

listenin' to soft music and stacking books in the corner. hosting foreigners on our couches and eating leftovers. keeping a lost and found and dead candles. craving change and change of scenery and staggering our joy and our blues with each other and saying "its ok hang in there." finding old friends again and laughing again hoping there's mending and healing and stars in the sky. cleaning and laundry and phone calls and meetings and packing up bags to go north. i am always going north. to the foothills, to the woods, to the cold place of north deep and far away from ocean and openness. dark and hidden and warm where there are people i know. and i will remember the photos of my grandmother, my seanmathair, whose ghost is around in my dreams.

fridaylist

99.9fm
campbell's cup
piano
the long table
commercials
echinacea
prenatal
pie tins
hunger
employee
reindeer

habitat, or forgetting things

cheyenne is nestling in the
corner and dan is on the
floor explaining scrabble.
ai is a word. za is another.
and two extra points for this.
piles of blankets and candles
and hot soups, computers,
mackenzie is putting the cramps
on the record player.

he put on his orange hat before he
left, waved goodbye sayin
see ya later.

we have de-flated balloons and rainbow
flags and too many plastic bags
and ali's grandma's doily sittin
on our tv that doesn't work, we
haven't even noticed. i'm
lookin at the want ads askin
when will it be my turn?
its just around the corner,
almost there, i'm the next big
thing. we have pictures of
langhorne slim and tegan and
sara and all those really cool
indie people all our musical
obsessions congruent with our
emotional torrent, our religious
hang ups, the hurricane of events,
the latest break up, the thing he
last said, the unwelcome person,
the person we are trying to be.
sittin on the porch huddled in
the cold spittin we got in a fight
i don't know what to do. and
i have a problem and i'm leavin
the country soon, i'm scared.
we've got books books on social
work and paris and middle eastern
politics and sex and theater movements
and how to teach kids and how to speak
english and some with only photographs.
they be learnin' us good. all the
time busy all the time just
wanting to read our own books
all the time just wanting to
write our own books. about the places
we've been and what we think about
humans and the first time we fell
in love and other less important things.
all the time dancin' dancin' with
skates and dancin' on our green carpet
to old music dancin' with lovers hands
on chests fingers on chins hair brushing
past eyelashes singing lips parting
feelin' good forgetting everything
forgetting about no money for
christmas gifts or rent or bills and
forgetting about addictions and
fights and break ups and sadness
just bein'. just dancin'. just bein'.

when he's not here

when he's not here
i curl up on the right
side a the bed stead a
the left in a c shape
soft music playin'
teddy bear comfyin'
hair sprawlin'
dark black eyelashes
guardin' my dreams
and erasing into
nothingness i'm
wonderin' - why is
danielle back in the
states? did he finish?
what does tomorrow smell
like? and oh i'd give
anything for a soft real
banjo to be playin' in
the other room. i'm
thinkin' my calf is sore.
i'm thinkin' i wish i
was in eureka. and then
i promised never to start
a sentence with i wish.
i'm thinkin' 'bout the dirty
dishes in the sink, his
copper voice, the long day,
what skin feels like.
when he's not here.
i'm thinkin' 'bout
unemployment checks, the
hopeless feeling and dinner
with friends, potatoes and
gravy and goin' home for
the holidays. when he's
not here i'm hopin' he's
thinkin' 'bout me like i
think about september and cities
like we think about next year.
curled up on the right side a
my bed, holdin' my sheets
whisperin' in my pillow
things i'd tell him if he
were here.

i have a friend and

she shared this with me this week. it kept me going.

who says my hand a needle better fits

anne bradstreet's prologue
please oh, please
read this

i think about these things.

i'm a little lost

)peach water
)amoxicillan
)fur
)joshua james
)walk-in
)holding my breath
)"finding myself"

this memoir

every time i see pictures of europe
i want to push in my eyeballs, delete
the image and vomit i crave i crave
cobblestone and english skies and cold
foreign strange air tiny streets bizarre
accents different colours of people
and scarves and new metro stops and
maps and underground apartments turn
my world inside out and communicating
with my hands and seeing my breath and
missing people and walking in boots wearing
black funny phone number little cup of
coffee and learning and writing my book
because i have this memoir that's been in
my head for a while for some reason the
literary world is far more intimidating than
the heinous hollywood which i freely delve
myself into and simultaneously despise. i'm
working on a short bio for an artist collective
i belong to its coming along nicely they're
gonna put it up with a picture and that's me.
i'm swimming in articles about literary agents
and copy editing and submissions and SASE and
applications for school for masters for restaurants
for the "real job" my mom wants me to get
please i really would settle for salary and
benefits its all so confusing because nothing
is really ever good enough but it isn't good
enough now anyways and i surprised myself today
like why didn't i know this. i've known since i
was a kid i'll be a starving artist til the day
i die i wonder why i'm so surprised now that i can't
pay the bills and this is how people do it this is
how people end up at the bank working as a teller
because they got married and got pregnant and then
tell their baby daughter "you can be whatever you
want to be." well i will, dammit. i'm gonna be
whatever i want to be and today, its a starving
artist i had toast for breakfast and then didn't eat
until shawn bought me dinner but life is good
he loves me and i love him. i wrote a new poem,
i called for a casting, i contemplated shakespeare.
i can't wait for the day when i tell my daughter
she can be whatever she wants to be because i
am whatever i wanted to be, we'll be talkin in
english accents.

