The Actress

Trying to balance
The doing
And the writing
About the doing
 
Not many
Stories left
That I can
Tell myself
I love being anyone else but me
 
Maybe I need to change a dose
I pull tides of bitterness
Like an evil moon
If I chance submersion
You chance
Being exposed
To my new form
 
Demand the moon
Get the cheese
Please God
Please say
I’m like no other
 
Cracker jack idea
When we’re all alone
What’s my prize
For digging down deep
No cereal box treasure map
To happy
I’ll make something of nothing
And get back to you
 
All new plans
Point at and laugh
The old new plans
Couldn’t I exhale and be better?

The Tip

The bus is the usual level of crowded, all two-seaters partially occupied by loosies, us solo commuters. The new buses have this step up section in the back and “kids” still flock there. But its early and there are only two, sitting together.

Today I end up in the very last seat before the back section. This particular driver is young, and a fucking mad man. I find myself bracing my knees against the seat in front of me and closing my eyes to ignore the risky driving. Buses are big. And I’m getting old.

He pulls into the station. Collecting myself, I accidentally pull out my earphones. I’m holding my bus pass and iPod since I’m not wearing my jeans or coat. No pockets. Add my purse to the mix and all of a sudden, I’m a frazzled nerd back in high school. Until the next thing happens.

The bus has been emptying the whole time, another rule violation. I’m in the seat closest to the back door, I should be first out. That’s my perk. But my hesitation has cost me my privilege, so now I’m awkwardly waiting, my OCD brain telling me I better be poised to go, otherwise the bus might leave without letting me off.

“Go ‘head.” This school aged child, taking the bus with her brother (presumably) is smiling at me from the top of the stairs and respectfully waiting for me to go first. I smile and in relief scramble off the bus. She exits after and runs happily to catch up with her brother, her whole life ahead of her.

I think of how I’d like to reward her. Here kid, I think, have one of my life experiences. Maybe it will save you some trouble.

Her back pack bounces as she runs…

A Certain Kindness

Each work morning lately I’ve taken to going to Au Bon Pain for coffee before work. For a week or two, I’ve noticed a “homeless” man. I don’t know if he literally is homeless, but he literally looks crazy. Wild, long untrimmed grey and white hair, including a beard. He is always in the same jeans, same shirt, same coat. So I deduce, being the veteran city girl I am, he is homeless. The talking and scowling at no one really hammers home the crazy.

A week ago, he noticed me. I think more accurately, he noticed me noticing him. Once he noticed me noticing him, he made it a point to notice me when I came in the coffee place. Again, the city girl in me notes this and notes also that it could be trouble. Because you see…

I give off a vibe. How does one describe this vibe? I don’t know, but this particular worm brings in a certain kind of fish. That’s what I’ve deduced so far. And didn’t this particular crazy come by at the right time, just in time to test my theory.

And test it he did.

Yesterday morning, the homeless man was standing two blocks down, staring at the train exit I depart from. I said nothing, but as I approached, eye contact became accidentally inevitable as he just stood there. Our eyes met briefly and I continued on to ABP. I thought to myself that it was weird he wasn’t in there with his usual coffee and orange juice that I’m pretty sure the manager gives him for free since the orange juice from ABP is like 5 bucks or something outrageous like that. But maybe I had missed his ABP time.

The next day, he is right at the tip of Valenti, where the painted brick sign for Canal St still haunts like a war time tattoo.

Fuck, I say to the morning air, knowing this time there will be words. I am incapable of not giving this person the respect of acknowledgement. He is standing in my path and we have seen each other before. He is already talking before I speak.

” Morning, morning…” He mumbles and his voice gets low and unintelligible.

“Good Morning.” I say simply and continue walking.

“Morning, Jesus is coming…”

The next day he is directly outside the coffee shop, telling the empty street; “Its been so many gathered…”

I can’t help but agree with him.

DownHere

I can’t stop my eyes from closing,
so much easier to let time pass.
The lie I told was that I could be your perfect girl.
I’m cowering under that elephant-sized lie,
heavy although it is, its nothing like what’s to come.
The discovery.
The discovery will leave me weeping.
I race back to zero like a good little crazy.
It’s easier at the bottom, parallel to no expectations.
I’m not cut out to be consistently impressive.
I’m flash in the pan, once in a dream.
And when you realize what a colossal fuck up I am…
I hope you don’t regret me.
I wish I already had the tattoo; a chance you can’t ever walk away.
And now.

