A bit shameless.

We Made a Toast with Orange Juice and then Swallowed Some Earth

Between the halls, between

the darkest room that reminds

me of guillotines, intoxication,

regrets, and torn muscle inside

my chest

My voice strikes

my brain like a snake

bites its prey, trying

to figure out

how to break on through

I tip toe to the other side

licking the water dry from

the hollows of my teeth

my body sways and shifts

on a wooden ship with

polished floors

Sending me toward

his summer heat

of red, yellow and green

in a room that flickers

with blackberry paint

His breath

cools my brain,

but is unable

to wipe the sweat

“Pretty Good for a Chic”

I throw my hips against my bass

while my fingers play to amplified

backhanded compliments.

you’re pretty good for a chick

Must everything I love

be divided by this wall:

masculine and feminine?

Who draws that line

of marginality?

They say it’s the fall of eve,

But, last I remember,

Adam sold out

his garden of paradise

to a pair of tits.

I was just wooed

by the taste of knowledge.

Later in my life I

find out, I’ve come

across  other snakes.

He says, I am too opinionated.

But, I risk telling him

his conversations aren’t challenging.

The redneck, shit talking radio guy

isn’t exactly a reliable source.

Herstory forgotten-

Yet, I can still hear

their siren voices

burning at the altar,

over the cheap can of beer

he keeps tapping.

He dictates me

as some oversexed,

underworked girl, but

just like him, I

also gave into virginity.

I, too, come

from the same cell

slipped  from a strong

woman’s birth canal.

I’m not dude, nor am I bro.

I’m the one who gravitates

toward the moon

and sheds on a never

ending cycle.

Like the tide

 leaving

washed up shells, I could

collect enough tissue

to form my own solar system.

It was my liquid gold

you drank

as a baby and got you where

you are. We are all xx in beginning-

you were second.

At the bar, he

fingers for pocket

change, last call

  fumbles.

I fish for change and

apparently

I want a meaningless fuck—

not that I don’t enjoy

spontaneous connection.

Yet, you still call me a slut.

My  mother was set on wearing a stone feather

I couldn’t help but glare from behind my glass ice cream.

This will never work while walking along the pineapple sidewalk.

Every time she tries I can hear the siren grass-

And the echoes of the building lace.

Maybe I am less sweet than a heart pie

And she more stubborn than a block flipflop.

She shines like goldenrod concrete

Avoiding life woes and its cemetery cup

From the ice barrel she whispers:

“once bitten, twice lost”

a kaleidoscope broken

Fucked up drunks

Dance

To music unknown, listen

The lighters pop

turning on the next cigarette

Setting the date

Of when to quit.

We never do

The things we say

Just happens in spite

Of peer pressure

And reality of what life

Brings forth, sadness

In it there is pleasure

And joy to still be felt

Despite the devil

Piercing holes on our belt

Suffocating with insecurities

Questioning what makes us

Most happy.

Digging in our pockets

For some loose change

Too drunk to count

Relying on the bartender

What is this?

Here’s your drink to love.

Drink to cry

Drink because you can

Most of all

Drink because

Regardless, one day

There might be no change

To ask the bartender

Is it enough?

We never have enough

Jay.

At first, I wasn’t thinking much about the old man Jay I just shook hands with.  An earlier conversation was still resonating within my brain.  I was stating how I thought it more convenient for someone to have dreams and goals of becoming a surgeon, an engineer or a businessman.  Realistically, I was putting down my own talents as an artist.  Feeling that sometimes it is a curse to live as an artist, attempting to stick out amongst millions of others occupying bookstores, music bins and late night bar gigs.  A good artist is a dime a dozen, but even then- dimes come in many; wondering if it is easier to trade it in for financial stability, and the success of being book smart and thinking within the box as a trade for a paycheck.  

Then, we shook hands.

There were three of us starting out with small talk trying to build some common ground in order to relate and make conversation.  It didn’t take long once the old man’s daughter threw us some bait which we all bit. “Dad, tell them about all the drums you play!”

Jay seemed modest, and shy about bragging as a little boy would when asked about the line up of his army men. Reluctant at first, then with an excited exhale, “oh, all kinds, I was one of the first to play the steel drums that they brought over from the islands”.  

I kept trying to picture what he looked like when he was younger.  However, I was distracted by the faded green baseball cap refusing to cast a shadow over his face.  He wore a striped blue t-shirt that hung loosely upon his frail body, and it was no compliment to his plaid cargo shorts.  It was obvious his daughter picked out his clothes to keep him up to date.  He swapped stories with the dedicated guitar player amongst us about the Haitian songs they both new.  Two individuals of two completely different generations understood each other through songs.  Jay decided to invite us into his home to play one of the Haitian songs on his keyboard.  

