and its fun in the beginning
and so much in common
and common to the beats but who can't feel it any one brought up on the streets
so go
make it
fake it til you feel alright and freak out because we know.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
sh sh sh shattered
were all superstars in the movies of our lives,
"like, shouldn't i have my own reality tv show?"
he had no mercy in his eyes
and with one headlight or one window there he goes
just a painful reminder
but not so painful
only when i think of the others
Dean and
why must you hold places in my heart
is it because we never finished what we started?
am i getting old and finally hoping waiting for something better than this
"like, shouldn't i have my own reality tv show?"
he had no mercy in his eyes
and with one headlight or one window there he goes
just a painful reminder
but not so painful
only when i think of the others
Dean and
why must you hold places in my heart
is it because we never finished what we started?
am i getting old and finally hoping waiting for something better than this
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
ha ha ha high babe
i will one day (my simple to-do list)
hang out with the followill brothers and smoke and drink and watch the sunrise with them
smoke cigarettes and ride motorcycles or drive around or fuck in a tour bus with the guys (or perhaps one would be more appropriate)of brmc
sell my graphic on canvas work
create a tshirt company and get everyone in it
dance onstage with all famous djs
go to africa and help starving children
photo-document all i experience
create an electro one hit wonder
stylize photo shoots and get paid for it
plan amazing concert/party events for a career
ride a camel
ride an elephant
ride pete yorn
get in a magazine (somehow someway)
drink gin and juice with snoop dogg
create 70s inspired clothing line with cyn
ride into the sunset via horseback with a lover
top the pyramids
become an expert at bikram yoga
write songs on piano
hang out with the followill brothers and smoke and drink and watch the sunrise with them
smoke cigarettes and ride motorcycles or drive around or fuck in a tour bus with the guys (or perhaps one would be more appropriate)of brmc
sell my graphic on canvas work
create a tshirt company and get everyone in it
dance onstage with all famous djs
go to africa and help starving children
photo-document all i experience
create an electro one hit wonder
stylize photo shoots and get paid for it
plan amazing concert/party events for a career
ride a camel
ride an elephant
ride pete yorn
get in a magazine (somehow someway)
drink gin and juice with snoop dogg
create 70s inspired clothing line with cyn
ride into the sunset via horseback with a lover
top the pyramids
become an expert at bikram yoga
write songs on piano
Saturday, April 11, 2009
... that I was
Tiptoeing like an intruder I held my breath and wished I had worn quieter shoes. He led me to the intimate and charming room in which the mastermind creates, recieves inspiration, and finally rests. An old piano owned the wall which reflected his twin bed, covered in organic sheets and watched over by the Lizard King himself, an obvious idol to any man born to break on through and light their fires. His bedroom was inviting, hopeful and full of books, films and timeless pieces intended to inspire. I couldn't help but feel at home and feel privileged to be with this ONE that I had long ago dreamed and sketched and drawn up, but never imagined could truly exist. I was in awe. I tried not to be though. He was just another guy, one who had attempted to 'hook up' with Catherina and I both just two nights ago. Did he not realize she was my best friend, unknowingly since birth, and would tell me everything. Did he not realize I don't fall for guys, I've been hurt and scarred and am not trying to add to the collection?
But then I saw It, and knew right then and there I wouldn't be able to deny him no matter how hard I tried. The book that changed my life. The book I picked up at 16-years-old, for 99 cents, at a used bookstore (cuz my Santa Barbara deejay Uncle recommended it, saying 'I'd love it,' and I loved everything he told me I would) sat on his desk. On the Road, the leader of a generation and the leader of my burning and ever bubbling desire for adventure, stories, experience, and life, sat; read, studied and sanctified; existing.
His bed was 'too small and room too messy.' To his sister's bed and we lay and thanked the dependable California rain for its presence and assistance in framing our moment. It's sacred pitter patter prompted American Spirit to lean in and me to hold tighter. Finally our lips touched and candles burned and the smell was unforgettable and a shade of deep purple. His flawless chocolate hair brushed my olive face and I breathed it all in, well are and accepting that nothing good can last, nothing gold can stay.
