pray about it

 

lets talk about the weather

The weather is bipolar,  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 flat lands, 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.

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 

 

d

r

i

p 

 

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

again

keep your feet dry

your car is cold
blinking lights blur, bleed
tongue slippery
in drink

my chapped lips betray
fettered words,
released

sliding, slipping out
collecting, like a puddle
at your feet

_____

the watery light seeps
though the blinds
at dawn

finds them knotted,
twisted
tethered back inside,
where they belong


(you stepped over the puddle, anyway)

chance encounter, somewhat planned

called her mom with her lips, not with her eyes

not such a prude, after all

silent rush of movement

an agreement

only takes two nods

and a batting of lashes

you met me there

and i didn't have to ask

or answer

in the grainy dawn

fingers bruised from the cold,

hushed walk,

at four

in the morning

left your sheets,

warm

blending

double shower head

slippery, slick arms
pull me from behind
whispered, thick words
drown
in my ear

his urgency burns
my skin,
suffocates the air

but all i can think about
is the soap
burning in my eye

and the water, getting cold

waiting

the problem lay
in the lack of trees

it’s airless here,

no ebullient fireflies

only stale words-

wasted vagaries

the fuck is the point

in a blistering breeze?

no dry limbs to caress

no broken bones, skinned knees

 

so still, it sits

con-tem-pla-ting
longing for movement
from you?
or me?

pale bruised light in the sky
aujourd' hui


This life is so short. Yet, still, we wait.

au +‎ jour +‎ de +‎ hui; since hui comes from Latin hodie, the phrase literally means "on the day of this day".

sick day

Little dude has strep throat, so he spent the day in bed with movies and Gatorade. I spent the day on my couch pretending to grade papers and do lesson plans. I am extremely lazy.

That is all.

it's okay, this time (and the next, and the next)

long sleeves and dark glasses


insistent drops

pregnant splashes

on the windshield

she’ll sit here all night

green glow from the dash

bathing her

desolate voices from the radio

butter on the bruises

like ice, but warmer

the keys don’t really matter
maybe some other time,
some other night

(what if she stays?)

being right

Funny kid shit

Caden is a generally hilarious child. He is far too sarcastic for his own good and quite a little ham. He dances around the house in his underwear and usually has no shame. When he’s around people he’s comfortable with, that is. Around strangers, he hides behind me. Which is  exactly like me.  He is so much like me in personality, which I’m grateful for, because look-wise, he’s exactly like his dad.

Funny things he’s said in the last couple of days:

Child: Mom?

Me: What, kid?

Child: I want to get addicted to something so I can find out what withdrawal feels like.

 What the fuck? I have no idea where he gets this stuff.

The other day, he also nonchalantly told me that he couldn’t wait to go to college so he can eat donuts whenever he wants.

 I do not dance around the house in my underwear.

It's just a little bump, no big deal.

The school nurse called me today, and reported that child has a little bump on his head, from having a head on collision with another kiddo. He’s pretty dramatic about, well, anything, so I take his “injuries”with a grain of salt. I was all, he’s fine, he can stay at school.

This is what he looked like when he got over to my classroom this afternoon:

 

 

I was all, what the hell, hello concussion?

 

 

So this is what he looks like now. He's all tucked away with Bobs, (the tiger), his books, and an ice pack. I gave him tylenol, but I have a feeling it's going to be a rough night.  

 

I win.

I have to take amusement where and when I can get it, these days.

There was a small fire on our campus this morning.  Students were evacuated....annnnnd fire trucks went to the wrong campus. Ha.  The first half of my morning was spent rounding up hyper students and trying to keep them quiet and docile in the football stands. At least it was in the upper 60's. It was almost balmy outside;  the air was thick and heavy with the promise of rain. The day is basically awash; too much excitement for middle school kids and they can't focus the rest of the day.

Caden was grounded all weekend. He wrote in permanent marker, all over his piano, "I HATE THIRTY MINUTES" and "I DON'T WANT TO DO THIS" while he was supposed to be practicing. Little shit. He asked me for a year to take piano before I let him do it. I told him if he wants to quit, he has to tell his piano teacher himself....which he will never do, so I win.

let's go, yo

Going through old boxes, throwing stuff away and packing things for my upcoming move and found this. I wrote this many years ago, when I was a sad, moody gal. The painting in the first part is called "The Blue Nude" and it was painted by Picasso in the early 1900's. It captured my mood then, and sometimes, it captures my mood, now. I have a print on my wall; it's one of the few things I own that made the cut and gets to accompany me on my move. I would love to see the original. I wonder where it is.

coward

Babies are gross.

A coworker is having a baby. I don't know her that well, but I went ahead and signed the card.

Fuckin' ninjas

Been dealing with interesting stuff in my life, lately. This is my last year teaching in this shit hole of a town. I feel like I've had writer's block the entire 4 years I've been here. I've come to the conclusion that you can't be creative and surround yourself with uncreative. Places and people. I've had a few months of self discovery, once I decided that enough was enough, and I'm excited about the possibilities. I've been writing a great deal the last few weeks, tweaking old shit, writing new shit. I dunno why I have no problem writing the words, but when it comes to extracting them from my mouth, I damn near have a panic attack. I have a hard time expressing myself in person, or when I need to. I have an off switch and I'm real quick to flip it when I feel like I'm about to be cornered or if someone is about to be emotionally needy. I can't handle that shit. I barely handle it with my adorable midget.