Upon stepping foot into his home, I did not expect to see such an artistic setting.  I was used to other homes of the elderly in Florida decorated with a wall of family photos overlapping the next.  Gold rimmed frames with a painting of a swamp and a random flamingo or sailboat.  I was even expecting to be smacked by the scent of mothballs.    He has a small place with all the basic necessities of a house; a kitchen with pots on the stove for a meal waiting to be cooked, a couch for guests to sit when they decide to take time out of their slave driven lives, but above all it was his décor that caught my eye.  On his walls hung only abstract paintings, bright enough to keep the room lit without flicking a switch.  I later found out, those were all his paintings, along with the few black and white photographs I was impressed with.  There was a compact wooden table crowded with a few ripened bananas and other sorts of things one takes to maintain health like 100% Vegan Protein, whatever that is.  

Jay was the epicenter of the room as he cautiously lowered each bone on to a seated position at his keyboard. “This is meringue.” Watching his fingers move at such speed, tapping each key reminded me of the movie Cocoon where the old men were doing back flips because of some alien force.  It was obvious Jay hadn’t met any aliens.  Instead music was his fountain of youth.  His flesh stained with age barely clinging to his feeble bones.  His foot heavy on the pedal sustaining, crescendoing then decrescendoing, the weight on his legs held up by bandages and box shaped Velcro sneakers.  I watched and listened as the young man, the young artist tried to escape the body of an elderly man.  He played instinctively, sharing songs he had written still embedded in the memory of his soul.  I kept picturing this youthful enchanting man, dressed in a black suit and a white button down, loose tie, wooing the ladies, cigarette hanging loosely on his bottom lip.  At second blink I was reminded of his age again by the box of bandages, like the ones wrapped around his legs, sharing the same space as his keyboard.

We traveled the world within thirty minutes from a Cuban meringue to a Russian Waltz and closed in an old Spanish song he felt inspired to play after telling him my last name.  He was a silent film. I was attempting to piece images of what his life was like while he continued to play;  a Jewish man who had his start in Greenwich, New York by pushing his cart of instruments through the streets playing for lovers, playing for children, for beggars, for anyone who stopped to listen. 

            Like all good things, the session came to an end.

            Later that night I was told when he lies down his lungs fill with fluid.  All I could think was, “keep playing and avoid drowning”.  I will always carry this experience with me.  Knowing this was the day he liberated the conflict within my own life.  I could have been an athlete or an engineer, but an artist will always be an artist until their very last breath.  

Me and the Whale

“Pop up! Do less; you’re still doing too much”

My legs wrap around the board allowing my thighs to grip and keep me from tipping over.  I comb my fingers softly against the surface of the water as if I were untangling the hair of a three- year- old girl.  Whatever my friend’s girlfriend is squawking to me about I have managed to ignore with ease. All I can hear is the wind echoing all around me as if I were in a giant conch shell.   I look off to the horizon eagerly awaiting and welcoming whatever challenge chooses to arise.

She has risen.

Quickly, I loosen the grip my thighs have on the board.  This allows me to slide the board up enough for me to use my hips and twist it around to point the nose towards the shore. Nervously, I lay my body down on the board reminding myself not to look back.  Looking back always makes me more hesitant and increases my chance of injury.  I can hear the wave directly behind me like the mouth of a blue whale just waiting to swallow me up.  Nobody wants to spend their time in the belly of a whale.  At least not me, I want to ride.

Chest up, head up, I paddle my arms violently.  My hands and arms cut through the water like a maniac in a Slash film cutting through its prey.  I wait to feel the pulling from the wave and set all fear aside.  I choose to defy the inability to walk on water.  There is no sink or swim.  There is no before.  There is no after.  There is only now.

Pop up.

Then, like a wave he happened. He will remain nameless, because I do not really give certain experiences a title or a name, I just share them.  He was the whale and I was his meal.  Let me just state real fast, in the words of Public Image this is not a love song. 

We met at a coffee shop and instantly hit it off.  My skin was already glowing the next day from the physiological attraction we had towards each other. Both of us shared the belief that the universe had somehow brought us together.  However, little did I know that his ego was much bigger than this universe I had such faith in. 

Our first date occurred the moment we met at Black & Brew Coffee House& Bistro.  We both ordered hot, green tea.  I was ready for adventure and he was the wave that I had been patiently waiting for. 

“Do you have any tattoos?” he asked without losing eye contact, which I was thankful for, because I by no means wanted to avert mine from his.