in coats

i was really busy and then i
got really sick and there
was even a time on monday
when i felt the darkness coming
in over my eyes like a sweep and
a presence and there were lanes
of cars on the road going faster
and faster until we were speeding
through subsequent tunnels, one
after the other, brighter and
brighter. no! i shouted pressing
my eyelids to my face, i can't
go yet. and i saw his face and he
was touching mine saying "sweetie,
you're gonna have to brave."
they gave me shots and i can't
remember the doctor's face
he had a mask on and no one
would really listen to me. i
couldn't pick up the phone all the
strength in my arm was gone. and i
remember thinking "fuck you, sylvia.
you cursed me with your hospitals and
your writer's block and your hysteria."
and now i've been in my bed for
the last three days, where i drool
at night because i can't swallow
and one tonsil is taking over
the rest of my throat and people
say things like "i don't want to
be near you." which i understand
but it still hurts. the vicodin
helps my pain and if it didn't
make my tummy feel woosy i would
enjoy it making my head feel
woosy but it gets ruined when you
feel you're gonna puke. i'll put
them in a drawer. i just wish
i'd been writing all this time,
when i was busy but i think
los angeles is changing me.
i'm certain of it. it's a love
and then it's a hate and most
days i'm ready for the bay and
the cold air and heady hills
and walking to class in coats
and being a regular at la trieste
and being close to my family.
i want the orange leaves in
october and the lights of market
street at christmas and long
evening walks one arm hooked
in the others cold red noses
and happy quick paces talking about
scripts and music and countries
and philosophy. i'm ready i'm ready
oh, i'm ready.

210 west

*busyness
*hiatus
*sore throat
*studio lots
*key club
*base
*samara
*backache
*miss

applesauce blues

i've been letting my hair get
tangled and fall down my
back. i've been writing on
my new olivetti MS 25.
the W sticks.

oct 16th list

@ tphilips
@ curly hair
@ book pages
@ coffee
@ harmonicas
@ world's greatest dad
@ anniversary
@ los angeles
@ johanna
@ salvation mountain
@ shawn morones

so i hum

"young people, lord. do they still call it infatuation? that magic ax that chops away the world in one blow, leaving only the couple standing there trembling? whatever they call it, it leaps over anything, takes the biggest chair, the largest slice, rules the ground wherever it walks, from a mansion to a swamp, and its selfishness is its beauty. before i was reduced to singsong, i saw all kinds of mating. most are two-night stands trying to last a season. some, the riptide ones, claim exclusive right to the real name, even though everybody drowns in its wake. people with no imagination feed it with sex - the clown of love. they don't know the real kinds, the better kinds where losses are cut and everybody benefits. it takes a certain intelligence to love like that - softly, without props. but the world is such a showpiece, maybe that's why folks try to outdo it, put everything they feel onstage just to prove they can think up things too: handsome scary things like fights to the death, adultery, setting sheet afire. they fail, of course."

-toni morrison, love

the magic if

what if i could
open up my mouth so wide
that i could gulp up the
world like in some children's
book? like some shel silverstein
impracticality?

i could take in trees and
buildings - skyscrapers. i
could take in parks, slides
sliding down my throat. i'd
swallow birds and giraffes and
bridges and little grandma
houses. i'd eat up schools and
books, culture and ideas. fiestas
and rosh hashanas, new york cities
and banana cream pies. i'd chew up
knowledge and adventure, sadness and
true love. planes and clouds and
fathers and kids and flowers and
shakespeare and i'd gulp it all in,
tasting every flavor.

then i'd spit it all out.
but it will come in books and plays.

the pages would be filled with
endless poetry of casbah's and
festivals. of heartache and loss.
of sailing around the world.
of the joys of motherhood.

and the plays to be performed!
of backstabbing friends, of
quarrels, swordfights and one
man shows. plays with props
and plays with none. with
moonshine and songs and dogs
and clowns. plays of wistfulness,
poignancy and hilarity.

when i spit my books out,
if i ate the whole world.
what if i could?
really,
what if i could?

monday list

-toni morrison
-satchel
-bluegrass
-daydreaming together
-tall victorians
-composing
-piggy bank
-unbuttoned

just an address

people like sylvia plath are
always talking to me all the
time.

and e.e. cummings.
it's so annoying.

he told her she was beautiful
so i felt ugly afterwards and
wondered why had i always been
so soft?

then lydia came up to me and
said something about painting
a picture in your head and i
said thanks then she walked
away sweeping her bangs back.

there were all these people in
our house and there were all these
people at the cemetary too, the fog,
we lied on wet blankets and listened
to bon iver. who is also talking to
me all the time.

i am so small and fragile and
homely and i keep writing the
same poem over and over again.

they say i lack confidence and
it shows. it's always showing up
all the time. and i'm always
apologizing all the time.
i'm sorry.

i'm apologizing for something
misunderstood inside of me
because i only make sense to me.

what people nowadays don't know
is my adventurous side.

right now there are mason jars
with half an inch of cheap wine
making rings around the bottom.
hollyn is eating potatoes.
and jason is sketching imaginary portraits.
brittany, sticky paper mache fingers.
i'm looking up from my book thinking
about how safe and literary
everyone thinks i am.
sylvia plath talking to me all the time.

but it was j.m. barrie when i was lying
in the round, soft stones of the beach,
my feet in the mediterranean.

and it was kerouac all talking to me when
i showed up in oxford in the night, in the
rain, alone, with just an address on a bit
of paper.

and someone else entirely, maybe myself,
when i caught malaria in west africa,

or when i hitchhiked in switzerland,

or in boston when i got drunk at an irish
pub with my best friend coming home at 4am.

or when i slept in the brussels train station.

and i wonder why people think i'm not adventurous.

it's like painting a picture and sipping from
mason jars and writing things down and being open.
it's being dangerous and risky and happy and letting
things happen and somewhere i put on the dress and
crown of maternal things and locked doors and going
to bed early which are things that matter but not all
that matters to me.

because being hopeful and brave and happy are sometimes
the hardest parts of my days and sometimes the hardest
part is having sylvia plath always talking to me all
the time.

only love is all maroon

i am horribly limited

"i can never read all the books i want; i can never be all the people i want and live all the lives i want. i can never train myself in all the skills i want. and why do i want? i want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. i am horribly limited."

