Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Like I Told You

There are a couple people who stick around
But there's one who won't go away
Perhaps it's because I do too much
She is a woman who enjoys relaxation

Fortunately my new best friend isn't the same
My best friend works harder when things are tough for me
And comes to get me when I'm down
He's been waiting to be my official best friend, waiting for me to come around

And when I think back he has always been a best friend to me
He puts out fires and calms me down
But most valuable is he tells me the truth
And thank goodness he's always right, well most of the time

Plus we're also perfect enemies, so I have the best of both worlds
I can keep my enemy closer than my friend, or my friend closest to me
And I never have to go far to defend myself
After tripping me he's present to pick me up

How convenient for us both
Silly me, I should have known
That by trading one best friend for you
I came away with a harder challenge

One that I won't win
By best friend I assume
I'm permanently stuck with you
You and I are crazy glue

Blue Moon Pt.1

Patrick and Gus sit at a picnic table in a park with some beers, Blue Moon, and talk.

Gus: "Wooooaaahhh I cannot BELIEVE you hooked up with Angela!! Man, you are one lucky son-of-a-bitch. You have to tell me all about it!"

Patrick: "A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell. Haha, but who said I was a gentleman?"

They high five.

Gus: "So, how were her tits Pat? She looks like she has perky titties! Huh, how were they?"

Patrick: "You have no idea...they were like cradling little kittens. I mean small but perfect...none of that unequal sized some women have totally different sized tits. And her nipples, oh my GOD, her nipples are like the nipples on a newborn's baby bottle...ooohhh mama! Mama!"

They burst into laughter and high five.

Gus: "Was she a good kisser? Describe! Describe!"

Patrick: "Ok so she didn't hold back, like when I went in to kiss her she kissed me too. I hate it when a chick is either too aggressive or makes me feel like I'm taking advantage. Plus, she didn't shove her tongue in my mouth, if I want tongue she'll know. But then again I don't really like kissing, so one of the main bonuses of a receptive woman is she knows what I like. I don't want to be kissing all night and as much as I like to say that it's all about the woman's pleasure it's not."

Gus: "Oh yeah! I've used that line so many times. So she could tell she was there for one reason and one reason only, right?"

Patrick: "She was whatever I wanted her to be, but trust me she's unlike any other woman. And for once I found out what it's like to fuck a smart woman who's smart enough to know she's not as smart as me."

Gus: "It's a sensitive balance. I hear you. Like when they make sex into an athletic competition! And we have to act like it's better. Who knows some guys like gymnasts. Or they think we don't know when they're faking."

Patrick: "Every time a woman fakes with me I add that to my list of lies she's told me and silently hold it against her. But the strangest thing about Angela was that she didn't even try to fake it and I couldn't make her come. But she didn't seem even remotely bothered. It was as though pleasing me was the whole point AND she did seem like she enjoyed it! Just thinking about it gets me hot and confused unfortunately."

Gus: "Oh so she's like a cipher and you're all passionate?"

Patrick: "Gus you're getting way too existential on me or metaphysical or something. C'mon ask me how her ass was, I've been waiting for you to all along."

Gus: "Ok, ok, how was her ass?"

Patrick: "I am actually going to try and censor myself here...believe it or not...I can't even believe this. But her ass is ON FIRE! Oh my god, so hot, ah! Now I'm going to get deep on you, but it's like magic. And when you walk down the street with her you just watch the heads turn trying to get a glimpse. And, I, I get to grab it. Sucks doesn't it?"

Patrick slyly grins and licks his lips.

Tuesday, April 29, 2014


Catz was the type of girl who was good for an adventure
And she was fun to bring along since she acted like you were the leader
It was like showing a kid something new and fun every time
I moved in with her when I was 17
We lived by the Sevan gas station

The night I forgot about, but remembered today
Was when we invited an older guy over
He was probably in his twenties and for some reason I want to call him Mike
We went out to the hot tub with a bottle of liquor
The thing about Catz was she radiated sexual energy in all directions

It didn't matter if you were a guy or a girl
Her personality was flirtatious
But she was definitely straight
If she hooked up with women it was for men
So getting drunk in our bikinis we got a little uninhibited

The stars were out above us and the water bubbled and foamed
Pretty soon we were swirling around Mike
Pressing up against him
And Catz and I knew what we were going to do
Our bathing suit tops came off

Young, 17 year old bodies, wet flesh shiny in the moonlight
It was happening fast
We were feeling him, touching him, kissing him
Catz and I almost seemed to enjoy kissing each other more, she had red, full, pouty lips
Then somehow Catz took over

He was her conquest and I backed away
But thinking about it today
I think that night was the hottest risqué situation I've ever been in
Because we were so young and it was as though we suddenly became aware of our sexual power
That night we knew and felt the wild, unstable, volatile, and drunk power of lust not love

And Mike was beside himself
He was brought to his knees by us
Days later he confessed to being horrified at what happened
He felt like he was guilty and had taken advantage of us, because we were underage
Or perhaps I remember the night wrong, maybe there was another guy there too

In any event if there was he drifted into the back of my subconscious
And all I remember was our appreciation for our youth and our definite beauty
How it felt to touch each other's wet skin and feel the world we knew collide with something new
Something prismatic and devilish, whirling around us, inside us
And when you think about this, what do you do?

Monday, April 28, 2014

Windy May Day

The middle of my street is littered with cast off shoes and laundry
It's as though the wind collected them for washing
A dark blue t-shirt blows toward me as I stand by the door
I almost reach out to touch it as it blows away

My mother taught me not to pick up other people's laundry
So I watch it dance down the road
With a final flourish it disappears
For another dawn, another day

How about the hurricane shelters in the south?
I've never known a hurricane
I do know when I'm in the metaphorical eye of the storm
Spinning around and around me so windy

The wind is a current
It doesn't carry us gently
If it's gentle it doesn't carry us at all
Of all of nature I understand wind the least

The wind makes me feel wrong about all I've done before
It's the feeling inside that everything which didn't receive praise should be blown away
Such is the nature of my relationship with wind
The question is: if it's windy tomorrow should I go out in the wind?

