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.