-sylvia plath

some days

i want to quit hollywood and all those ideas and run away.

jamie criss & the boys

sometime soon.

we are utterly thankful

as we drove in our car late saturday, circling around pasadena looking for trader joe's, mackenzie told us to ask the universe for safety and for the things we wanted. we said, "universe, please keep us safe and please give us hummus and please give us vegetables and bread and please pretty please, if it's possible, we'd like something sugary too."

we stood in dumpsters and gathered the wonderfully delicious and perfectly edible foods that trader joe's throws away every night. tightly wound in bags we received armfuls of fish, bread, salad, apples, and best of all, eight triple chocolate mini bunt cakes. yes.

on sunday i was reveling in our accomplishment. having only $0.53 in the bank and i realized, i went dumpster diving out of necessity last night. if we didn't have this food, i would have nothing to eat.

then i wailed to my roommates about unemployment and creative dissatisfaction. mackenzie said, "you need to ask the universe for those things." so i did. i talked to god, or the universe and asked for these things. i asked shawn to ask for them too.

and then i booked three days of shooting in one week. and additionally, the location for filming is nearby, i don't have to trek to a distant beach or a confusing north hollywood location. i continued to eat our free groceries every day. and my father decided to pay for a much needed subscription to backstage west, a tool for actors to receive audition notices. we're having a poetry reading at my house on saturday night and i couldn't be more thrilled. a night dedicated to nothing but the written word. and the invitation out to anyone. not just previously marked and prideful poets among our circle. all voices.

so i'll continue again. universe. mother nature. god. there is debt. and hopes of directing a play. and there is the writer's block, how desperately i've been waiting for something brilliant to come upon me. i'm applying for grad school and applying for artist residencies. i'm trying to pay off lots of debt. to my mother. to citibank and sallie mae. i want to go to europe. i want to help my friends.

oh, how the horizon starts to look clearer.

ah, weekend

..goodfellas
..chocolate bundt cake
..mexican rice
..sailor t-shirt
..to do list
..dumpster diving
..sharing
..group pilates
..episcopalian
..dirty fingernails
..midnight snack
..waiting

1

who are you,little i

(five or six years old)
peering from some high

window;at the gold



of november sunset
(and feeling:that if day
has to become night

this is a beautiful way)

-e.e.cummings

SHIFT artist's collective collection: "a night at work"

unfolding on the stage of LA's historical 16th century spanish venue, el cid's, the SHIFT artists collective will be showing you the "work" of every artist from this last year. all of the collective's californian artists will be featured, starting at 9pm on sunday, september 13th.

(in order)
johanna chase band
mallory ortberg
brother
we, humanity
the denouement
harrison ford
tin santos
jamie criss
robbie delong

don't forget to wear your "work" clothes!

if we could buy a house

we sat up late
and talked about books
"i read that one"
"i didn't read that one"
forgetting to turn out
the light, growing
lazy, eyes growing weighty,
resting on shoulders
until the conversation
dissipated into moon
light of bedroom
on the wall.
we woke up in 9:15
light through slanted
blinds, a rattling window
annoyance and dreamed
about far away cities
like dusseldorf and
copenhagen and
we wondered where things
were like the david and the
sistine chapel and
van gogh's self portrait.
we wondered if we could
stay under the covers and
hide. we wondered if
we could buy a house in
italy. and be happy,
leaving everyone behind.

things that make my face

something wrong with me like i have to see a
doctor maybe always feeling overwhelmed.
one hundred people, too many people. eight
people, too many people. i'm too tired to talk.
making small talk.

hibernating in my room where it's safe always
safe and cool and people don't have to ask me
questions like "how is life?" and "how is your
love life?" and "how is your job?" maybe its
these questions.

i wish we could ask things like "what do you see
in that cloud up there?" and "what are you working
on these days?" and "can you play this game with
me?" and "what impressions can you do? aha!"

i wish we could ask those things.
instead.

things that makes my heart beat.
and things that make my face want
to explode in happiness where i can feel
my eyes hurting and squeezing i just can't
get the words out in time i feel i want to interrupt
you i have so much to say so much i'm feeling.

i get on the edge of my seat and i'm bouncing, us
outside on the porch talking just me and you and
"i've read that book too" and "i like you" and "let's
do something great" and we can help each other
not feel like success is important anymore. it just
isn't important.

my daemon

the poem came hurdling down the hill towards me as i was working in the fields. i ran ran towards the house to grab a pen before it could get to me and swish swished past tall wheat and but then, as my feet hit the dirt the poem caught up to me, overtook my whole, shook and then ran on. hurling forward beyond myself for the next poet to catch it.

oh, darkness

oh, momma

"i have found the paradox that if i love until it hurts,
then there is no hurt, but only more love."

-mother teresa

things i found today

my first paper for doctor monica ganas. a critical research of john steinbeck. in her notes she said i had "the makings of a tremendous scholar." i found my treasured comparative list of pop culture verses high culture. my old book list. it felt really good to cross four of them off.

i found my journals. i opened a pretty coloured one. it said things like La Pagode 57 rue de Babylone. and Jeu de Paume 1 place de la Concorde. c'etait un autre epoque. 10 fevrier. and its filled with daydreams from my unhappy heart.

i found my birth certificate.

and The Works of Anne Bradstreet.

i found cameroon cards and a letter from robin.

i found myself in my bedroom.