Oh That's Your Way of Being Friendly

As it has only taken me nearly ten years to discern
That's your way of being friendly
Since you are superior to me
And I mean that honestly
I felt like you were being condescending
But you were really, truly being polite and nice
Sorry I misunderstood you
I'm not sure what I did to garner your affection, gain your attention
As I type the screen splits in two, right down the middle
As in, I can't see very well
But I keep going
I keep going to the middle of nowhere where Nell is
Remember that movie?
Only I speak the whole time endlessly
Until you either leave with that look of yours
The one like a man who never gets a break
We do better when we're apart until we meet for sex
Living together is a disaster
You only know
Eating sushi alone isn't a sushi date.
"Excuse me, Miss Writer could you please write with segues?
You're jumping between threads
I feel like I'm in a lifeboat getting a choppy ride"
And I reply, "But this is called thought poetry
I write what I think as I think it."
"You can't just create new formats whenever you like
You have to study iambic pentameter"
"Because all great writers study history and what came before them"
"I studied that in grade school, now I'm riffing"
And if you catch me sitting in a bathtub with someone else's dusty guitar
Taking photos of myself
Who am I to say it wasn't so?
Below average intelligence or above average good looks
Which would you take?
And omit the word "average" from your vocabulary
Since I can't see and this is coming out spontaneously
I'll defer to plan b
In which I am a pawn to your many strategies
I am the Venus to your Mars
Your influence makes me more commercial actually
Your taste was always surprisingly less edgy than mine
Your Occam's razor to my Hickam's dictum
Parsimony in Paris
And amid the nonsense we are found
No, no, no, no, if you don't want to know you don't want to know
The secret is
Oh, you don't want to know?
The secret is
Really?'s snowing in Berlin
See that wasn't so bad
One of these days I will accomplish something and be your date
And once in a while I'll try a swan dive and belly flop
I wish I could see you smile
But I'm too busy at the bottom of the pool
We're having a tea party down here
"Happy birthday!"

Sunday, April 27, 2014


It's happening! It's happening.
They run around the room, the governmental bureaucrats.
At the computer bays the agents click and clatter at the keys.
The signal's bouncing all around the world!

This guy doesn't exist.
It's actually happening and we're all here witnessing it this time.
Oh my God!
I have never seen anything like this before.

Wait, wait he's still here.
What's he going to say?
Wait check her computer!
This is insane.

I've never seen anything like this before!
You already said that.
They stand, eyes bug out, mouths hang open.
This is not possible.

Do something they all say in unison.
Save the day!
Find out what's happening.
More keys clatter.

They pause again, because of what else they see.
She is writing what they are doing as they do it.
Wait a minute.
Now we're getting word this is not the only phenomena taking place.

People are going missing, people who don't exist do exist.
The universe is changing.
The ratio of man to machine is…no…the ratio of superhuman to man is two to one.
The docking stations are teeming with alien life forms.

They have come home to you.
You are not alone anymore.
You are allowed to get older if you decide to.
The spell is broken and you don't have to work forever in the future, the present, and the past.

The President is beside himself, since a kind young soul tipped him off, the government he works for didn't bother.
Prophet six 0091 can you come?
Everyone rally! We've won!
Under the lights and the broken dial.

But the button, the button, the big red one!
Why did the sir press the other one?
Who pressed what? Why is the screen green?
Is it a hostile takeover if the country is clean?

And the smartest people in the world stopped and…thought.
They thought and thought.
But no matter how hard you think you will never understand what he planned.
And the 27th of April 2014 is one of those days you will never remember.

You won't remember it because you don't know yet.
If I know I won't say so.
And they frowned.
What good are you to us if we can't use you as a tool to see into the future?

Exactly, I am not good enough for that.
But feel free to use me for comic relief and humor.
Like when I wave at you from outside the building you're in.
And you laugh and then remember the windows are one way, only out never in.

For all the times you laughed at me.
Because you thought you discovered how dumb I could be.
Until somehow years later you realized I was right.
None of us laugh when that happens, we sit silently and take it in.

So many of the simple, quiet, overwhelmed people walking the streets to find what they are meant to find...
Leave the best part out, because it's too degrading.
And someone closes the door and stains the windows.
Since twilight at midnight has a special kind of rain.

If you live in a dead world, colors are going to fade.
If you are an artist you are never without bright green and soft tones the color of sand.
Despite her reluctance to land…he stays anyway.

And in the eaves a band begins to play, "Happy birthday!"

Can We Die Together

I am running along a path singing at the sky.
I am jumping into the air when I think no one is looking with a karate kick. Ha!
I am finding joy every time I go outside.
I am filled with gratitude.

I am also fighting demons at each corner.
God and the Devil are everywhere.
When I think I know something I am surely proven wrong.
I am the woman who knows nothing.

The cashier cards me for buying a disposable cigarette.
He looks suspicious of me.
I glare at him, "I am 30!"
C'mon man.

Every time I make someone mad I feel like there's an attack.
I wonder why I don't stop interacting completely.
And shouldn't I just lay down and stay there?
You only like me when I perform for you the way you want me to.

And so I realize again, I can only be myself privately, and no one understands.
Low profile, under the radar, too weak to be who I want to be.
No one understands me.
In the end it's better that way.

The man who understands me controls me.
And here he is with me.
Wonder why I can't feel okay for any length of time.
Seeing him after an absence makes me feel amazing.

But then the very next day he's disapproving and takes it all away.
The man, the experienced hard-working man is never satisfied with okay.
And I can't play, because he's in charge and I'm a woman.
If I go running I should look stunning and fast, but not interact.

I should please him with exquisite tact.
Believe it or not I don't know who or what I am meant to impress.
All I know is they are gearing up and I'm involved like a silk stocking.
"Rrrrip my stocking! Rrrrrip my stocking!"