He was different than the other boys I'd kissed and allowed to make me and those that I'd loved. He made me laugh a different laugh, he played a different song than those I was used to hearing or even used to liking. But I was willing and I was ready. After hours of endless and (finally) meaningful talks and 'wow, me too's' it was 3:00 a.m. He asked questions and opened up and for once I wasn't the lover prying for something deeper than skin and penetration, booze, smoke and all else in the 'all inclusive v.i.p. package.'
and it made me sad that i had given up on that dream, that hope of a love in which waiting actually meant something and fucking on the first wasn't so normal, and "well that was fun, umm, I guess call me... if you want," hadn't become a regular in my generations' dictionary. Thanks urban dictionary. Cable television, the list is an endless spiral leading to one big orgy of apathy. The times had changed and so had I.
But something in this actor-musician-writer made me remember who I had been before those times swept me up and tossed me back to what I told myself was better. Spirit sparked a remembrance of my passions. "I wish my life was recorded," I had admitted earlier that night. "Maybe someone is recording it," he responded. Well, I thought, even if no one's recording, it still leaves it up to me to do the duty. I'm a rolling stone, and I'll never stop tumbling and rising and someone better keep track of my trail. But that's the thing, no one can, and no one will, and no one has the ability but me to do that. It's in my hands, my fingertips and my toes. I store it all in my heart, my brain, my lips are the culprit that let it go and I've gotta start using my fingers. He reminded me to take those places in life that most find as ghetto little shitholes, and to love them, to visit them, to appreciate them and see the magic they will forever possess.
On our quest to the unknown, we passed by The Avalon, an off the highway motel, priced at $50 a night for obvious reasons. It was much too late for his sisters bed and "oh shit it's late, let's go to the Super 8!" He jingle jangled and there'd only been a few I'd come across with such talent and humor and confidence in his creativity to do so.
Fathers car played the vehicle in a situation he raised me to never be in, but the medium was not more important than the message, sorry McLuhan. Inside and we, both actors in life, the only difference is he gets paid for his work, put on a little show.
Me: "Walk in, helpless, alone. "Hi, um, room for one."
Little Indiand Woman Worker: "Okay, $72.59"
Me: "Oh, really? oh no well I only have.. uh let m-"
In walk American Spirit, casually tossing pistachios (that were my dad's, unopened)
in his mouth with his red pajama pants decorated with triangles or spaceships or something in that shape I could never make out.
AS: (in his deepest almost creepy voice of course)"You need a little help, pretty lady?" And with that he tosses down a hundred dollar bill, and strides out the door, leaving me no time to question but only to skeptically yet gratefully take the money and use it for my much needed room.
Me: (Suspicious and shocked) "Um, do you know that guy? Does he come around here a lot?
LIWW: "Never seen him, we'll give you a room close to the office." (Her husband had come out by this point.) Nervously she assured, "you'll be okay."
His arms wrapped mine and giggling and stealing kisses we entered into our first of many dirty old sacred corners we would make ours. And he was goofy. Goofy enough to fall off the bed, to wear a shower cap to make me smile, to tell me I was beautiful and mean it. "I want to make love to you so bad right now." 'Make love?' I thought. Who is this guy. I met him 3 days ago. Making love doesn't happen with me and three days, but yeah we've made and meant ( justified) but that doesn't mean you can fuck me and say its making love. But it was too perfect and although he pushed too hard it was still perfect and beautiful, so I let him kiss my shoulders and love my freckles and "what the fuck?" was his reaction to my inking. We ignored alarms and rose to the sun and that brilliant monday morning I became his gypsy.
