I hold him, tight, and
he forgets me. As if I broke
some kind of wicked spell in reverse.

I watch the light go out in his eyes that saw
split infinity, we were once
children chasing rainbows, playing
jacks and catching potato bugs, telling
each other’s secrets, broken blood games,
comic trades and festooned parades.

He is my starlight in a dream,
Sheldon tomorrow.


spinach in my teeth

a blog of 5

where do you go, while I am here?

on the road, on fire, on a wild tear somewhere between
here and out to sea?

I can’t talk. I’m afraid of what I cannot say. Words a cipher, immigrant talk

I would hold you, but you would not go with me
back to when we first began

stealing apples, running into the woods, the old man and his tall tales, the smoke stacks into the gods of nowhere, we counted stars and fireflies, they’ve all since diminished

5 of us now


dream talk

I talk a lot in my dreams. To a variety of people I just met. This last one, I kept trying to get something real out of a man who caught my eye. He let me touch him. There and there. And he felt familiar, in a nice, Welcome Home.

In most of my dreams, I’m definitely a straight female attracted to male energy. A lot of our dreams, I believe, are disaffected, muted, and destroyed by what’s going on inside of our bodies, hormones and allergies, sleep apnea and anxiety.

It’s why I can never eat a croissant without suffering guilt. I’m in a dream!

I have to sort through what feels real, what moves me. What is, not what I wish it to be, because his eyes are blue or his shoulders, broad, or, whatever.

When I’m awake, I’m frustrated by the words I don’t know, the words I cannot say to fix or touch or move someone else. (Much less me.)

I have no idea how I affect people, other than the imperfect words they use at the moment. And even then, I have to question whether their words are genuine, off the cuff, or bait. To survive. To protect myself.

Good. Good isn’t good enough.

The other night, I was with a friend (I’m trying to make) as she went over the highlights of her life. A nice woman, worn down by life. She’s much younger than me. She experienced a great many beautiful suitors, men who genuinely desired her for her, a great many more who would sign up to spend even five minutes with her in a heartbeat.

Me, not so much. It’s never been that way.

I look at these pictures of other women. Some aren’t so very different. Others are much less attractive in terms of weight, physical presence, the way they present themselves.

I’m just not… enough. I was never enough even for my current husband, but he married me anyway. At the time, I was hardly the ugliest girl in the school. Although, that’s what they said I was.

What do people want? I don’t know.

I’m … autistic that way.

tidal notes

“He is sweet on you.” More than a house wive.

Who used that term anymore?

The gentleman in a suit sees what could have been, had I went down the other road. Actress. Singer. Performer. Nomad, like him.

Is he in love with these women? Parts of me? Characters I’m meant to play? Roles I’ve already inhabited?

His hands tremble, hovering over my core. A light from a window reminds us it’s time for the show.

I am on a roof overlooking an industrial wasteland, waters near the edge. Inky black water, is what we would read in our favorite detective novels.

He is close, too close. I wrap my arms around him, lean my head against his chest. Dying for the climax. He stands very, very still, arms straight at his side, afraid to move, afraid of me, afraid to (finally) define the long-standing allegory of our musical notes.

Mixed messages, the door marked honor, down a ramp they remove before setting up spotlights. Go now.

There is a street fair outside. The biggest gathering of dancers preparing to learn and compete. They don’t know a flood is waiting for them, stage left.

This woman in tights details her group’s excitement. “Every year, we come to this town for the music and the dancing. They teach us dances from all over the world. I love the dances from Rio.” Everything she says sounds so normal, so real.

I go to get a better look when I hear the water coming.

trapped in ALS, or some such number
where can I go to catch his hand
he left it in the air
between us, fireflies mist the vapor of his last breath
I go through men, dresses in my mother’s closet, the make-up on her dresser
who will catch me in this velvet floor-length gown,
darker than the night your eyes closed against the small of my back

just to find the one who remembers the scene I left behind
the little massacre of our bodies colliding into one star
velvety red, glistening — Kool-Aid and garnets —

you are not the one

Revelation or hormones? The end result is still the same: I can’t.

Falling into a helpless dream like this is like watching someone else’s film, someone younger, prettier, full of raging youth.

I don’t think I’ve ever quite felt like this before. It was nice to inhabit the body of someone capable of so much desire, of compelling that same helpless desire in another human being.

We are drawn to each other, through time, circumstance, even bodies. I saw him in all his glory, as he melted into mine, bystanders be damned.

A true scandal. She would blush to know such scandal and such bliss.

I’ve seen love like this in the best movies, heard about it in beautiful music that left me breathless. I’m listening to a snippet right now, remembering him tugging at me, falling into me, drinking me in, every last, messy, forbidden drop.

We carried our secret from head to toe, pulsating, glowing in place, I imagine. Everyone could see our … fever. Trying not to show what’s going on inside. Unable to resist one passing look over our shoulder, plotting the next time. Things on the table, resumes, plans, careers, everything lining up, but inside, inside, we’re out of control.