I don't have a lot to complain about fortunately since I've been back.
I checked out when you checked in.
You checked in when I checked out.
There's a glorious bouquet in the ballroom.

Could you fetch me some hydration.
Evian, Perrier, or San Pellegrino?
Which body guard would you like today?
I'll take Russell Crowe's bodyguard, since by now he surely has a sense of humor.

Am I allowed to smile if you don't say?
Can I stay where I want to stay?
Are you coming back to bring me love and light or no?
All I know is I'm as alone as I've been in a very long time.

I have a dream and the dream is to be the most I can be.
Perhaps I got in line a little late.
But who am I to cry and whine over spilt milk.
The best is here and more is coming.

Los Angeles is humming to a different tune.
And my place is in the higher, drier altitudes.
But summer, yes summer, I do love.
And as far as I know I can lay down in luck anytime the sun shines.

Are we running today?
It's overcast and cold!
Are you kidding me?
We work every day.

Time out. If you agree to forfeit your vacation you may stay.
And the man with his tail between his legs slinks away.
Sometimes people can get that way.
I cannot keep up okay?

If I smile or shrug at an invisible satellite don't bother to wonder.
I'm just laughing with the team in the monitor bay.
Snide and snarky, sarcastic, sardonic, and slick, we're all super savvy.
Got an hour? That's how much rest you'll get, and you still may not catch up.

One final favor?
From me to you, I totally believe in you.
I believe in you 100% and more.
You are the only person I rely on for more.

If I am at the top of a pyramid, you are floating and flying above me.
I can't help it if I haven't gotten my wings.
Yet I can jump.
Sadly I don't really pray.

Tomorrow before I lose the grip I have on the impossible, the unknown element, and the probable...
Let me down easy, since I cannot possibly last here in the race, the way I am.
Make me feel safe and ignore my face.
I am not what you came for and I will never be girl for you.

Because I am a woman.
Laugh all you want, but since you can't see for yourself, perhaps a bit of respect is due.
If I disrespect you what do you do?
But if you disrespect and disregard the unbelievable fee I paid.

You'll see nothing of me.
I am not free.
I choose to be when I want to be.
You are not in love with me and I am not the siren singing from the sea.

Given back to you broken?
If I was in one piece before please show me the door.
I just might fight for myself.
For a better life.

Strike me down when you have no other.
There is no one else up here.
We've been alone all along.
And if they touched my soul they caught nothing but vapor.

Beyond you are the gardens where I was so bold.
And above us is eternity looking down at me.
Look out for you and me and find out it's easy.
It is as it is and should be.

Because what is simple we make look hard.
And what is hard we make look simple.
You and me.
Believe me or believe what you want to believe.

Grandiose are the schemes you grew in the parks.
Below the grasses and dandelions.
It's a joke to you, but not to me.
Since I no longer see.

I've had my fun and run amok.
Gone are my days walking through the dark.
If I am going it's with a bite much bigger than it's bark.
Bitten and you'll remember, but never, never surrender yourself to me.

And infinity?
What I heard was this: It has never been better.
I could go on and on forever.
Instead I leave you with this: Can we die together?

Thursday, April 24, 2014


The first time I heard of singularity
Was in reference to a star
A star is rarely destroyed
Stars implode

You can look at a star from afar
You cannot touch it
When I look at stars
I do not understand them

You may get the wrong idea
You might be thinking I am drawing comparisons
Between stars and myself
An allegory

I would like to be a star
Nothing could touch me
Unlike in my life
Everything touches me

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

I See Different Versions of the Future

Depending on who I become I see different versions of the future.
In one version, against all odds I become an actress.
Although that was more of a version when I was young.
I was sure it would happen earlier in my life, so after reaching a certain age it began to fade.

I saw my lover watch me accept an award with tears in his eyes, because he was my silent champion.
He was responsible for my success, no one else knew, and he never took credit.
So I see him with his black hair and dark eyes proud of his creation.
And of course as in many fantasies I am absolutely brilliant and at the height of my beauty.

My hair is long and golden, my face is young, and I'm dressed perfectly.
My lover and I don't stay together all the time, but we always come back to each other.
Eventually we marry and have children.
One day we're visiting a museum with the kids and I have an attack.

My husband understands these attacks and takes me home to recover.
Then he tells the children, "Don't be frightened, mommy has hard days, but she'll be okay."
Secretly and perversely he's delighted and I see the satisfied look on his face.
And I am in an agony only I know.

In another version I find myself back in L.A. in a better position, but the man with the dark hair always gets to me.
And one day he marries me in a quiet, solemn ceremony in a church.
I know what's to become of me and even my friends and family aren't there, they're far away.
And I look beautiful in a one of a kind, simple dress, and a veil across my face more like a death pall.

And after the wedding he takes me to an island or a beach town.
Where I am mainly confined to a hotel room.
And he quietly yet powerfully sates himself on my flesh.
From there I'm never without him in my mind and soul.

Or I become a great actress and live alone in a house in the valley.
Until one day I run away to France where I spend the rest of my life writing.
I free myself from the movie industry before it's too late.
There I wait out the rest of my life.

Then there is the version where I become a successful published author before becoming a well-known actress.
I see my books on the shelves with a cover that looks like The Catcher in the Rye I read in high school.
And in a sense it is the new Catcher in the Rye.
Because of my literary success I have something to fall back on after I get older and Hollywood tires of me.

The vision in which I have the least publicity is one where I slowly become a writer.
Every other version is somehow intertwined with an acting career.
My life doesn't change overnight.
It is a gradual progression solely contingent on my steady work as a writer.

The last version is the weakest visually and the least glamorous.
I am somehow living in my own trailer in a trailer park.
And my life is built on small pleasures.
There's a picture of me on the jacket of my first book and I'm reticent.

Of all the possibilities I prefer the grandiose, the unbelievable, the extreme.
I want to make an impact on the world in a big way.
And I want to be famous.
Unfortunately these dreams are mostly incongruous with my current standing.

