Friday, April 26, 2013

the bay

contemplate my toes,
nails painted moonbeam black (are beams black?)
and the tops of my feet,
sunburned, smeared
with aloe grease,
and bits of sand,
grainy against raw skin.
laughter floats up,
answering voice is low,
somber, in drink

soured reek of seaweed,  
cloying in this heat
languishes in the twilight
and my damp,
salt soaked hair
sticks to the side
of my flushed cheeks
idly, i sip  
from a plastic
dixie cup
swish sweet white wine
through my teeth 

air conditioner,
rusted red, time- worn
blows, stale and chilly
hum muffled
by a clouded,
sliding glass door

weak strains
from the clock radio
Otis Redding sighs
in my ear
        I’ve been……. loooving you,
            for soo looong now
shamelessly bleeds
into the lull of the surf,
briny against the craggy,
jagged shore
muted mourning
of the sea gulls
wrenches me
from the inside out
devastatingly beautiful
in its gritty allure

In the summer, I take Caden to the gulf. Galveston Bay. Usually, it’s just the two of us. It’s one of my favorite places to go. I do realize it’s the redheaded stepchild of the beaches, but there’s something so enchanting , so alluring about its grit. The mess of seaweed, twisted, bunched on the beach. The ramshackle, salted wooden houses, wasting away- their ratty, threadbare curtains, a placid, slight movement in the dark windows. There are so many stories to be found, it seems, down each crumbling, broken road,  and each will eventually lead you down to the coarse, rocky beach. We stay at the Commodore. It’s old. Cheap. Brick walls. Faintly stained curtains. Sliding glass doors that don’t latch all the way, so a layer of salt coats the mirrors. I adore that hotel, because every room faces the ocean, and every room has a story.  At night, after little dude falls asleep, buried, underneath sheer sheets, sweaty hands clutched around his worn, cotton stuffed tiger, I step out on the balcony, plant my ass down in the plastic lawn chair, and just breathe.  And think.


Tuesday, April 16, 2013

lets talk about the weather

The weather is bipolar, quite like me, as of late. I’ll drift off, in shorts and a wisp of a tank top, my book, cast aside, sometimes dropping onto my chest, sometimes onto the worn, wooden floor,  the ceiling fan lazily rousing  the humid air, clammy against my warm skin, hair still damp from the shower.  Yet, I’ll wake with goose bumps on my pale, freckled legs, tangled in the sheets, as I apparently tried to pull them tightly around in sleep, against the chill of the early hours.
I wake up at about 3,  every morning. I don’t know why. It’s automatic. My house is old and timeworn; I live in the Texas flatlands, where the winds constantly offend. The sinewy bushes against my windows scrape, back and forth, nails on a chalkboard.  My wind chimes, outside, which sound so charming in the milky light of day, are haunting. I can hear my german shepherd, Sadie Mae, moving around the house, restless. My little one, snoring softy, next to me, sometimes incoherent words, sighs, escaping his dream world, slipping through his sweet lips.

I’ll lay there, in the dark, with my thoughts. Sometimes, I’ll scroll through instagram, though most of my ig friends are on my time, and usually asleep.  But mostly, I just think. I don’t even realize I’ve fallen back asleep until my alarm pulls me back into the world of the living, muted pink hues spreading up the walls, a blush, pushing the shadows away.
In a few months, I’ll be falling asleep in a different bed, in a different city, with different lights casting different shadows around my room. I wonder if I’ll still wake at 3 am.


I’ve some new stuff to put on here, but I have to take some pictures to go with, first. Stay tuned.

Friday, April 5, 2013

watching her melt

-for haley-
he settles in beside her
tucks a wisp of her hair
behind her torn ear
shredded by his prose
splintered letters, words,  pieces
coalesce with wax and blood 
down sallow, freckled cheeks 

he turns her upside down
and holds her, until her face is aflame
observes the wax and blood gather
into a delicate,
heart-shaped mold 

hands, stuffed in his pocket,
he strokes his interminable
supply of matches,
lights the wick
and lets it burn down 

to the quick