Magnets. The world could end. Wars, separation, the laundry, gossip… None of that mattered when we were together.

He’s mine. All mine. I wrap my fingers around his wild dark hair. He buries his face in mine, sucking on thick tendrils, his wild dark eyes opening with wonder, delight, and greed. He grows inside me, filling up every empty space, threatening to swallow us both. I want to die right there in a bloody heap, a tangle of flesh and bone.

Is this real? I hope so.

little boy lost

A member of the Mandela Effected Community tweeted a link to Allison Coe’s YouTube channel. I found this, “Past Life Regression from Worldwide Regression Day,” and listened while out walking and praying to G-d that this cough isn’t another cold.

I’m not supposed to do this while walking. But I did it anyway, because… what the hell. I’m a renegade.

It kinda sorta worked. The lady’s voice is so soothing, she put me in an altered state of consciousness within five minutes. I barely remember anything of my walk, only her voice and the images she helped me recover from my lives.

We were supposed to go back in time, then forward, to the future. Find one life in the past that meant something to us, that we’re drawn to in this moment. Then, shoot to later on in our current lives.

I didn’t cooperate with everything she instructed us to do. But she said that was okay.

I didn’t see a space ship or some outer vehicle to transport me through time. I was the time traveling machine — a human superimposed with wings, a black bird and dragon, iridescent glowing amber-white-yellow.

Somewhere in the present, a crow flew overhead, knowing I was on the right path…

I didn’t go back to a time when I was royalty. I wasn’t famous at all. I was a nobody, a thrown away child, dirty little boy lost.

When I became aware of my surroundings, I also didn’t follow the regression playbook in that the scenario kept shifting, superimposing in on itself, playing out simultaneously. I heard before I saw: loud, high-pitched raucous ugly voices of commerce, the splash and thud of muddled muddied roads, phlegmy coughs, spits, screaming, and rarely, the clink of metal on metal — a sign of currency exchange, gold, diamonds.

I vaguely realized where my fortune-hunting came from. Here, in this open market where the rich never stepped foot. Today, I’m always looking on the ground for trinkets, treasure, loot.

Then, images followed, dirty ugly disgusting images of villagers and vagabonds as rats and cockroaches, the ugly dirty disgusting debris of mindless inhumanity — the kind of crowds I revile to this day. They were everywhere, choking me.

At the same time, I kept finding myself in a slate-gray room, sleek, cool, and free of man-made relics. Maybe where I used to go mentally when I felt overwhelmed. Another souvenir: my often-crippling claustrophobia and misanthropy.

I was a little brown boy with brown hair the color of shit, a large scar across my face. I had no parents, no family. I lived on the streets. I lived off the kindness of others, in a time when nobody bothered to be kind.

I used to spend a lot of time tracing people’s currency, trying to figure out what they did for a living and if they could live out the rest of their lives into old age on the kind of work they did. I imagined a world where someone rich and beautiful and clean-smelling would take me in — if only I said the right words, if I were good and useful. I know I tried. I don’t remember if anyone took me in; might be a mental block.

Wait, an old man, kind. They brutally beat him in front of me, like he was nothing, like I was nothing, because in this world, we were.

I remember smelling a woman’s perfume, a sure sign of wealth and home and security. I lived in squalor, wall to wall makeshift shit block ghetto tract encampments, like a New York City in the 1800s. Nowhere near water or mountains or anything beautiful. I wanted to fly away like a bird and never come back.

No wonder I love flowers, lilacs, honeysuckle. They meant freedom.

No wonder I hate the city.

We’re supposed to travel to the last day of our lives in this lifetime. I die violently, of course, at the hands of neglect and abuse. My throat, my face, so much blood. Tossed aside garbage. Garbage.

The future was harder because I was almost home.

I imagined something palatable, instead of something real out of very real fear. Me and my current husband in an RV by the water, me kissing his head, walking outside in the dark with the stars and the crickets, in a happier place. Total bullshit, of course.

This explains so much.

Nobody cares but me.

Now, you know.

King Kamehameha trail

It was violent yesterday. Images raged against sense and logic, memories and maps of places I think I’ve been. The people I know ravaged by the sudden onset of disease in random symptoms.

“How long?”
“Seven days.”
“That’s —— fairly normal, I think.”

He took her to the side of the stage party for the colonic valium.

This map, these bit coins, they take me back to my mother’s apartment. Only, in the middle of nowhere, sprouting like a tall brick and mortar dandelion looming over my old high school, the football field, a line of tiny food shops, the new Mexican restaurant (where B-3 used to be), the young news anchor with cancer…

She’s a singer hooker stripper who works at night, so stay, stare at the empty 1980s TV — KGMB, the picture window of wind-stripped sugar plantations and military bases. The rockets launch before King Kamehameha is dethroned, somewhere between the overthrow and WWIII.

I am a robot from the past, stuck on the same groove, of routine and madness made incomplete. I keep waiting for the same bus, exact change in my gloved hands, when the way back is all in my head.

Dream, May 15, 2016 2018

I miss you here. Everyone is asleep.