Cafe Conversation

She invented the cloudy dreaminess in boys eyes and their obvious intentions,

While drinking a golden tea rendered from a sunburst of alien tentacles with a red heart.

He explains he is a budding musician and believes in god so she asks why and says

You can find god in pews, or resounding from the throat of a holy man or

You can find god in the five-lined staff

Where your wings force their way through the skin of your shoulder blades

To glitter or reflect the steely pall of your confessions –

But then sacrilege appears on the patio casting his poison on every frame of her daylight

A blank ghost, with colorless, translucent skin composed of love molecules from her youth.

She suddenly feels she might be compressed to a vanishing dust to be dissipated with the breeze

Becoming only a glint in the saga of conquests

A dead, buried, short story with no premise.

She has forgotten about the young musician and his guitar

And her tea has turned to mud.

Falling

With dangerous ambivalence they were rampaging the streets

She sees herself everywhere in mirrors, holding rainbow glasses of drinks

Until she finds herself sinking between his sheets

Breathing warmth out of her veins, suspecting that if she blinks

She might erase it all with the pulse of the night and a parting of the lips

When her wings fluttered the hours away in a smoky heaven and she tore shooting stars off the walls

Traced the clouds with her hips, brushed the ether with her fingertips

In smug delight of holding a microcosmos in her pocket, blind to impending falls

So steadily she holds the gaze of his gold-flecked eyes

Carefully one more time traces his ripples and lines

When daylight snakes in the room and the night before is a faded whisper of sighs

And the arrogant sun sings and shines

She can feel her heart starting to creak and bend

And fears with him she’ll meet her end

Sunset Boulevard

It was an aimless time in the rain whiskey burning in the veins and someone whispered please sleep but sleep bribes with the most useless promises and giving in is the most undignified part of the day, when forced ripples of unconsciousness threaten to be continuous so they used small, orange dolls to force wakefulness with a torrent of fire and abandon. Sunset Boulevard would not die so the four of them took a booth at Denny’s and she tugged her hair, sighed, and he turned to look at her, his expression asking what am I doing here but she only smiled, because she did not have the answer. She closed her eyes and thought those liquid-slate eyes are the most fleeting of all, unstoppable, and when she opened her eyes she felt she had miscalculated and was spinning in confusion at her own error. When the sun rose she drove to the airport, crying at the drab hideousness of the 405 and its ceaseless droning, and she did not know why, but her friend, leaning her head against the passenger seat window, was secretly pleased with her tears.

Running Home at Night

running home in heels with the pleasant floating of the hour and bearable ticking of days

she always knew unrequited emotion would result in a loneliness that beats against all sense so

she was receding with the distance

losing her patience in the thick tropical forests between them

it was a predictable resignation, between unfamiliar canyons and a picturesque second of the day

she imagined he had a magical sunshine encircling him

silken hair dying in a meaningless wind of fascination

so she met the sunrise on the cafe patio with a cigarette

later in the day as she sipped iced tea

she decided

his ghost could remain in those forests and

she would not be there at the airport when he returned

Hangover

drifting in and out of sleep floating through disturbances of phone calls and scrambled details of a faraway night-glory when riddled with shivers she found a warm body, let herself crumble to elusive plans not her own, victim to sloshing in the head, a warm bloody release of the fulfillment. she slept alone above a pool of aquamarine liquid, disconnected from infidelities.

there’s a vague flash of pink, metallic, chipped nailpoish, and bent wings. here’s the skin my flesh and all the youth for you to feast on. she raged and dragged a furor through the bones with a fresh madness and love that has never idled away in a pantry or been stored in a can.

waking up penless and thoughtless, light was starting to claw at the blinds and she was still waiting for unconsciousness and relief from the battle schemes of the day. coffee and spirits have flooded the veins, burst against reason, spun the head with heavy confessions in a rotation of heavenly uncertainties.

an entreating voice is on the phone, asking for warmth, because he is about to leave again, restless to wander while she stews contentedly in suburbia, breathing in a fateful and constant concrete, only half listening because she catches sight of a man on a balcony and trails off to stale thoughts and imagined with him there would be the final reduction of the fatal rush and the pleasure of letting the unknown melt in slate irises, gold-flared in the midday sun, a faithful and eternal reflection of unending sand and flawless sky.

now they suffer the musicless hum of the 405 together and she is reminded they have always been imaginary. you might be remembered best if you finished here violently and grandly and young because continuity threatens to be the most inglorious concession.

Goodbye

Exasperated, she is baffled

The earth keeps spinning

Even as she wanes and unravels, shriveling in her transient prison

She fears in time she will not remember if he was hers or

If she created this love in her sleep, out of lonely lunacy

The years promise to bleed and dissolve them with a flash of betrayal

When she sees him again, he will have a another reality

And she may be only a strange shadow to him

Merely a melancholy imprint, a colorless melody from a previous life

So she leans into his ear to whisper

When the world has ended, just know that I was here

Gathering yellow roses for you

Humming songs for our afterlife

I existed beneath the ash and sand and stone

I was lying here in my pink bed writing love letters to you, way above in the clouds.

Daydream

i daydream about waking up in his apartment between cocoon sheets and quietly folded dreams of the faded night before

and padding down the hallway on his pine wood floors in the morning as a crisp reminder of reality

but he never calls me so

let us stare mindlessly at the yellow roses by the mailbox together until this song runs out

we’ll pick up guitars and play until i am ready for coffee highs and long days

we’ll make our own viscous, blurring nights with liquid destruction in our hands

you can have all my secret fascinations and my immutable kingdom

as long as we can spend all summer on the cafe patio

with old men

cigarettes

and iced tea

Walking

she worked daily to make him but a smear in her thoughts

when she is drinking iced tea

he appears on the patio sometimes, softened by sunlight and appearing innocuous

when the night air is falling and rippling around her vague intent to conquer and

the Los Angeles concrete is fluid, snaking brightly in the dark

her steps are flight and he is not even a stain on her immediacy

only a crimson shadow in her kingdom of vanity, if he is there at all

but in her sleep

she fears he is the colour of her blood.

Alcohol

chasteness chastity celibacy abstinence virtuous reserved

whore

she caught sight of herself in the mirror, presiding over vomit-laced sinks and

briefly searches for the terrible fish in the reaches of the silver pool but is relieved

the bathroom god is merciful when the time pulses slowly, the air moves like waves

he said you smell like cigarettes and boys, what a primitive existence, base and typical

just as you feared

let me live thin during the nights, if it pleases me

on her thigh she notices a bruise, eggplant-coloured and temporary

an accident like Tuesday and his slate-blue eyes

she hates the thickness of heat and how skins cling in damp numbness

these close textures, constant intrusions remind her

she has resigned herself to chasing her second fall

The Beach

June 27, 2004 sober for 7 days I was lucid and smug

The sand told tales of tan lines, gold and shade taking turns on bodies resting on graininess

In the city with the highest concentration of fake beautiful people second only to Hollywood

Smooth young skins vie for afternoon bronze with books in hand, then dance in the garrulous waves

This is the glory and the glow

Their mothers, ghostly creators, are broken with leather and haunted by crows, purposeless, but

Can find solace in plastic salvation on every corner in this neighborhood

She tells me we are more than halfway dead and I believe her

I cannot help but think our friend who will be a man and a doctor, has more time

A lifeguard angrily shouts to us that no dogs are allowed