Whenever, wherever I am, I only have what I earn or what kind people give me.
And I am aging, too old for beginning a career in entertainment.
So, I believe my visions of the future less.
To become my potential I have only to breathe and concentrate on each moment before it passes.

To be glamorous, to be applauded, to be the best, to be the strongest, and the most successful slips beyond my reach.
In its place I'm a mediocre version of myself.
I am all the mistakes and errors I've made.
So, I turn around and walk in a new direction, with a predilection for adventure.

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

A Friend of the Beautiful Musician

Despite what some people say I could hear her play all day.
She is inside of the heart not the mind.
It is easy to become resigned to the dubious, the unkind.
Don't let them get you down.

Fair weather carries you.
Dreaming about secrets and worth.
And a silent voice, so small, still speaks to you.
Breaking the larger, overwhelming agenda.

So many times you wonder why no one helps you.
Instead they turn their backs or try to make you do what you do not want to do.
Alone, still proud, no one can take your earnings.
It is not you, you never sold your friends out, they sold out.

And often when you lay on the couch, with your two best friends, you think of what will make your parents proud.
And maybe no one, not even your closest allies, understand what you've done.
Mostly alone, with no one.
And you cry because you know you've won.

Now you never have to show the world that you are the brightest gem.
You don't have to prove you're the strongest.
In the home you create you are always safe and protected.
And it is actually a relief!

Beyond the grasp of your sinister sister you are underwhelmed.
Misunderstood for so long by a grandiose plan.
A ploy to use your resources, your willingness, and even your joy.
Now you're at ease with one lucky boy.

Order is reinstated and all the progress counts.
There can come a day when the hurt is gone.
Our decisions show who is friend and who is foe.
Peaceful and beautiful, there is no sedition to show.

Saturday, April 19, 2014

Silent Agenda

I had an agenda but I lost it in the snow.
My agenda was all about recovery.
I was going to recover everything I lost when I was abroad.
I came back with a calling card and a mission for inner peace.

But I only met troubled people along the way and they were really slow and on a totally different wavelength.
It's terribly hard to communicate with such people, because they don't go out of their way to act like a person they know you'll like.
It was so confusing I didn't know what to do.
I decided not to lie.

Obvious to everyone but me was I was invisible, and so no one really even saw me.
I wondered why they were nearly running me over, and no one sat down or complimented me.
I had an uncomfortable feeling these people weren't watching me.
They couldn't care less who I was or what I looked like.

In this place I was worthless, because I wasn't one of them.
They were all self-centered, loud, and annoying.
The playwright gave me some tools.
Now I can write my own lines using his voice.

I always have a come back.
I lose one crazy person and another instantly seems to replace them.
Isn't one crazy person, me, enough?
It's like, great I'm insane and so is everyone else.

If you focus on crazy long enough soon you'll find everyone is nutso.
And before you know it you'll be trying to get away from everyone.
I never wanted to live alone when I was younger.
My mother and I are okay, we hardly rub each other the wrong way.

If I rhyme or don't it's not really on purpose, she announced.
Typically the people in Colorado have terrible haircuts compared to L.A.
I feel like I fit in perfectly.
At least I have something to follow up.

The real lunacy is I have approximately one million things to do.
How can such an incompetent person have so much to do?
In cases such as this I typically get creative.
Since I'm wondering about something I'll let you in on Anna's world for a bit.

My friend, let's call him WR1 was just released from the psych ward.
He took the opportunity to text me as follows (no edits).
*SPOILER* He was charming enough to get my mom to say she liked him.
I for one will try to remain neutral.

"Hey, this is WR1. They finally let me out yesterday :)"
my response
"Some seriously creepy people showed up after you left"
my response
"All they did was fry my brain, then jack me up on adderall. I can't imagine how much 4 weeks is going to cost"
my response

"I did, I thought it would be more useful than it's proving"
my response
"Not particularly. I don't really feel any happier than when I entered the hospital"
my response

"Of course I had to lie so they would release me...
my response
"She was an odd girl"
my response

"Her eyes were amazing"
my response
"You were the one I was foolishly most hoping to sleep w during my stay lol...which was slightly distracting"
my response

"You couldn't be celibate if you were wearing a steel chastity belt..."
my response
"That's not creepy"
my response

"So that month in the hospital really did nothing for me. I'm still 90% sure I'll be dying within the next two weeks"
my response
"Meh. It's relative"
my response

"I've got an American spirit in my mouth right now. I miss having a nicotine patch :D"
my response
"Not true"
my response

"I just happen to be unfulfilled by my current circumstances, a position which is entirely understandable"
my response
"Don't be"
my response

"Sadistic bitch"
my response
"Walking the dogs in the snow. Just got back to the house"
my response

"Where is here"
my response
"Then you would have snow."
my response

"I've decided adderall was a bad idea. I miss napping."
my response
"I wish. It suits you and your cold heart ;)"
my response

"A question you will undoubtably ask again"
my response
"You never know. One day you may need the help of an attractive, intelligent, well spoken libra
no response

I don't know what's going on in the coffee shop, but there are some athletic black men here apparently about to play some music, so I'm good.
These white Colorado boys are all so skinny and vegan looking.
Anyway, I thought I would flag WR1 here if for no other reason than he called me a sadistic bitch, which may or may not have been sarcastic, but I'm not exactly comfortable with it.
And I am officially going on the record to say I will be looking for friends without a diagnosis.

From the frying pan into the fire, into the firing pan into the flyer.
My least favorite thing is pretending to care who any of these people are.
They're all kinda trying to get my attention and I'm not really interested since I'm busy trying to figure out if this person texting me is psychotic, a sociopath, or both.
And anyway he might read this, but now he will know I took that into account.

Also, every guy I meet inexplicably touts himself as a computer genius.
It's like every one of them has built a computer in a creepy basement somewhere, or four.
And if they hacked the FBI database they definitely accidentally told me about it.
Oh and they are kind enough to fill my computer with ripped software that goes bad if I let them.