I lifted my left arm, and felt a bit nervous, because I had worn a tank top and could not remember if I kept up with my assigned gender beauty regime of shaved arm pits.

Whew, I was in the clear.

“Yeah, it’s just a lotus flower, cliché, but it represents my belief that even if things are shitty something good still comes out of it,” I replied with a firm tone, but still felt my face get a little hot from shyness.

He then pointed to his feet slipping them out of his flip flops.

“The one on the left is an equal sign representing social justice, and the one on the right foot is a shout out to my man Kurt Vonnegut- an asterisk, which is actually an asshole, to remind myself to not take life too seriously”

            I felt my heart pop out of my mouth and dive right into my cup of hot tea.  That is how excited I was.  I was riding high.

He was my version of a knight in shining armor. Like me he was a writer and a musician whom also viewed the world like an enormous playground: enjoying traveling, meeting new people and above all- surfing.   He also considered himself a feminist- a word that many associate as filthy.  On the physical side he was six- foot-two, dark hair, hazel eyes and the first mountain I wanted to climb and sink my teeth into.  Instead of thinking about how to plunder this man, I should have been recalling an old girl friend’s advice “uugh, musicians.  I don’t date those assholes.  They think they are gods”.

We were inseparable during the time neither of us were busy with school work.  He was working on his PhD in Communications and teaching over at a University while I was enrolled in summer classes at the University of Central Florida working towards my journalism degree.  Our dates consisted of smoking pot and jamming out on bass and drums or having in depth discussions about social issues, politics and religion while devouring sushi. 

  I remember thinking good things happen to those who are patient.  After dating socially handicapped individuals who only cared about computers, I was quite happy to have met my pot smoking professor.  From his creative speeches titled I have never felt this way before I was certain the feeling was mutual. 

            As I mentioned before, surfing was a love we both shared.  I had not been surfing long before we met, but I have always trusted the ocean and respected all of her attributes.  Surfing was just something to make the relationship with her stronger. 

  My attitude while learning was to catch every wave, and be fearless.  My friend Andrew who first taught me how to surf was trying to guide me by pushing me into the wave, but I am much too stubborn for that.  It was easy to tell him not to help, because Andrew is the type of person who does not take anything personally.  I took pride during my lessons whether I was riding a wave for a few seconds or was smacking my face on the surface of the water from falling off the board.  Either way, it was all at the consequence of me.  The more battle scars the better. 

Then, he and I went surfing together.  Despite how much I liked him, when I am out in the water I am in the zone.  He was just another ripple in the water to me.  Then, I looked back; there it was- the whale with its wide open mouth, and two hands at the end of my board.

Shit.

Given that I never played the role of the damsel in distress with him, I decided to let him have his moment of feeling like a needed man. 

Here it comes.

He pushed me into the wave, and I looked back to see his grin of satisfaction causing me to break my rule of looking back.  I can’t describe what happened right before I hit the water, because it all happened way too fast.  I just remember the warp speed that the board was going and the crunch sound my forehead made after being hit. Then somehow trying to swim my way up and inhale the world’s supply of oxygen.  When I finally made it to the surface, I immediately placed my hand on my forehead feeling like my skull had split open and I was trying to keep its contents from falling out.  Luckily there was no such injury.  All I could feel with my fingers was a huge knot swelling up right where my hand was placed.  I kept thinking my skin was eventually going to stretch so much it was going to rip at the seams.

He rushed over to my rescue.  Still cupping my hand around my forehead all I could ask was, “am I bleeding?!”

“Oh my god, oh my god,” he kept saying for what seemed like an eternity.  So of course at this point I thought for sure my forehead looked bad.

“Oh my god, your nipple is showing!”

To my relief his panic was that my bikini top had shifted over.  Once that mishap was situated it was on to tend to my face.

We walked out of the water and sat me down on the sand.  I remember thinking to myself that the shape of my forehead felt like it resembled the forehead of the elephant man.  He walked over to an older lady sun bathing and asked her for some ice.  She was nice enough to give us bottled water that was frozen, so to my luck after an hour I was also able to quench my thirst.

Of course, he felt bad about the incident, but all I could think was, “good- you should feel bad for letting your ego and need to feel needed get in the way of my living.”

The waves started to calm and it was the end of another surf day.

The relationship ended between us right before my trip to Costa Rica.

He was in the midst of writing four arguments and preparing for interviews by his professors for his department in Communications regarding his knowledge.  Our time together was dwindling.  Summer lovin’, literally, happened so fast.

I received the call.

“What’s wrong,” I asked, sensing his lack of enthusiasm on the other end.  I felt like I was playing charades asking question after question, trying to piece the reasoning behind his solemn tone.