But then I saw It, and knew right then and there I wouldn't be able to deny him no matter how hard I tried. The book that changed my life. The book I picked up at 16-years-old, for 99 cents, at a used bookstore (cuz my Santa Barbara deejay Uncle recommended it, saying 'I'd love it,' and I loved everything he told me I would) sat on his desk. On the Road, the leader of a generation and the leader of my burning and ever bubbling desire for adventure, stories, experience, and life, sat; read, studied and sanctified; existing.
His bed was 'too small and room too messy.' To his sister's bed and we lay and thanked the dependable California rain for its presence and assistance in framing our moment. It's sacred pitter patter prompted American Spirit to lean in and me to hold tighter. Finally our lips touched and candles burned and the smell was unforgettable and a shade of deep purple. His flawless chocolate hair brushed my olive face and I breathed it all in, well are and accepting that nothing good can last, nothing gold can stay.
He was different than the other boys I'd kissed and allowed to make me and those that I'd loved. He made me laugh a different laugh, he played a different song than those I was used to hearing or even used to liking. But I was willing and I was ready. After hours of endless and (finally) meaningful talks and 'wow, me too's' it was 3:00 a.m. He asked questions and opened up and for once I wasn't the lover prying for something deeper than skin and penetration, booze, smoke and all else in the 'all inclusive v.i.p. package.'
and it made me sad that i had given up on that dream, that hope of a love in which waiting actually meant something and fucking on the first wasn't so normal, and "well that was fun, umm, I guess call me... if you want," hadn't become a regular in my generations' dictionary. Thanks urban dictionary. Cable television, the list is an endless spiral leading to one big orgy of apathy. The times had changed and so had I.
But something in this actor-musician-writer made me remember who I had been before those times swept me up and tossed me back to what I told myself was better. Spirit sparked a remembrance of my passions. "I wish my life was recorded," I had admitted earlier that night. "Maybe someone is recording it," he responded. Well, I thought, even if no one's recording, it still leaves it up to me to do the duty. I'm a rolling stone, and I'll never stop tumbling and rising and someone better keep track of my trail. But that's the thing, no one can, and no one will, and no one has the ability but me to do that. It's in my hands, my fingertips and my toes. I store it all in my heart, my brain, my lips are the culprit that let it go and I've gotta start using my fingers. He reminded me to take those places in life that most find as ghetto little shitholes, and to love them, to visit them, to appreciate them and see the magic they will forever possess.
On our quest to the unknown, we passed by The Avalon, an off the highway motel, priced at $50 a night for obvious reasons. It was much too late for his sisters bed and "oh shit it's late, let's go to the Super 8!" He jingle jangled and there'd only been a few I'd come across with such talent and humor and confidence in his creativity to do so.
Fathers car played the vehicle in a situation he raised me to never be in, but the medium was not more important than the message, sorry McLuhan. Inside and we, both actors in life, the only difference is he gets paid for his work, put on a little show.
Me: "Walk in, helpless, alone. "Hi, um, room for one."
Little Indiand Woman Worker: "Okay, $72.59"
Me: "Oh, really? oh no well I only have.. uh let m-"
In walk American Spirit, casually tossing pistachios (that were my dad's, unopened)
in his mouth with his red pajama pants decorated with triangles or spaceships or something in that shape I could never make out.
AS: (in his deepest almost creepy voice of course)"You need a little help, pretty lady?" And with that he tosses down a hundred dollar bill, and strides out the door, leaving me no time to question but only to skeptically yet gratefully take the money and use it for my much needed room.
Me: (Suspicious and shocked) "Um, do you know that guy? Does he come around here a lot?
LIWW: "Never seen him, we'll give you a room close to the office." (Her husband had come out by this point.) Nervously she assured, "you'll be okay."