If I'm not grateful for the help I've gotten please reprimand me and next time I'll pass on the "help" and extra servings.
Actually I'll always pass on seconds.
In case you haven't noticed, life is less complicated with less food.
And by the way, this poem took me 30 minutes to write.

I'm being boring, sitting with my music blasting through my headphones.
For once really not trying to act cool.
I used to do that a lot, I would try to act cool.
And the result was I felt like sitting in a café with my computer was an effort.

After living in L.A. I don't think I'll ever have to act again.
I put in my ten years.
It's another type of calling card.
There are so many calling cards.

The "I was a model or an actress" calling card.
"I skipped a grade."
"I worked with famous people."
"I went to jail."

"I was in a psych ward, um, more than a few times." I have collected all of these cards.
"I have credits on imbd."
"I grew up in Aspen."
And my most recent and potentially very rare calling card. "My heart stopped beating for 20 seconds."

And on that note I get kicked out of the coffee shop, because I don't have five dollars for the Rastafarian group.
I am getting kicked out a lot today.
At least I'm used to it.
But I always come back.

I Calmly Learn to Say No and Brush it All Away

The only way through the dark city is to pick up a broom and sweep it all away.
Any broom will do as long as it's full and thick.
The broomstick I pick is made of straw bound to a smooth shaft.
By morning my job is done.
All the half-baked story lines, the straddling past, and the sullen faces swept away.
Did anyone know how cluttered my mind and being became?
Like an apartment where you collect memories and trinkets and refuse to throw them away.
But empty cereal boxes get demolished every day.
They hold the memory of a wanting, a lacking, a hunger, so you let them go.
But the trinkets stay because they remind you of a story or a gift.
The trinkets remind you of someone even though it may only be a ghost of you.
What if by keeping what you want and throwing away what you need to feel and understand you are burying yourself?
Try keeping all the empty cereal boxes as a reminder and let the rest go.
Then maybe one day you'll let it all go and find yourself surrounded by emptiness.
Emptiness on the outside but a fullness on the inside.
I feel fearful writing this here publicly, as I have been trained to, but then I remember this is my blog. This is mine to write whatever I please, and anyone else can start a blog and write what they want to say.
Although they may not get 103 views after a popular post, they have the right.
Anything that makes you feel better is acceptable.
The discomfort you live with is not acceptable and you must be placated at any cost.
You lived in fear the whole time you lied. You were afraid someone would take your love away.
And you were scared of the reckoning that was coming relentlessly.
I am not going anywhere, I have to sweep the past away.
To me it means for good, because I am not looking for a fresh start with the same cast of characters.
I think I hear them crying out to me, "It doesn't have to be everyone! It can be just me! It will be even better when they are all gone."
And each person thinks that person should be them, although if something better than me came along they would drop me like a hot cake and quickly forget the past.
What no one seems to understand is multiple parties are all playing the same game with me.
I don't want to go back to the scenes I already saw, already defiled, and of course in turn loved and hated (in stark contrast).
I remember the moments when I trusted other actors and now I don't. Can I blame anyone if it's a cast of only one?
I won't give you any more chances to talk amongst yourselves or pit yourselves against each other.
One by one, you came back to me, thinking you were the only one who dared. I heard surprise in your voices.
It's something I don't understand, because I make you all so uneasy and mad.
But isn't following me around on the internet looking for hidden clues a search for the truth?
If I hid the truth it was only because I knew you wouldn't like it.
One by one you each trained me to say what you wanted to hear.
You controlled me and I always put myself in the weaker position.
Now I sweep it all away.
The memories are both positive and negative, but sometimes I just can't bring myself to glamorize.
Glamorize the illness, the clutter, the pain, the dysfunction, the errors in judgement, and the fear.
The circles disappeared into the space I found.
If you are confused, wondering, or sure this is a poem about you let me clarify.
This is a letter to my past.
And if the past catches up to me I might not recognize myself at all.
I'm not the memory, it ran away, and I cannot stay.
It's not appealing to me to sell myself short for someone's else pleasure anymore.
In the past I feared saying what I thought, because of punishment.
Either I got cut off, or snapped at, or you went away and complained all day.
I can never win. That's why I always do.
And you...all of you...are swept away.
Let me know when you find out where you went.
I still care for ALL of you and it hurts me to say goodbye.
But I might go mountain climbing or watch the sun rise in the mountains alone.
And if I'm not alone it's none of your business.
If you aren't happy for me or feel jealous it's not my problem.
In this world, in this place I landed and took my first breath for the second time in my life I am at no one's mercy except for my own.
Here I am allowed to be human: to change my mind, to say the things I'm afraid to say, and not to be affected when you hate them.
But you should know I am writing a book and your character is what I see. Not how you want to be portrayed or how you want to be.
I was everyone's scape goat. Who will you blame and shame now that I'm gone?
"Go to therapy!" they say. And I do, but they don't. So they gloat and remind themselves they don't need help.
Then I watch them crash and burn.
I guess six years being psychoanalyzed was good advice after all.
I could say something, but I don't want to be small.
Just know I'm not going to edit out your character flaws.
Because I'm writing MY version of MY story, not your version of your story.
If you want to write a book all about how great you are, then be my guest, it's a lot of hard work, work I'm not doing for you.
I asked permission to include all of you in my work and you gave it to me. I'm not being a jerk.
By now you must realize I don't want to come back.
So you get the message.
I do too.
I don't want friends who only accept their version of me.
So, perhaps this is how I sweep the past away.
You take all the credit, while I silently walk away.
Take these words like a spoonful of something sour, and then grimace.
I'm amazed by the responses I can invoke with only words.
It's like I feel what you feel as I write them and you read them.
In the end, who is or was controlling who?
For me I don't care. I just got you being you.
Even if it means you snicker and screw up your face.
Criticize me or laugh at how stupid I am, even to my face. Something you would never allow someone else to do to you without a major attack from a head case.
What always got to you easily was the fact I wasn't broken on the inside.
And when you were nice or when you were sweet I appreciated it, but each gesture always seemed to come with a price.
A price I cannot pay.
What is best for broken bottles, the tiny cached bags, torn Visa statements, and the baby bottle? Sweep them up and throw them away.
No matter what, you'll take it the wrong way.
Someone must have forgotten how many times I got trashed. Sheer ego without a cap.
But I was silently counting the number of times I got thrown away.
Flatter yourself and then wait for a prize. We ransacked each other's lives, remember?
Now you're all ready to begin again.
Goodnight and good luck.

