I'm a woman now,
living on my own in a $1250 a month
apartment with a daughter
by my soon to be ex-husband.
When I have free time, I exercise
in the complex gym.
Hell, my money's gotta pay for something, right?
On my way back today,
I walked by a dirty old Honda.
It musta been an '84.
It's paint was peeling,
and there was a
Community College parking pass
hanging from it's mirror.
Amid the dust, I could see:
A pink rose on it's dash.
The petals were squished against the window
like my teenage lips
aching for a kiss before you go.
It's 1996 in my head sometimes.
It's always that in my gut.
I'm a lot like Daria in that Beavis & Butthead cartoon.
Or Janeane Garafalo in her non-political days.
Like them and their hubris
I long for things that matter
and I put random objects
on the dashboard on my car.
It's the first place I look
when I can't find my mail.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Ty is Typing
It wasn't love. God, he knew that.
"For shaw," his cousin Bill used to always say then spray him with unintentional spit sprays, "You gotta love 'em and leave 'em bro!"
She sure was sexy though. Almost 60 now--for sure, maybe even older--but in '73 she was the sexiest thing on two legs. She showed him a picture after she invited him up to her hotel room. Said she was waiting for "her Johnny" when that shot was took of her in bellbottoms. They had met in the hotel gym, where she was exposing her still shapely calves in skintight workout clothes. He wanted to kiss her creamy skin behind her knees, contrast his dark skin against hers.
After the picture, he had gotten nervous. Why? Who knows. It must have been the sight of her 70s beauty and the thought of her musky treasures. He asked to use her laptop. There he used it, on her bed, while she slid out of her clothes. His cousin Bill IMed him which he was on gmail.
"What's up bro?" Bill typed, "Ready to turn 40?." But all it read on Ty's end was:
"Ty is typing..." for at least the next 45 minutes. He could feel those computer keys under her bum while he squeezed. Type, type, type.
"For shaw," his cousin Bill used to always say then spray him with unintentional spit sprays, "You gotta love 'em and leave 'em bro!"
She sure was sexy though. Almost 60 now--for sure, maybe even older--but in '73 she was the sexiest thing on two legs. She showed him a picture after she invited him up to her hotel room. Said she was waiting for "her Johnny" when that shot was took of her in bellbottoms. They had met in the hotel gym, where she was exposing her still shapely calves in skintight workout clothes. He wanted to kiss her creamy skin behind her knees, contrast his dark skin against hers.
After the picture, he had gotten nervous. Why? Who knows. It must have been the sight of her 70s beauty and the thought of her musky treasures. He asked to use her laptop. There he used it, on her bed, while she slid out of her clothes. His cousin Bill IMed him which he was on gmail.
"What's up bro?" Bill typed, "Ready to turn 40?." But all it read on Ty's end was:
"Ty is typing..." for at least the next 45 minutes. He could feel those computer keys under her bum while he squeezed. Type, type, type.
Back to Black
Mitosis Blues.
It's like a pepple in my shoe
One that gives birth
to twins.
You went back to what you know,
so far removed from all that we went
throw.
My odds are stacked.
You go back to her and
I go back to black.
It's like a pepple in my shoe
One that gives birth
to twins.
You went back to what you know,
so far removed from all that we went
throw.
My odds are stacked.
You go back to her and
I go back to black.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Be Yourself.
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