rigadoon

Crazy times, kids. New Orleans is intoxicating this time of year. Southern Decadance just passed and my (new) 2nd job was directly on the parade route. Caught a secondline the other day... only in the Big Easy. Even though I'm working my ass off working a day and night job 6 days a week, I'm feeling better. I think by the end of September I should have enough money saved to get my own place around the Quarter. My car is being a huge piece of shit, so I think I'm gonna buy a bike. My friend, Miah, has this badass purple, plush seated one and I want it. My Mom's coming to the city in 2 weeks and I cannot wait. Right after she leaves, I may be going to Chicago with a friend for a big Jungle show. Fuckin right. Halloween's coming up and I could not be more excited. I think I'm gonna be a Ringmaster (again, new city, though) at work and then have some sort of body paint/ latex thing goin on. Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice. Also, most importantly, the 21st b-day is encroaching. Less than 2 months. I'm bringing the party, bitches. You ain't know.


So... poem I wrote the day... Ta-da:

In the morning paper,
anonymous mystics rearrange the stars,
no longer pointing north or south,
they now prompt,
"Say yes."
I have sat and read the sky on nights you were away,
but it is always dark and deep and my eyes have grown accustomed to reading your face
and are reluctant to change.
I am not moved by the changes in the sky
or pinpoints of light a million miles away.
If, in truth, the answer is "yes,"
where will I uncover the question?
The paper reveals nothing further,
and having been born from a wave,
I know my ocean to be preoccupied with questions all her own.
So, when I wade into her palm, I close my eyes,
stretch out my arms,
and swim north.



Uno mas:

I turn you over in my palm,
like a coin.
You shake your hair at me,
do a two-step and wedge yourself
between the middle and index fingers,
never in the mood for sweet talk.
I try to tell you I just wanted to look,
read the green veins behind your temple,
but when I open my hand,
you are gone and I'm left to search the sheets for a strand of dark, knotted hair,
an eyelash or spit.