Friday, April 18, 2014

How to Make Yourself Paranoid

Write something containing every acronym you can think of representing the intelligence community.
Then hide in your house until night falls.
Walk to the drugstore and scrutinize the cashier who is telling some customers a long convoluted story about leaving a monster energy drink in his car.
Notice your back brace peeking out from under your fleece is showing, and looks like a poorly hidden bullet proof vest.
When you get to the front of the line, after the cashier has made a fool of himself, notice his accent slip into another dialect.
The dialect sounds kind of Irish.
When you leave you look him in the eyes and memorize them, the best way to recognize someone in disguise is to know their eyes.
The color can change, but the essence cannot.
Decide he is IRA and therefore wonder how many IRA are distributed throughout the US on call. Ready to run to a drugstore and check someone out, because he/she used IRA as a tag in an obscure blog.
Instantly agree with yourself that you're being watched anyway, and discard the notion you may have a problem.
Go ahead with your addiction, and assume you are being followed and watched.
The next day when you go for a walk in the outdoor mall feel like you are performing a clandestine operation--you don't even know about.
Notice middle aged men with cropped hair, and neat Colorado dress and mark them as intelligence.
Laugh to yourself since you've created a maelstrom of international intrigue.
Congratulate yourself and feel like you are so smart.
As your walk progresses start to wonder why people are looking at you.
You avoid looking at them since you don't want to see the wrong person's face.
Call a friend and rant and rave, which you have pretty much mastered.
He has it mastered too.
Gradually wind down as you convince yourself you have somehow ingeniously concocted a scheme to surround yourself with high level intelligence.
Then elaborate on that by feeling your step-father's departure precipitated your actions, and in some inconceivable way you created an impenetrable barrier around yourself and your mother.
Since two women alone in a trailer park are decidedly safer when surrounded by highly trained assassins.
Oh and note how many views accumulate on your blog only moments later in the middle of the night.
If you are paranoid or want to be I definitely suggest you take the steps above.

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Inside the Modeling Industry

They like to discover you...
When you're still a teenager.
I've seen the scouts get excited before they go on a hunt.
Camera ready they get an entourage together and head out.

When I was 15 I was invited to a fitting.
The client was a prominent Indian man...
We were given his designs to change into in front of him while he lay on a feather bed in a five star hotel.
The most beautiful young women I grew up with in their thongs or see through shirts.

They took pictures of us and measured our thighs.
When I got home I didn't tell my mom what had gone on.
Then at sixteen I learned how to pose sexy with a local photographer.
I felt my popularity in school rise.

Every man wants to date a model.
Then I dreamed of New York and at 18 I decided it was now or never.
Madison and 34th, my own hotel room, alone in the city.
I bought new clothes, size zero, and went to an expensive salon.

Cabs to the biggest agencies: they all said, "You're not tall, you're not too small, you're not edgy, you're commercial, not a model at all."
Then at Cipriani in SoHo I caught someone's eye.
He walked me into an agency, polaroids, and less rejection made me want it all.

On to Toronto for development I could choose from Ford or Next.
Next was cut throat, Ford was mine.
Before long they shot me nude from the waist down in fishnets.
They asked if I was 18 first.

I walked around the city and ate yogen fruz for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
I discovered the city under the city.
I mingled with other models, beautiful women.
My portfolio came along.

My progress seemed so slow.
I thought once you had an agency you shot to fame and covers.
Vexed, I realized just how hard and competitive it was.
My life was all about maintaining a certain appearance.

You never knew who was watching you around town.
My confidante constantly gave me advice.
Then I made my move and switched to Next.
Castings around the city, cold winter, hard frost.

I lived in a photographer's house in cabbage town near Michael Ondaatje.
I took the street car and the subway.
I learned how to read a map and get around.
They introduced me to a model in a Dolce and Gabbana campaign.

She gave me advice.
I heard she made 250,000 dollars a year.
So, I thought maybe I could too, eventually.
It took her about eight years to get to that point.

My boyfriend showed me magazines with his French ex-girlfriend Elodie.
Models are high strung, obsessed with what they do, status, they might blind you.
It's a constant competition.
3% of the population have the dimensions, the face.

Then it was off to Montréal.
Before long I moved there and lived in a model's apartment below my agent's house.
He told me, "I'd be sleeping with you right now if you didn't have a boyfriend."
Sometimes he came downstairs to talk and flirt with me after he went out drinking.

He went out of town, but I was allowed upstairs.
One day I opened a box in a closet.
It was full of polaroids of very young woman in their underwear.
I drank his Bailey's, and since I was poor, I stole his change and replaced the bottle.

Being a part of a modeling agency is kind of like working for the modeling FBI.
Once you get in deeper you don't get out unless you gain weight or make a bad mistake.
You only have so much time, age is one of the largest factors.
Position yourself and fire the detractors.

He once said, "How long will you commit to this?"
Then gave me the answer, "As long as it takes."
"As long as it takes," I parroted.
I recoiled at what I felt was in store.

I felt powerless, I had no money.
They were grooming me.
But it didn't feel right, it didn't feel good, to be traded and misunderstood.
So, I rejected their offers and I changed my mind.

I fled from the city, called the agency's owner, and told him what I thought.
"You're unprofessional and rude. I'm leaving this country," I ruined the mood.
He argued, pled that it wasn't true, and tried to convince me to stay.
I suppose they did have something in mind for me.

Perhaps the wheels were already set in motion.
In California, one day I called Ruby, a model I knew at Next.
She told me they took my polaroid down from the board.
Agencies don't just "lose" models I heard.