Dramaturgical Skies Dawned

Deep pollution pounds, crows’ wings might,
fate’s the whipping boy, Giving up/crazy lies,
sounds are clouds Billows torn from the same
cloth as magenta and fire flies besides the horizon
line I gave you three tries. Steps away Learning
don’t extend the parastite propagandaist for any old
Tom Dick or Harry who crosses the hearth
Never trust a holy man

Church 14 by Eric Alder

Circling Birds

I’m really frightened of being alone. Especially at night. That’s when I wish I had that extra attention. And if it’s a man, looking to get off, that works. In fact, it’s a sure bet really. Isnt it? Not good for me. It’s good for me that it’s so much less. I don’t seem to have it in me anymore. That rush of knowing a new person, being pursued by a new person. I guess when you have a few bad outcomes under your belt, you aren’t as eager to go back. But then here I am. middle of the night lonely. And why does that type of lonely always settle in your pussy? If the pussy is happy, I’ll be happy.  My life is working really well with my love and Big Daddy. The medications are working. Some positive money stuff is approaching, hopefully. Sure, I’m smoking so much, its insane. And the eating. Dont forget the eating. The body aches, like a new injury every week. It’s so quiet. Sometimes the understanding is so close. Then, its gone again. (I’m scared I can’t write anymore because of my medication.) I told everyone is was a fluke. No one listened.  I am not a very good mom. I see a list a mile long of things I could be doing, giving them. I would rather die than have them think they aren’t worth every drop of my blood, every breath I take or word I write. They are everything. I hate being alone. Who needs these thoughts? Like, the sometimes man. Was that even real? Was that year of my life real? And Marian? Was she real? Is there a person out there with jewel eyes that really contains such a combination of whimsy and hard edge? I always make such bad fucking choices with abandonment, like being the risk taker is something enviable. I would give it immediately if it was worth getting. I wish I was 17 people and none of them did drugs to excess and ate to excess and hid from people and was lazy and cranky and short-tempered and slutty and glass wicked empty.  I wish I didn’t feel so fucking alone. I wish I didn’t question that a collection of molecules such as life even exists, I don’t want to care about which word is placed where and what should I wear and whats my next thing and whats my excuse and whats my rationalization and what more do I need, what reward do I demand, what price do I pay, what dowry do I come with? Can you see me wrestling with this part of myself? Or am I wrestling to beat the medication, my sickness, my demons so strong and engrained, God you could have at least made me beautiful since you made me so crazy, you could have at least made me successful in a career or a perfect mother or a social butterfly, but instead I’m just crazy. Its quiet. I have my fans, and my blankets and my babies sleeping tight in the other room. One has fine, blond hair and hazel eyes, the other, thick brown hair and brown eyes. There is milk for cereal and a bottle. My husband has more work lately, and he loves me. And I love him. I have Big Daddy. And I love him. I have my family, repaired friendships. Jesus Christ, where do I get off being such a sad sack? It’s this lingering, this nagging knowledge that what I have, others have more or better. It’s this feeling that I’m not where I belong. There is more I am supposed to be, or suppose to do. The wrong path, I don’t even recognize the planet I’m on. I’m an alien and I wandered into the wrong fucking place. But these are my babies, this is my life, stop this questioning for no reason. I can’t, what if there is something else I should be doing and I don’t do it and something terrible happens, I miss my boat, I die.

The Alpha Obsidian

The Third Party

A Naked Trickster
A Transparent Snake
Play Peek-a-bo
Behind Adam’s Apple

The Spider Approaches Hesitantly

Please read.

My friend is so strong…

Gone Fishin’

Why
Do they come and
See me, clutching
Wounds closed,
And pressed to
Stitch breakers,
Mess makers.
Every time I say
Fuck, I’m
A slut
Gone
Fishin’
One more time.

About What I Wished For

Not only
am I
waiting, I’m
making them
wait. God
help me,
I’m doing
everything wrong.