“Is it school? Work? Stressed about writing?”

Apparently, I had forgotten that I was talking to a writer.  I got to hear a long back story, instead of getting to the main point.  We are breaking up.

Finally, I asked, “Does it have to do with us?”

Jesus, spit it out already.

“We are just at different points at our life right now.  I’m working on my PhD and you’re still working on your bachelors.  I need someone who understands what I am going through,” he responded, adding high inflections to certain syllables.

Are you fucking kidding me?

“Just answer, yes or no, do you want to be with me,” I responded sternly, without hiding the annoyance in my voice.

I think he had a recording of his response, because he fed me the same thing verbatim.

“Ok, I take it your answer is no, good luck with everything,” I replied trying to sound tough, but couldn’t hide the slight sound of me choking on my heart that once swam in my cup of green tea that first day.

Yes, I was heartbroken, but, I am convinced now this individual was a phony and not a true feminist.  He saw me as a challenge.  My roommate at the time tried to warn me as well.  Especially after he commented that he could not go to concerts because he felt like it should be him up there.  Then there I was, his girlfriend who was up there, playing bass in a three-piece band, booking tickets to Costa Rica, hanging out with friends and finding time to surf.  I was his wave crashing over all the things that he felt made him a lady killer. 

I popped up.

Nothing changes the fact that he was an asshole.   However, I needed to spend time in the belly of a whale to appreciate the freedom and knowledge of self that followed from the experience. 

Upset with being frisked and having a naked image taken of you at airports?  This is what crosses my mind upon awakening and releasing my first yawn.  My cat has perched herself on my pillow, curled up next to my face.  It is obvious my morning breath is of sweet marigolds and not her litterbox.  In unison we stretch and I arch my back as an offering of my heart to the sky, blessing myself with the new daylight.  Frisked and naked.  I leave every window and blind open in my house.  My home is a crystal, bending light and cleansing the air.  I bathe hours on end in my home, allowing the moonlight to touch my naked figure and the sunlight to exfoliate my pores.  I am a bit of exhibitionist.  I do not fear strangers on my street seeing my flesh, bones and dimples passing by open doors.  They are focused and ready to race the day.  I am just another gray, frizzy tailed squirrel chasing up and down a tree.  Just another ant bringing food back to its colony.  I am just an ordinary being living extraordinary in this rhythmic solar system. 

Getting dressed is always a challenge.  Choosing what color shirt I want to represent my mood.  Which side should I part my hair?  Having to do squats in jeans fresh from the dryer. what color shadow to paint across my lids.  All these choices and decorations make me feel exposed to the world.  Individuals can judge my status by the lack of holes in my shirt- or the abundance of them.  They think they know me, simply by the costume I choose to wear.  There is no mystery.  Its as if I write my poetry on my skin and everyone stands to read.  I feel shame.  I feel exposed.  Unready to conquer the world. The world taketh and the world giveth.

I found 75 cents in the soda machine. It knew I was thirsty.

freestyle…no- seriously.(its been a long time)

It never ceases to amaze me how loud a fan spins to the unwinding traffic outside powered by busy streets of endless nights and swollen thighs to heartless naps and a river dance that no one really witnesses.  Who is watching? Like bold owls and moonlit eyes who really cares if I do a kart wheel and tumble into a pile of dog poo.  The walk home would reak but at least I would have my laughter- that unwanted beat by so many who drive their lives with the fuel of misery.  Sometimes I too fill up and catch myself paying that 3.95 for unwanted lullabies filled with regret my heart is not tainted yet.  I have so much to live for and so much to die for- when do I make ends meet in the middle and kiss myself goodnight, I love you, wonderful girl with hypnotic hips and lustful lips and vibrant eyes you are so naive to think one is measured by how many stop to wave and hope its more than just one guy.  I can hold my own.  i can feed myself. I can dress myself.  Why not learn to love myself?  Where was this lesson while growing up? Now we make traffic signs stop signs gang signs and peace signs to remind us how to love.  To remind us how to have common courtesy as human beings. But apparently it is not so common because we still rage war. We still oppress and blame the girl for getting raped because she wore too short of a dress.  This is God.  God is love. will he come back or has he forsaken us? Like Hawking’s theory of gypsy aliens- maybe God is a gypsy planting his seed. If i offend you- good- continue to read.  I like this toast with butter and eggs because God is my heart and he is laying in my bed.  He is bathing me in the rain, he is wearing that stinky green shirt again.  He is struggling to grow beneath the thirsty dirt.  He is the bird I heard with such a loud chirp.  God is my love.  I am in love. But when do they teach me to love myself? I am god.  God is in me and he is in you- why so much hate?