i like

i like breakfast and sundresses. stripes, paint and elephants from stephanie. i like boxes and paper and a fan on the floor. i like our green carpet and happy birthday signs. i like markers. i like clouds and clouds by joni mitchell. i like joni mitchell. i like giant towels and tiny bits of glitter like when you make my insides feel like glitter. i like the way you make me feel. i like the hair on your lip tickle me when you kiss my neck. i like your freckles and your songs. i hate some of your itunes favorites and i hate feeling nervous (nervous sad), i hate when people say "aka," but i love when people refer to something as "the best deal in town." i like old pictures of mom and baby pictures of ryan. i used to like coloured pencils. i like having big wishes but i don't like when they don't come true. i like unexpected things that are good good good. i like bonnets on babies and backpacks on kids and feathers in her hair. i hate ikea and i hate humidity. i hate when you put words in my mouth or throw a tantrum. i like my boston shirt and cold sheets on freshly shaven legs. i like flying but i hate waiting to board. i like abbey road and our tall tall sunflowers. i like kensington gardens, i hate when candles don't fit in candlesticks. i like my dad's stories. i like frank zappa as a person but not his music. i like bringing you soup when you're sick. i like feeling smart (i like feeling smarter than other people). i like george harrison. i hate copycats and brittany's ugly lamp. i like roadtrips and i like when tobin and i notice the sky. i like the wombies and coffee and good sweet love. when you smile as you wake up. when you kiss my shoulder. when you listen to the beatles and when you touch my hair and when you laugh. i like it when you laugh.

italy

topiary trees.
like disneyland and cone shapes.
purple curtains in the windows above
gelson's drug store across
the street.

tobin told me "i miss spain"
and "i have the travel itch"
and i said "tell me about it"

i feel a year of chaos
but shawn says he feels good
change coming.
i hope so.

so many people are starting
up on their feet, starting to
move, to wander. we are making
false promises to visit.

yellow porch umbrellas
pink and purple gladiolas
in giant pots sit out front.

we look at maps of italy and
pictures of vespas and think
about hair blowing in the wind
and ukuleles. pieces of time.

tumbling points

i sat on the grass out front
while the party raged on inside
and disdainfully sighed
"oh help," i said
muggy summer, kool-aid afternoon
i felt tears well up and jaw tighten
and the orange glow of streetlamp
blend with the blue of night
and rays burst through my
watery eyes
"what is the point?" and
"what am i doing here?" and
"when will i be happy again?" and
"why aren't i fun anymore?"
(i have heavy boots - i thought)
but really i feel weight in my
shoulders - in my chest
oh my heart and i thought of
the word hope.
"poppycock," i said.
i hate it here.

it's good to keep lists

the feminine mystique by betty friedan
mama cass didn't choke on a ham sandwich
polish Dell'Arte short story
blueberry mojitos and tobin
long sleeved shirts
frank zappa
italian love
discipline
laurel canyon
brazilian roast
braids
red shoes
cynthia

in the cool room

green and white. grey and blue. cool room and i need a desk. making signs for brittany's birthday. listening to leona naess and george harrison and important words spoken to me. leaving room in the glass and slinking into couch. hearing everyone talk about love and their opinions. ashtrays and petting our dog, cheyenne. you're on my mind. fill up boxes with memories and paper things. play the guitar with the missing string and watch a sad, sad movie. i'm trying not to be depressed, o.k.? i am reading the bluest eye, o.k.? you left your sunglasses behind, they are sitting on my bedside table. art box and supplies and lots of things to start. the broken videocamera, too. wanting for sweaters. thick ones, to pull over the head. van gogh, pronounced correctly. shopping for broccoli and salt and the colour of my bed. writing the same thing over and over again oh i wish my headaches would go away. i'm learning as i go.

home list

,winding roads
,greyhound
,sorry, i have no,
,crunched
,big bed
,words, in writing
,comfort smells
,and comfortable
,heureux
,welcome home

the end of "jason"

she made it all the way.

i want you to feel free

soul earth

oh, i feel like some ancient wiyot girl.
as i crouch on a rock in the middle of the creek.
i feel the grooves with my fingers and loose dirt
underneath, then feeling the shape with my hands
and holding it like a lover.

i am silent.
i am listening to the voices of nature
and what the earth might give me.

what does the shape of a leaf mean?
how will i interpret the sky?
what says the tallest tree?
who will i become when i die?

where does the sand go?
how many tunes does the bird know?

what is a flower?
how many years has the fern been here?
i can feel the earth.
and i can feel wisdom in the sweet bark of
sequoias.

oh, come wiyots i know your sad story.
my skin is not brown. i am native, too.
i am sorry the pages i write on come from
your homes. i did not mean it. and i'm
sorry about the boats.

i am brave
like the good soul earth.
and i am gentle as a child.

i am silent.
i am listening to the voices of nature.
what the earth might give me.

my old man

my old man, he's a singer in the park, he's a walker in the rain, he's a dancer in the dark
we don't need no piece of paper from the city hall
keeping us tied and true, my old man, keeping away my blues

he's my sunshine in the morning, he's my fireworks at the end of the day,
he's the warmest chord I ever heard, play that warm chord

but when hes gone me and them lonesome blues collide
the beds too big the frying pans too wide

coward's march.

by matthew starcher
featuring...my douchebag friends.
hello, august!

from nothing

i couldn't fall asleep, i was thinking about raging parties and scary things and things i couldn't change so instead i decided to daydream about childrens literature and the bookshelf in the bedroom with a pink glow of lampshade and a small one asleep in the bed. i thought about aunt mackenzie teaching to sew a button and aunt brittany tying shoes for school and telling uncle busse to watch his language. i thought about road trips to see large trees and wide rivers and gaping canyons. i thought about a big big house with crowded people in it and early morning garden watering and hose water on my barefeet on a brickwalk and tall sunflowers and corn against a fence. i thought of dark cozy drapes made from scraps, yarn in her braids and wrapping packages with grocery store paper bags, sending them someplace far away like chile or polska or maybe okinawa or london or out into the forest somewhere.

i thought about worn-out passports and seasons of life always changing and always coming back to the same place, where our hearts are, where home is. i thought about soft skin, and holding tight and rocking slowly and kissing goodnight. i thought about glasses of wine and lots of laughter and pretty music coming from the record player. i thought about red balloons at birthday parties and rachael's special cakes. i thought of messy faces, dirty knees, warm cornbread, painting eggs, lying in the grass making wishes. i thought about brothers and sisters and cousins and giving thanks, big smiles; the family we created.