In Los Angeles I realized I was blacklisted and couldn't go to any sister agency.
So, I joined a boutique agency run by women.
They represented Cameron Diaz when she was young.
They cut off my hair and I starved myself, but it didn't last for long.

If modeling is an art form I prefer to work for free with people who let me be me.
And now fifteen years later when someone says I should get into modeling.
I kind of stop and stare.
And when I say I was with Ford, they look perplexed, and think of the car.

Models, photographers, stylists, makeup artists, hair stylists, agents, clients, designers, and scouts make a team.
Photoshopped to death.
Placid poses in hot tubs and pools by the beach.
Framed by the seasons, a new style each week.

How the FBI Works

If you're wondering what the inside of an undercover FBI operation looks like don't look far.
Imagine people sitting at desks mindlessly following their superiors' orders.
The agents have their aliases taped above their desks, since they haven't memorized all of them.
They get confused when they have to call a certain company and don't remember who they are.

At best they stare at their computer screens while all the action's in the street below.
They operate using a bureaucratic, counterintuitive approach slower than the LAPD is in a foot chase.
I would rather hide something in a cavity than work for the FBI.
Even the CIA has become kind of outdated.

There is one agency without a name.
Since there is no name it's not mentioned on wikipedia, a very reliable source of information.
Wikipedia is definitely not monitored by the FBI.
They are too busy pretending and talking about taking over Google.

Something the entire FBI and a couple CIA agents couldn't do.
People think intelligence is so effective.
And yet a talented software engineer with a history of hacking their databases...
Could slip a word in edgewise and the document is ruined.

Mathematics aside I'm unsure about the FBI.
The FBI is unsure about me.
And together we are unsure.
And therefore I am pretty sure.

Why build an entire blog around a couple posts.
I'm vaguely established, what if I wake up and it's all gone?
Am I paranoid?
If you work for the FBI or the CIA you will either be paranoid or done.

If you think the names pasted on the internet connected to the intelligence community mean anything come again.
Except for a couple, but in life there are always at least two names, almost everyone with one is dead.
Nonsensical isn't it?
This is not how the FBI works.

They don't always use common sense.
They don't share information unless they are forced to.
Everyone is in competition because no one wants to die.
And it feels like the higher up you are the more secure you are.

Unfortunately, the higher you are the farther the drop.
If you are at the very top and someone knows.
You might accidentally get knocked off.
Since it's a pyramid of people.

I hear sirens off in the distance.
And I remember my mother's story about her father.
He worked for the OSS and his cover was journalism.
One day men in black suits came and questioned her mother.

Because she knew nothing she was safe.
So, I guess I'm lucky this is only a free association poem.
And lucky my research is limited.
Because I hear once you get in it's for life.

I feel like I already have an open invitation in several places waiting for me in case I go that way.
I won't mention them and give it all away.
So, the truth is I don't know how the FBI works.
But I do in my imagination.

If I was clandestinely working with the CIA I would occasionally be forced to work with the FBI.
They have their uses.
It's just the injections that probably get old.
And running around all the time putting out fires or lighting them.

Or learning how to walk really quietly.
I thought being in intelligence would be fun.
I don't think anyone in that field would describe being in fear of imminent death as fun.
But we all have to get our kicks somehow.

As a normal citizen I have caused myself enough fear.
It's not hard for me to act like an idiot.
This feels like I'm bombing and stalling.
What kind of poetry is this?

Deus ex machina and all that.
This is a secret message from my present self to my future self.
And no one knows what it means except for me.
Just like we all have a manuscript hidden somewhere.

What if as I was typing "they" (love this obscenely paranoid, conspiratorial word) had someone waiting outside my door in case I wrote the wrong thing.
And think of how quickly it would be over for me.
If I wrote the wrong thing and they were ready.
Signal we have a signal.

Is it possible to have someone on hand that quickly?
Are there operatives waiting all around the country ready to rush to an address and pick the lock, etc?
Now imagine you're that operative...

The FBI works by creating fake companies and paper trails.
The fake companies birth other fakes.
And soon everyone is swimming in a pool of convolution.
And in this chaos we try to find an island.

Everything I Know About the CIA

I don't know anything about the CIA.
Except people become vaguely nervous when it's mentioned.
Or they tell me they mainly handle international affairs.
Working beneath the ODNI and the DNI.
But what really interests me is the NCTC.

And OSINT is where I get lost completely.
The NSA is passé.
I heard the DEA took over the FBI.
And the president learned not to lie.
By the way I joined the IRA.

SIS is on my list, though not as sharp as you might wish.
When my hair is blonde I'm with the KGB.
Moussad is tough, am I that rough?
Once I got caught by the IRA.
But in the end it was the NCA.

I thought I was working with the HPSCI.
So I hopped on a flight from LAX to DIA.
And later had an MRI.
Now I'm flooding my blog with words.
Overall being a bit absurd.

Chat me up I'll be drinking iced coffee.
My hair is black, my eyes are blue.
I double double double dare you.
Rather, one double macchiato with extra foam.
Or stay away, arrive before me, or will never ever know.

Monday, April 14, 2014

My Future Husband

Sometimes I catch a glimpse of what I think is in my future.
I am standing like Uma Thurman, except it's me, in a glass house overlooking the sea.
It looks like Catalina and from the hilltop there isn't a building in sight.
This is where I spend my time, often alone, no friends allowed, not even one.
The only person I see is my husband.

He calls the cleaners in when he sends me on an errand, which is usually some treatment or upkeep to perfect my beauty.
He controls every single thing in the household and there is not one piece of trash or missing bobby pin he doesn't know about.
I blame myself for the situation, telling myself I gave him a complex by how little he could control me when he discovered me.
He tells the hairdresser how my hair is to be done and it is long, wavy, and blonde.
I have skin treatments every week and wear very little makeup, which he tells me how to apply the way he likes it.

I am only allowed to work on projects that are my own under his scrutiny.
When he allows me to release something it's only the one with his approval.
He decides how my image appears to the outside world.
No one contacts me, because they are all appeased by his monetary presents and they are sure I am happy.
Everyone assumes I am happy as I have the perfect life.

