Saturday, February 27, 2010


i can't write, i feel weighty.
weighted. with obstacles
and sad things of other
people. i'm reading so much
i might be swallowed up
whole by charlotte bronte
herself. in pages and pages
of goodness. my hair is
crunchy and grainy and
curling strangely and looking
at a photo of a long haired
muse i desired for my locks
back again but hold, strong,
like jane eyre i will not
recount my loss for what
i have gained. twisting
the knots in my hair and
rubbing the sleep from my
softened eyelids i wake,
still dreaming and holding
my lover close, i breathe.
trapped in a room on the
day of my supposed
freedom i know no more
than to read, to write, to
daydream of nothing at all.
to listen intently on the
sleet from my window
and hope he comes back to
me again. seeking solace and
change and better things
always and learning things
always. scraping up images
of harvey milk and susan b.
anthony and sylvia plath and
booker t. washington those
good people to smile at me
tell me we did it you can
do it too. courage, sister,
for the long road continues
on. try harder, live better,
patience. a transformation
from dirty hair to crown of
jewels, from modest flirtatious
eyes beneath a fan - a soliloquy
of fiery passion and importance.
thinking about beautiful hands
etched by alfonse mucha and
what, maybe, those hands
might have made.

Monday, February 15, 2010


i am growing & growing outward. 
two steps forward & one step back
& that is still progress. 
removing the block between my 
head & my mouth that halted
the words from coming out
& i'm speaking up. 
& speaking to & speaking with.
i'm learning about inequality
& vegetables & stars.
never doing laundry & 
never washing my hair. 
correspondence with dad & him 
telling me all things must pass
listen to good ole george today.
we sing my sweet lord.
& hare hare the hummingbird
i'm growing upward & outward
& downward & sideways. 
tuesdays & long plays 
about freedom & wishes
doing the dishes.
telling you "yes" & learning
& "yes" i promise i will
come & see you i promise
i'll be your witness "yes"
i promise. 


# booker t
# head scarf
# pasta noodles
# lindsay's journals
# borders
# wait time
# tuesdays
# el cholo

Thursday, February 11, 2010

second class citizen

headache and i want to
say new things. proud
and trying to be strong
and feelin' down and
sometimes angry.
booker t washington,
the soulful grapes
and aches, empty
bottles, corn shells,
conch shells, rainbow
beads and listening
to me. news articles in
papers and people
filled with hatred and
feeling like a second
class citizen. it hurts,
burns, and trying to
explain feminism and
equality to people who
don't ever seem to
understand. cope with
hope, at the end of our
rope. i'm sad seeing the
faces of the ones
threatened, that one of
the smaller groups will
change the thousand year
old system that prefers
them. bigotry and
christianity. gay and
straight. male and female.
standing up and staying
strong. heart flutters
and open shutters.
teaming and revealing,
stolen hard drives, stolen
dreams. mushroom tops,
smiles, forgetting things.
missing mack and hearing
songs. new recordings,
old hugs, chapped lip
kisses, raising eyebrows,
making conclusions,
no conclusions, staying
strong, staying strong,
staying strong.


when i'm hungry at night,
i have the most delectable
dreams about food. and
getting ready to fly to
florida for a long stay.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010


my feet are really cold
it didn't look like it
would be a dreary
day. and then,
of a sudden, it was drafty
and raining on my
unprotected head,
in my worn thin red
sweater just my
brassiere underneath
and skin. and toes cold
peeking through holes in
sky grey shiny flats,
droplets of water on top
of each. the hard cement
floor of the classroom
unwarming and lecture
dragging on and spinning
like the orbitals we're
discussing and imperfect
circles. tycho brahe.
staring at the upper right
corner of the white room,
silenced in my head with
a small disappointment,
and not as excited about
los angeles as i want to be.
i think about a griffith
observatory field trip and
it's location. grass and orbs.
glass orbs. the poetry book
atop the science book.
and look, a spider clinging
to the wall, newton
eyeing him himself.
and wealth. the triangle
points, los angeles, san
francisco and myself.
and all other triangles to
be submerged and emerged.
what happens to a dream

leonor fini

by chance, i happened on upon a free exhibition in a gallery on geary street in san francisco saturday. to my surprise it led to my new obsession with the artist leonor fini. a spectacular surrealist painter, a woman. because of her gender she never quite got the appropriate recognition her friends and contemporaries (picasso, dali) received. browse the weinstein gallery's feature of her on their website and learn more about her. or visit her official site.

Monday, February 8, 2010

new list

@ echo park
@ franson
@ nepalese
@ very brave
@ side sore
@ scenework
@ harvest
@ moon phases
@ try try try

Thursday, February 4, 2010

oh, talk to me

"i will read long books and the journals of dead writers. i will feel closer to them than i ever used to feel to people i used to know before i withdrew from the world. it will be sweet and cool this friendship of mine with dead poets. for i won't have to touch them or answer their questions. they will talk and not expect me to answer. and i'll get sleepy listening to their voices explaining the mysteries to me. i'll fall asleep with the book still in my fingers, and it will rain. i'll wake up and hear the rain and go back to sleep. a season of rain, rain, rain..."

*from talk to me like the rain and i'll listen by tennessee williams

best coast, when i'm with you

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

pop, eh?

a weekend wednesday

and last night with the strobe light & hookah,
passin' 'round the bottle of white zin, light
beer leftovers in our mouths. playin' cards,
dancing, skinny girls resembling penny lane
swishing the zinfandel back and forth moving
luxuriously through space and time. couch
cushions and kissing, giving thumbs up. we
dance, we get lost somewhere between notes,
lost in the ballerina movement of my arms,
we're in another place, the same in the morning.

Monday, February 1, 2010

une semaine

*same list, over & over again
*monologues, groceries, work
*in love
*night of theater
*monday emails
*photo shoot