she's not moving to warsaw.

there are people doing some really fantastic things.
i can feel it in my chest and i can feel it in my bones.

by the rosebush laughin'

i live in the north with watermelon coloured lips. an envelope from polska today came jeff handed it to me then handed me the keys. in it were little treasures like tea bags and postcards and pretty receipts and things. little scribbles and folds. i keep running my fingers along the sides of my face. i keep imagining some body weight at my back while i'm horizontal. i painted wood boards today. along the outdoor stage and took a deep breath in and thought about the different air in different cities, especially los angeles. and then i thought about the mary hill theatre and working on projects like making flats and painting ocean scenes and the apron and confetti machines and getting ready for opening night. i thought about soft red carpet and the sound of the saw, feet walking in the costume shop before it got moved.

and i thought about never feeling satisfied, but trying. and i thought about being jealous of people buying plane tickets to europe or anywhere. and i thought about home. i thought about my long days and my back aches and seeing the sign that says 101 san francisco, towards home. i thought about what is the measure of success? and what direction am i taking? and what's in store for me in the direction i don't take?

gingerbread roofs and

trying to find thierry for erin.

summer & smoke

ALMA:
I don't think I will be able to get through the summer.

JOHN:
You'll get through, Miss Alma.

ALMA:
How?

JOHN:
One day will come after another and one night will come after another til sooner or later the summer will be all through with and then it will be fall, and you will be saying, I don't see how I'm going to get through the fall.

ALMA:
Oh...

refrigerator poetry

he growls
pulls out a gun the guy nerves my body me him in a dark room
she was a librarian a pretty girl funny business like flips a coin
and gamble

a light the truth a femme fatale is trying to kill she has bullets
working her charm the kisser smells like my cigarettes

pistol-whipped I wake up in big trouble somebody has been found
who did it he didn’t some mug a shot the loot you someone falls to the floor
at the bar a chump

a bohemian type know nothing rotten bloody shooting on a tough guy hot damnation
it was in the hallway punches are flying legs footprints a fist across the chops

no good cabbages in the lake I say and I think my husband his wife a clue

he is out of swell and it’s about to take out

we give him thanks

i'm so close to oregon. i never realized.

-finishing things i start
-addictions
-rollercoaster
-visitors
-classrooms
-connections
-tall trees
-three square meals
-arcata
-old hippies
-irene
-lost coast
-wiyott
-FOMO
-not being around
-length
-time continuum
-warm bed
-backache
-shhhh
-summer & smoke
-tea & bourbon
-bourbon street

long, long, long

i'm in a cozy hotel room
for the weekend.
can't sleep.
put in earphones
listen to pretty goodnight
music, for to rock me
and drown out the sound
of my mother's snoring.

i am thinking that
i am hungry. and
i am thinking that
i will read some
tennessee williams. and
i am thinking that
there are so many
books to read and so
little time. and i'm
wondering if tobin
has read on the road
yet, i wish she would.

also i am thinking.
that it feels so brave
to be (here). and
listening to pretty
music shawn gave
me that makes me
so sad and strange. and
it feels very brave.

in the costume room

four ladies
sitting around the
table, sewing
and cutting
sipping on hot tea
and bourbon
for to soothe the sniffles.

and sat round learnin'
all about leslie and
her sailin' trips
with pirates,
real ones.

it was july 21st

one of those grade school paper folds.
and my fortune was
forgive yourself for something you did back then,
this is what victor told me.

and i was starting to find comfort in t.s.eliot,
for he said to me,
there will be time, there will be time,
and i thought that was nice.

oh, it was a horrible day
of wondrous output.
i was chopping in the kitchen,
and now my finger is bleeding.

and then i decided, once and for all,
to write a letter to all the teachers
who've taught me well. and first
on my list was stephanie arino.

every inch

every inch of my body
hurts ouch.
i feel like crying ouch.
i feel like sinking into wine ouch.
but really i just
want to be held tightly.
in familiarity and
without all this pain.
hear me ouch.
hear me out there.
hear me whispering
and gently mocking
and sobbing
and scribbling.
hear me squeezing
and ripping
and silently hitting
and spitting.
i am just hurting ouch
in a swirling pool,
in doubt, in blinding
doubt and questions
and revisions, oh, ouch.

14th chorus

and when they saw me
rowin my sailin canoe
across the lake of dreams
in the lotus valley swamp,
and arrested me
for the size
of my heart,
t's' then i decided
'don't come back'
they'll eat your heart alive
every time.
but there's more blood
i shed
outa my pumpin heart
at teotihuacan
and everywhere else
including turban block,
lookout, ork-
i got more water
pissed in the ocean
as a sailor of the several
seas
than sallow's
aphorism
will allow

-jack kerouac

old towne coffee & fudge

i've surrounded myself in books. mexico city blues. the little prince. tennessee williams. the bell jar. a portrait of the artist as a young man. pablo neruda. the beat reader. one flew over the cuckoos nest. so many pages. of paper. of words. of sentences. of ideas. and thoughts. of insanity. shelves in bookstores. top to bottom. bending back my neck, then crouching down low. a very small downtown street, alone. it is good to be alone. i am never alone. and remember what it was like in paris. all over europe, the solitary contemplative time, of roaming a strange city. it is a strange comfortable feeling.

james joyce. this book is dry. and i do not care so much about it except for the fact that i started it and now i must finish it. i also told myself i would finish the chapter on buddhism in my world religions book. i like crossing things off my list. whether it is countries or books or afi movies or poets or theatre movements.

i could read all day. please, give me permission to just read all day. o.k.?