I'm still trying to figure out where our home is going to be, or even, if I know where it is, (Seattle?) am I ready to be home yet? This world is teeming with endless possibilities, and there are so many people to see, places to go, and stories to write. I have such a crush on that rainy town; will my crush falter once I'm there everyday? Is it like relationships? You have to learn to make it work? Do I really want to ruin the magic?

I have an interview for a teaching position in Uganda today. I told myself I would say no to any positions in Africa, but the more I dwell on it, the more exciting it seems.  You can do anything for a year, right?

Something's different, I think.

Tales from the Laundromat

gray machines
from the 70’s, i’m sure
moaning, spitting

sit on top
as my clothes swirl and bubble
legs hang over
toe-nail polish is chipped,
faded like the paint on my old car

an old lady is here
folds of skin tumble down her arms
like an avalanche
eyes down,
she mutters
to no one in particular

wonder where she came from

a black man comes in

asks me if i want to dance-
says the leaves are carpeting central park
and it’s prime time for lovin'

two girls kiss at the coin machine
their tongues unabashedly doing
some ancient indian tribal dance

wonder if their mothers know

gaze out the filmy window

and see her

all legs, red lips
climb into an 86’ crumbling volkswagen 

breath catches, but only for a second

i’m not even surprised.

i wonder if she knows that his wife knows?

they drive away in my old-rusted car
i toss in another dryer sheet
i’d rather buy nail-polish than paint, anyway


So I wrote this about a woman who, like me, likes to watch, and observe, but doesn't really feel comfortable participating. She is at the laundromat, doing her thing, and spies her husband cheating on her. I'm not happy with the last stanza though; sometimes, people don't "get" it, so I need to clear it up. Consider this the unedited version. Will come back to it, later.

move on

Seattle

Those arms

snow day

Beginning again without ending is hard when you’re not sure where the beginning is. Becoming something again is hard when you’re not sure what you’re becoming. Or what you’re leaving behind. Loving again is impossible when ice drips where scarlet is meant to run. It’s easy to fuck things up, when that’s all you’ve ever done.  

Regards to Montego Bay

cheap rum
flows freely and blends
with cool, twilight laughter
sun fades
air’s balmy and
thick with humidity
warm hues paints their flushed faces
they tip their glasses,tongues search for that last
icy, beaded droplet 
of tangy sweetness

highway lure

the decision to leave wasn't made by me.

it was made by this skinny,

sickly girl,

slouched on her parents' crumbling back porch

smoking half a cigerette

watching an ant crawl across her toe

she thought of him and her breath stopped.

it seemed

she could only breathe when she smoked
and didn't think of him.

so she smoked and didn't think of him.

until she was lying in a dorm room,

somewhere in denver,

face pressed against the pane,

oblivious to the chill

against feverish cheeks

it was snowing as she drifted

memories lacing her dreams 

weak strains of filtered, gray dawn brought no peace.

but the highway did,

stretching, reaching 

beckoning

Night Queen

crimson lips glisten
lids are painted shades of silver
searching the streets for dinner tonight
neon lights make her blond hair blue and red
patriotic, almost

puddles of oil and grease beside the cracked corner
where she stands,
waiting for the iron smile of the perfect man.
sucking on smoke to pass time,
tendrils wafting up, settling into well
weathered cracks
she painstakingly covers with chalky paste

she checks again in the splintered glass

and smears on more
she knows tonight is the night.
she will send him to his knees, begging,
and she will be his queen.

night slows down
she stands, staring into blinking
lights of the dying town.
last one lefts, counts to a hundred one more time,
the victim of another wretched song.

she turns on her highest heel and slips away,
shielding her face from the coming dawn

over the Mississippi

in 1983

we drove all night

our lumbering van puffed and heaved

much like my grandmother’s smoker’s cough

my father,

hands at 2 and 10

eyes slit, intent upon the road

my mother,

slumped against the window,

lights painted her doughy face

harsh red, oranges 

huddled in the back,

nose pressed against cold glass,

we paused at the light, and

I desperately stared into a polished window,

those perfect girls,

pink leotards,

swirled, stretched

slim, young mothers

sat against the smooth yellow wall

cringed, winced with each jump, leap

 

light changed and I watched,

until it was nothing but a speck

and even then, I strained,

tried to make it still there 

my father swerved to miss

smashing into a tattered rag-clad thing- person

hunkered down, wolfing the remains

from a discarded mcdonald's bag

his worldy possessions tumbled together

into a safeway cart

“Bastard”, he muttered

woke my mother, who in turn,

shook out another cigarette,

blew smoke in his face

then we crossed the Mississippi,

lights on the bridge diamonds

to my six-year old brain

I was rich in that moment,

the swollen river surging beneath me

reflecting tiny sparkles 

I was wearing a leotard,

and I was dancing

 

and my mother and father,

they were dancing, too