The arc of the sun leaves a parabola of yellow light against the lapis lazuli pool. We are the beautiful creatures of Los Angeles, sunning ourselves in lounge chairs like lizards on rocks. In the morning I eat Frosted Mini Wheat and drink green tea. At night I run six miles on a treadmill and watch Headline News on elevated televisions. My life is a series of highs and lows and my soul is the buoy going up and down on the waves.
I don’t listen to the radio in my car. I haven’t in over 8 years. I can’t imagine why anyone would. To not be able to chose the exact song, at the exact moment, that you want to hear it strikes me as primitive, barbaric even. Am I that spoiled? I used to think I wouldn’t ever want a nice car, nor need one, that a simple Civic or Subaru would always do no matter how successful I became in life. I still haven’t “made it” but I’m thinking of upgrading my car to something that has leather seats and a quiet, powerful air conditioner anyway. I am that spoiled, I guess.
The way light infiltrates the glen and dappled the creek gives me the aching feeling that if there is something this beautiful in the world than maybe there is hope for us afterall. I realize that Love is found in the deflated balloon hanging upside down from the powerline. Do you write your secrets down somewhere? Or keep them with you in your chest and when you breathe they move up and down with your lungs?
I am an animal: neither lion nor shark. Nor rodent or weasel. Just something plain, ordinary, in the middle. I am a housecat purring in your lap.
Staple my diary pages to my grocery list and drop it off in the mailbox. Leave no return address and see if the peeping toms come peering into my window.
You are lauded throughout the neverworld for your ability to stay invisible. Your heart barely beats and your blood stagnates into pools underneath your pallid skin. Your fealty to the ghost makes me hypnagogic. The gelid room turns to complete ice when you enter. You who brings all woe to the glen.
I recently saw a poll of Republicans that revealed that 24% of them actually believe our president is the “antichrist”. It troubles me what element of our society is starting to crawl out from under the rocks and emerge from the shadows. FOX “News” is doing its best to rake the bottom of every squalid and putrid pond to jar loose the fatuous fuddy-duddies that believe Obama is the devil. Fuck, it bothers me that a quarter of all Republicans actually believe in Beelzebub period, much less who they’ve deemed to be the horned-one himself. People should start to use their own brains instead of regurgitating Glen Beck’s drivel.
What is it about a Democrat that causes racists and fear-mongers to bunch their panties and start hooting and hollering like Yosemite Sam, firing their pistols in the air and cussing about imaginary boogeymen? I fear another Oklahoma City bombing with the way the Right-Wing media (and coo-coos like Sarah Palin) are inciting the fanatics with their ridiculous rhetoric about socialism and the ‘death of America’. Once and for all, you flibbertigibbets, Obama was born in America, is not a Muslim, and is not the antichrist, for chrissakes!
It’s lunchtime and I’m tired of thinking about Republicans and their hatred for my beliefs and our president. I’m going to chase down a food truck and enjoy the sunshine. It’s a beautiful Southern Californian day with intermittent clouds floating languidly over a swimming pool blue sky. Life is there for the grabbing and my hands are restless.
Do you ever hum in elevators, only to stop when the doors open and you suddenly see someone there? I once was freestyling and when the doors opened there was a lady smiling and she told me, “I’d give you a record contract.” She must have been lying. NOBODY would give me a record contract. Not if you heard my raps.
The world’s a wrecking ball/
My lover’s on a collect call/
from the shopping mall/
My heart’s on two demerols/
I owe money/
on the money I owe/
I want to go somewhere/
but I don’t know/
which way to go/
and so I won’t…
When I get drunk I like to interrogate people. I ask them, “When you were 16 did ever dream about being in love at 26? And at 36 do you see yourself on a sailboat somewhere? Sipping tea? At 46 do you want to watch your kids playing on a tire swing? On the porch with the sun setting behind tall oak trees? And at 66, do you want to fall asleep in a hammock with me? The breeze our only appointment?”
I went to Mt. Rushmore but stayed in the parking lot. I could see the presidents’ faces from there. I wasn’t impressed although intellectually I know it’s impressive to make such grand art from dynamite. I was more interested in the Black Hills and the pattern pine cones scattered at the base of a tree make. I wondered if Custer’s ghosts roams through there on horseback, and if I slept for a thousand years would the Badlands still resemble some foreign planet’s nightmare?
This tiny heart is a sparrow, and I’m the king of it. Let the beach bonfires blaze all night, we can dance around in the sand holding hands. If you’re going away, all I ask is that you tell me where and send a postcard when you get there. We watch the planets and stars fade away and slip into dawn, sipping alcohol from coconut shells.
This is the life we dreamt of when we were young, imagining the heavens as a canvas and our hearts as paint. And now it’s here.
If you got the time, come along and dream of another life with me.