Blue Lake

After the Dell’Arte show we drove down the street to a bar, which curiously happened to be closed at 9:30 on a Saturday night. We drove back up the street and stopped in at a place called the Logger a half a block from the theatre. It had big saws and metal helmets and old pictures of logger men on the wall and one person in it, Brenda, the bartender. There was a pool table on the far side, so we started a pitiful game of it after we ordered our pitcher of local Tangerine wheat beer. I put a handful of quarters into the juke box and picked your typical classic rock bar songs that everyone knows. Thunder Road by Bruce Springsteen. My Generation by the Who. Hard Day’s Night. There were eight of us, the only ones in the bar. Mieke, standing by the bartender, starts asking her questions in her friendly way. “How long you been here in Blue Lake?” “Too long.” “Oh yeah? How long’s that?” “Too long,” she says.

We raised our glasses to each other and said On with the night! Maybe we’d have a couple of drinks and head back. Saturday, but still on a tight schedule, I had to be up at 7:30 the next morning.

I stepped out for a cigarette or phone call, I can't remember, and four people were on the corner. They said hello, which I’m really not used to. I’m from LA and I’ve lived in Paris, spent a lot of time in San Francisco, I don’t talk to strangers much and they don’t talk to me. Unless in extraordinary circumstances and this was one of those. We happened to be in Blue Lake, California where there is, in fact, no lake at all; this was a small town. I recognized one of the girls from the concessions stands at the theatre. “You and your crew interested in skinny dipping?” she says. I pursed my lips in a sort of happy frown unsure way and kicked the door open shouting, “you guys wanna go skinny dipping?”

The Dell’Arte people joined us inside ordering their whiskey and what-nots and told us they were waiting for a few more. When their friends joined it was the actors from the show from a group called Under The Table from Brooklyn in the middle of their summer tour. We talked theater, what their process was for this show and how its always changing and always adding and subtracting and how much improv is involved. We tried earnestly to explain what the hell Cornerstone is doing in Eureka and what community engaged theatre is and the Institute program and what our show was and the fact that we have professional actors performing beside completely inexperienced community members. This is when I discovered how friendly actors are in general.

So off we went down the dark road surrounded by black as ink sequoias and a heavy mist over low mountains and the glow of the brewery shining on us. Over the bridge and down a steep dirt pathway to a field of soft, round river rocks to the edge of the river. There we were, fifteen strangers and stripping naked in the night, cloud cover showing us no stars or moon for light and trying to balance as we unsheathed. I leaned towards Liz and said, “did you ever think you’d be in Blue Lake, California doing this?” “I try not to rule things out,” she said with a laugh. Her very beautiful, distinctive laugh.

Peeling off layers and feeling more free with each tug of fabric we empty ourselves of inhibition and start running on rock over rolling rock. Dancing wildly like the Sigur Ros video of beautiful people with long hair galloping through the forest naked in some secluded Icelandic landscape and here we were, we could have been in Iceland, North Dakota, the Appalachians or anywhere with nothing to cover us but also nothing to expose us except ourselves and our choice of freedom and friendship. There's something friendly and vulnerable about getting a group of strangers together nude on their own accord in the spontaneous jump of Saturday night and summer.

We splashed and shrieked and were nostalgic for a while until it was the ready moment to head back. We dabbed dry with hand towels and nearly fell over trying to put underwear and jeans back on, then climbed the hill to the bridge and make our way back when we noticed that not one of us had a camera to snap maybe a single shot of the night, a small token of the evening which was a regrettable realization for most. But I think, maybe, I like it better this way.

go black, and, one by one

"i saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story.

from the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. one fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was ee gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was europe and africa and south america, and another fig was constantin and socrates and attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs i couldn't quite make out.

i saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because i couldn't make up my mind which of the figs i would choose. i wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as i sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet."

-sylvia plath, the bell jar

thinking about,

>comfy bed
>the bell jar
>unfinished
>process, process
>the wiyot massacre of 1860
>tired eyes
>dresses
>house dynamics
>weekends without
>meals & cleaning
>getting along

the evening of

throwing on miles davis
and falling asleep with
make up on, sprawled
incongruently with the
bed on the floor.

the things that are most
difficult are usually the
most rewarding and i'm
remembering that.

it is hard to be a part of
something good that
other people in your life
will never know.
it is a hard thing.

i'm finding time to be
contemplative in the
rush of days.
it is a hard thing indeed.

blue in green
is singing swirling to me
and my silk flower rests
upon my back.

pillow talk
and exhaustion
cracking ankles
warm socks, bed lamp

oh miles, your trumpet
oh, heaven your skies
your miles of sky
the swirling singing music

i'm taking a break from novels.

and sticking to poetry books, and this..

thankful for,

a bottle of wine and smart people and
ones who want to talk and talk it out.
johnny cash a few alone moments.
looking forward to heading to the
blue ox mill today to see the printing
press and get ideas for my poster.
more to come because there's oh so
much more to come. i love you.

eight fifty-five

planning a poetry night. package in the mail, smells of burberry. polaroids and (good love). of october. printing things out late at night. doodling for postcards & marketing. inviting community over for dinner. chocolate decadence cake gift. tie-dye. old stolen photo unknown. jeff. script readings. seven a.m. phone calls and catching up. sage. hidden wine bottle and waiting. breakfast meeting. eureka families. nearby trees not seen. playground. cold. the acsension of. hard-backed chairs. good conversation. feeling smart. a helping hand and doing dishes. dancing. mieke. alpha. bridges. theater. LA term. missing love. calender. claire iris schencke. carpet. reading. shawn.