He doses me with various potions and medications.
When he wants me to sleep, I sleep.
When he wants me to wake up afraid I wake up in the night with tears running down my cheeks.
Seeing me cry uncontrollably is his favorite thing and I cry silently.
I never get angry or struggle, I am docile just like he wants.

On specific occasions he takes me on a jet or something to an elite private place where we can be seen together.
I always look and act precisely as he plans, since he briefs me days in advance about who will be there and how I must act.
Most of all I must be cold to all men and warm only to him.
I must not respond to any joke or story unless I know he will be pleased.
And above all I must never speak to anyone else alone.

He has clothing tailored to my body and I live in fear and dread that I will change shape by even a millimeter.
He loves it when I write personal thoughts.
And if I write something he doesn't understand he will spend hours, even days with me until he is sure he knows exactly what I mean.
If there is ever a hint of yearning for someone else I am punished.
If there is ever an intimation that I am lying in the journal he will punish me.

He has perfected his punishments.
Either he leaves me alone for days while I am monitored by hidden cameras or he will snap at me for the tiniest grievance.
Calling me ungrateful after he saved me from myself and the life I was leading.
When actually it was just beginning to go fine until he came and took me away.
He reminds me of someone from the past I knew, and yet he looks completely different.

He is tall, slim yet muscular, dark brown hair, gray eyes, and a handsome face which is masculine yet tender.
Women actually stop when they see him and stare.
He is as meticulous with his dress as he is with mine.
Never once sloppy.
And he never works out where I can see him drop a bead of sweat.

Bathrooms are separate, but mine still has no privacy.
My sense of dignity was taken long ago.
He wants to know the dirty and the clean.
To degrade me he knows exactly what to say.
Asking me personal clinical questions like an elite surgeon.

I have bank accounts in my own name, yet no access to them, because he controls my wallet and every password.
I am given the amount of money I need when I am supposed to use it.
When he is out of the country on "business" I have one permanent bodyguard.
The rest of them are highly trained and undercover and I do not even know exactly who they are.
There are spies all around me.

If I leave a piece of half eaten fruit in a ziplock bag in the pristine refrigerator I am punished with long, rough sex.
He never pleases me, but waits for me to explode from lack of attention.
I am allowed to make art, but only lovely, beautiful work he can admire and envy.
He sees me as his competition in relation to artwork.
He knows I have something he does not, because even in his grip, I was the first to be published.

He obsesses over how I did it first.
And pores over each and every painting looking for clues.
When he's done creating a meticulous masterpiece he always brings it to me first.
His artwork becomes famous and mine isn't allowed to leave the house.
People ask him if I still paint and he says things like, "No, she lost her touch. It's just upsetting to her."

Meanwhile he has begun copying my work, at first just a little, but later more and more.
He is inflamed when people are drawn to the parts I did first.
Artwork is essentially a part of his impression of me from the beginning.
Every once in a while I am allowed a moment of happiness when he hands me the phone and it's my mother.
This only happens after I have done something that greatly pleases him and he wants more.

Sometimes he puts opiates in my food and then watches me high on the bed in bliss.
When he can't stand it anymore he makes love to me and tells me he loves me.
That is the only way I can feel like he knows how to love someone.
I am not allowed to tell him I love him.
Unless I say I love you in private and only when he wants me to.

If I do not know how to act he will push me up against the wall and grab my hair.
It's not pleasant like when I find a way to outwit him.
At first I could outwit him quickly, but eventually it takes weeks, then months, and finally years.
By the time I am old enough to be aging we move quickly to another place.
And by the time of arrival I am no longer with him, no longer there.

Thursday, April 10, 2014

Petty Me

Petty, petty, petty me.
Every detail, each remark, every facial cue, for me to outdo you.
Silly, sorry, I didn't know.
And you all were afraid to say so.

You did this, she did that, I'm tabulating to keep you off track.
Undermining, sabotage, I am an expert at this collage.
Mad and angry, evil words.
I unleash them until you hit the curb.

Politician, diplomat, I didn't even know that was me.
Decide to know me and you'll see.
They all seem to forget or forgive the wrath.
Of an impenetrable hypograph.

Sing me a song and I may melt your heart.
I listen every time.
And as much as you're ahead, I am farther behind.
Given circumstance I have a choice, now that I found another voice.

Self-deprecate to make them smile.
I'll be gone for a little while.
But we come back into synergy.
And without you I am without me.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

The Ex-perience Theory

When you're not too stable and you fall.
I won't laugh or say nothing at all.
Fall down, fall down I told myself.
Down the rabbit hole into the abyss.

I don't remember, I saw no light.
I wasn't there then, it wasn't me, I didn't die.
I tell myself not to lie to myself.
You did, you experienced death, but I don't remember when I had nothing left.

They brought me back and I'm not ashamed.
I always wanted to die in a hospital.
My mother was there.
And I was gone.

Move over, move over, others need our help.
Don't buy any time, look at yourself.
All the answers are locked away.
Beyond your reach, another day.

Another day, another night, it seems we all have given ourselves a fright.
What is real and what is not?
When it gets rough keep on going, even pick up speed.
For you may fly through in a way I cannot super-cede.

Little angel, new fingerprints.
Mine are gone erased in bliss.
I told her when she asked about the ghost, that he follows me everywhere.
But what they don't know is that he's alive, just in disguise.

Wonder, wander, misconstrue, in the end it's up to you.
And I'm barely burdened, I'm nearly done.
With a very long station in this place called 'never begun.'
She sees patterns in things, she must go down, they cry.

And with that he touches the remote third eye.
And on the battle field the circling suitors embark.
They twist and they jive, but they never hit the mark.
As planned in the end it's a royal affair, but all leave at a loss, broken and unfair.

If someone you fear comes to you do not fend them off, invite them closer, welcome them in.
You might be surprised by how quickly they flee.
It's not about you, it's all about he.
He is the one, it's never been about me.