miss this

theatering

cornerstone theater company
summer institute 2009 blog

it's good to keep lists

..cultural mapping
..can't sleep
..back pain
..texts from long lost friends
..hoping you are o.k.
..making lunch

days like,

getting used to waking up very early. drinking coffee again. and lots of water. cooking in the kitchen and setting out utensils. using markers and reading scripts. running around an old school in the skeleton of catholicism. not using the internet, except in tiny moments and starting to be o.k. with it. reading poetry and re-reading poetry in the very sleepy moments of an early bedtime and squeaky airmattress. my back hurts. i am tired and rejuvenated. by art and togetherness and jobs i have created for myself like quote of the day. and sneaking off at quick times to smoke around the corner or call someone very loved.

we are wearing lots of layers in the height of summer on the cold north coast surrounded by redwoods and grass and elves (i swear), and going without showers. creating lists. of errand run items. and fun excursions to do when i get home. and postcard people. and things i am obsessed with these days like the a ghost is born album and specifically, hummingbird; teaching andres everything beatles; crafting things with yarn for personal adornment; the anticipation of mail; menthols; hymmnn & song by allen ginsberg; the road by jackson browne; sweetnlow; learning; she belongs to me by bob dylan; dresses; patches; virtual kisses; being brave; or trying. to be brave.

one times forty

mackenzie says i am looking
too much into the future and
i should focus on each day and
getting through it.

so i made a little note that says
one day at a time
and taped it up on my wall
with lovers polaroids.

i am very dirty and hair tied up
in scarves and listening to
jackson browne in my few
alone moments before bed.

my corner of bed floor
sleeping; sleeping bag
shoebox bookshelf coffeemug
and silk flower open suitcase.

living in an abandoned classroom
chalkboards, cream yellow cinder
block walls and real lonely feeling.

checking things off my list like
books to read and
tasks for the day and
cry a little bit.

one day at a time she says and yes
one times forty will come. and go.
and then the distance we will
all know joy.

Song

The weight of the world
is love.
Under the burden
of solitude,
under the burden
of dissatisfaction

the weight,
the weight we carry
is love.

Who can deny?
In dreams
it touches
the body,
in thought
constructs
a miracle,
in imagination
anguishes
till born
in human--
looks out of the heart
burning with purity--
for the burden of life
is love,

but we carry the weight
wearily,
and so must rest
in the arms of love
at last,
must rest in the arms
of love.

No rest
without love,
no sleep
without dreams
of love--
be mad or chill
obsessed with angels
or machines,
the final wish
is love
--cannot be bitter,
cannot deny,
cannot withhold
if denied:

the weight is too heavy

--must give
for no return
as thought
is given
in solitude
in all the excellence
of its excess.

The warm bodies
shine together
in the darkness,
the hand moves
to the center
of the flesh,
the skin trembles
in happiness
and the soul comes
joyful to the eye--

yes, yes,
that's what
I wanted,
I always wanted,
I always wanted,
to return
to the body
where I was born.

-Allen Ginsberg

jack, jeff and other men that i think about..

his goal in life was to be an echo

in san francisco

-ten year old anxiety
-traveling to the land of elves
-hummingbird, over again
-a book gift
-stamps & letters
-perspective
-the word vignettes
-brave patch
-melancholy
-phone calls
-eyelash wishes

eureka california

leaving soon and i'm the
vagabond gypsy queen.
sometimes the itch to leave is just
stronger than the desire to stay.
(sometimes the desire to stay is
stronger than the itch to leave)

but i was born this way and this is
how it will always go.
enormous parts of me are sad but
there are parts of me that are happy too.
and every time i get down i think of
the february i took my backpack to

france; alone. and this time
i want to bring my copy of tom sawyer
and pretend i'm becky or tom and eat
apples in the dirt among the redwoods.
string up lights and put on a play.
put leaves in my hair and thermals

underneath and put my feet in the water.
and getting domestic with aprons and food.
no matter where you are, you'll always
miss something. because i miss steph and
ryan and the boulangerie and esther at
the clinic. and in eureka i will miss brit

and mack and all my loves and my love.
and i'll miss the porch and large jugs'o'wine,
and dixon and oh, how i'll miss your face, dear.
i keep saying it all day long, i will be brave.
for my lionheart is underneath all my

softness and raggedy ann face. brown tights,
short dresses, long hair and a mailbox. the
corner street, our bad neighborhood. smiles
and distance. fences, europe, loneliness,
weather, fragile, hugs and cigarettes. these are
the things i think of.

thinking about..

copycat &
paperwork
letters
james joyce
yawning &
packing &
being lionhearted
big girl bed
making plans
kitchen table
masking tape
photograph
the sad one
quality time
don't copycat, please
russian house
playwright
summer clothes

bedlamp

lying together,
breathing the same.
our chests rise and fall
the same.
rise and fall.
no, it's my back.
rise and fall.
for i lie on my stomach,
my arm across you in
an untangled form
of cuddle.
and in the air is,
i miss you,
even though i'm not
gone yet.
but you don't say
anything and neither
do i. just
touch foreheads,
rest, and
fall back to sleep.

june

beach hair with salt
and raggedy.
pictures drawn on wrists.
catching up on the day
out on the porch.
the work day.
philosophy and existensialism.
idea and wine glasses.
thinking about quotes
for to tattoo
and impermeate.
what means more to
you than anything?
we are agnostic; or
buddhist or
catholic?
we have chipped nail polish
and dirty feet.
texts books and laugh,
for to see.
unaware of the imminent
sun, we go.
sewing trinkets to
each other
and having music,
as the playwright
directs our character
which way to go and
how to say "this is
life, today."

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

- e.e. cummings

desole

my pen is out of ink.

wanderlust

and we'll just keep going on this way

aujourd'hui

saying i'm sorry is necessary and hard.
saying i forgive you is necessary and hard.

saying i love you is scary and beautiful.
changing is scary and beautiful.

love all.
be kind.
learn.

satori in paris

"my manners, abominable at times, can be sweet.
as i grew older i became a drunk. why? because i
like ecstasy of the mind. i'm a wretch. but i love, love."

oh, welcome home

full glass of bourbonwater

i'm getting into this scared, very frightened feeling.
and it is feeling afraid of myself and feeling sad and
confused. and i look down at my fingernails which
are pink and my hair that is cute and ready for work.

and it has nothing to do with me. i can feel the bottom-
side of my eyes burning and my jaw tightening and my
spine crunching. i'm afraid of things, i'm afraid of
slamming the door i'm afraid of steam out my ears.

and of course its all very confusing because i just want
life to be beautiful. and it is. and even today, maybe
the sun will still rise. and someone will say i love you
and someone will kiss my cheek and say it's o.k.

hi daddy

tucson, arizona

two kids. no where to go.
tucson, arizona.
scorched heat, sidewalks
and brick wall street
corners sitting.
afternoon beers, no AC,
lounge the day away
and wonder where all the
people are.
tucson is a town with a lot
of buildings i have no
business in, he says.
heart shaped sunglasses
and getting lost. indian
rings, dirty feet, parched
mouth, cathedral. churches,
banks, gyms.
but where are all the
people?
tucson is a dumb city
but now, i've been here.
and i prolly won't come
back. and that is o.k.
either way.

i don't

i feel like weeping, the urge
to write is not there.

and my head hurts tonight.
even though it was a good night.

i have pen but no paper.
i have words but no thoughts.
i have ideas but no motivation.
i have people but no passion.

by july seventh, i promise,
i will be overflowing.

but now, people either
overwhelm me or
give me nothing.

i can't read. i can't think.
all i can do is clock in and
do my work for paying bills
is the only thing i have.

and i am just sad that i won't
be here for lykke li.
but i will for bon iver.
and i am seeing grizzly bear
and wilco this week.

i have piles of clothes. and other
blogs. and text plans and driving
places and talking on the porch
and june gloom and learning
about my roommates.

and like mackenzie and i said,
i just don't want to be in a rut
anymore. ok?

monday list

; red journal (with lines)
; date with mack
; dreamers
; fame
; lightswitch
; arizona
; couch
; love and loving
; paris head scarf

lykke li et bon iver dans les rues

that is north.

_studying the avant garde and whistling in between steps of
the cities, okay now? i want to pick up many books and
there are many things to be done before i leave
(on a grande adventure) that is north.
i am always always going north. always. brecht and
the small, tiny person. a young girl. she has braids and she is
oh so very brave. (she doesn't even know it!) oh grande.

they are making a play on the river, okay? we shall go see it
together. before i leave (on a grande adventure) that is north.
and typefont printed on my body. over my heart. for i will be
lionhearted when i go to the north (on a grande adventure).

like a student i study. dramaturgy. and history. and speaking
on the breath. and my house is covered in owls and french lemonade.

janis joplin on the wall raises her bottle and i too. cheers. for
there is much to be done (okay?) before i leave (on a grande adventure)
that is north. that is north.

the porch, for one.

oh and i have been thinking about days lately. my favourite ones. and the macdougal street bar which keeps coming up and sprinting to market on new years and the words he spoke on the couch and hearing taylor that one night and holding allie on another. the german restaurant. the fireworks. and kiss. the moustache party. the womb. our porch. our friends. and to remember the greatest points in our lives.

la maison d'amour.

i've moved into a new house and,
it is really beautiful and,
you only really love azusa
because of the people.

and i really do love the people.
and, because of this,
i really do love azusa.

i practiced my french.
and drove in the rain.
and put boxes in corners.
and made couches for lovers.

it is happy here.
et tous les personnes
are all falling into the
right grooves. i feel.

i can feel people looking at me
and making traces of my lines.
my body, the words, eyelashes,
speech, fingertips et je deteste ca.
vraiment mais je suis confus aussi.

and he went back to the marina.
and we passed out in beds.
and i forget that i am right down
the street. and this makes me happy.

okay? this makes me happy.
i am in azusa, and this makes
me happy okay? okay.

more often, please

stupidity
MFA
box office
rockstar
the heart & soul of theatre
interpretive reading
workshop
ja
petite fille
spanish
shakespeare collected sonnets

i shall scoop up my ideas from the bottom

and i get mine today from AHOY!'s june 1st post.

for today i am thinking about:

yaoundé, cameroon
bananas
christmas lights
prison corruption
saving money
subscriber benefits
bangolan corn
apu theatre
bay of pigs
the wall of love
envelopes & stamps
coughing
little muhammed
family dinner
naked
mucha tattoos
brown couches
mackenzie, the indian princess
owl theme

blast from the past

justin powell walked into my bar last night.

ma cousine et..

please say hello to danielle von braun under "art &.." with her baby kitten love page. a freelance art director in new york with her own illustrations and fashion photography by jamie nelson. enjoy.

friday

_stacks of records
_overwhelmed
_sheets
_juggling
_tea
_chug
_selling
_overwhelmed again
_i need
_help, please
_i need help

late in the backyard, talking

"i'm feeling so romantic right now." she

"that's the perfect time to put pen to paper." me

"sometimes i just like to say it out loud." she

see them all glowing in the windows

i can't seem to get better.
i can't seem to curb hunger.

we are putting all our things in boxes.
and throwing old things in the garbage.

we are painting the walls a vanilla color.
and covering up what this year brought us.

i am doing the crosswords now and reading
about obama and art museums in paris.
(i am trying to be smart)

i am learning about hinduism and soaking
in plenty of t.s.eliot. but i have no journal.
(rats!)

i peeled polaroids off the wall today with
sticky fingers. and i put them in a shoe.


i am loving you, now. not here.
oh those handfuls of dear ones.

i could really use some blank pages,
and good ideas. i could really use

a typewriter, backstage west, gas in
my car, camels and a little pat on the back.

perhaps, just, burn a candle,
for me, or whoever you know needs it.

we could burn candles for each other,
always. and i'd like to walk at night

and see them all glowing in the windows.