His arms wrapped mine and giggling and stealing kisses we entered into our first of many dirty old sacred corners we would make ours. And he was goofy. Goofy enough to fall off the bed, to wear a shower cap to make me smile, to tell me I was beautiful and mean it. "I want to make love to you so bad right now." 'Make love?' I thought. Who is this guy. I met him 3 days ago. Making love doesn't happen with me and three days, but yeah we've made and meant ( justified) but that doesn't mean you can fuck me and say its making love. But it was too perfect and although he pushed too hard it was still perfect and beautiful, so I let him kiss my shoulders and love my freckles and "what the fuck?" was his reaction to my inking. We ignored alarms and rose to the sun and that brilliant monday morning I became his gypsy.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
electrical discharge
I pulled into the dimly lit parking lot. The same parking lot Josephina and I used to lay low at, sitting, waiting, anticipating any sort of suburb(an end) excitement. Nothing as usual. So as innocent seventeens we blasted the heaven sent egotistical melodies that built and prided us..
Five years passed and my boots still fit the steps my poetry slammed and riot rammed all stars once filled. Central Park, and by this time i knew upon meeting American Spirit there would be no ice cream involved, none that involved dairy anyway. I anxiously wandered into the park, thinking he could pop out of nowhere, reveal himself, secretly hoping those noises I was hearing (or perhaps imagining) were his attempt of frightening me. Steel benches enclosing diamonds of their own warmly led my soles toward Him. "Guide Me!" I belted. Within seconds and through a puff of his self-rolled smokes emerged the shadow of He who I would Love. Sporting that same bandana i fell for and his style I hadn't yet known was his style but still assumed it was 'good style.' Laughter and language assuming attraction led us in circles and we had to find a way out of this beautiful sarcastic park. Through the Darklands we were sidewalking, and the glorious black sky of once glummed fluff and goo opened its perplexed web, flashing slight illuminations of navy, silver and midnite, it prompted us to go. willing and ready, we entered.
Poppy lent me the car if it was back by 7 a.m. "Of course Dad!"
Everywhere and nowhere to go leading the way I steered and screeched and scared the poor boy, there was a reason my license had been suspended twice and I probably had a few warrants out in our neighboring Western states. "You can only be a crazy driver if you're a good driver. I could be a 'good,' safe driver if I wanted, but where's the fun in that?" Buckled and belted he wrenched his side bar (of course I drove extra wild, that was the type of ride we were both looking for, right?) and attempted to spell out directions to an old Pointe we now cherish within our childhood memories. Ok so of course he was a typical man, pretended like he knew where he was going, and I actually think he really did think he knew where he was going, but after 45 minutes of fuel frittering i decided this had to stop. He led me to an on-ramp but "OH shit! this is wrong!" stop the car. back it up. I woulda risked it but it was too much too fast, not too furious. Finally we found our way and sat and listened to each other's stories and connected more than i had with any one of interest in a long time. The silent, vacant flats set an eerie setting, reminding us both of that opening scene in Zodiac (when the pair of lovers preparing to get down and dirty take a harsh beating of bulletts); my sick intrigue with serial killers constantly creeps, picking, creating scenarios in my susceptible little head. Better said than I could, 'we had a successions of bursts of recognition in each other, each one trumped by the next.' From the booze ban in high school replaced by positioning pranks on others, this connection was unreal. Funniest movies ever, he asked. "ok, Houseguest, White Chicks, right now ummm Superbad."
"ok ok, but have you seen Tropic Thunder?" -Because he is who he is, American Spirit, loves this. The satire, the wit, Fucking Robert Downey Jr. as an Australian black man. The war that defined us. Killed us. United and tied and supposedly untied the hate and segregation and racism but i say it just knotted it tighter- "No, and I didn't really care to. I have this weird obsession with Vietnam and I think those funny guys are laughing at my era and I don't appreciate it."
"It's hilarious you gotta see it."
Any excuse for more time spent and I called the movie store, pulling my usual over the phone flirt 'i get what i want and you're helping me get there' attitude. Stoned out of his mind employee answers and I demand he let me rent after hours, "I NEED TROPIC THUNDER!!" I yell, half desperate half cracked out sounding, "MY PARENTS KICKED ME OUT OF THE HOUSE AND I JUST NEED THIS TO SAVE MY LIFE!!! PLEEAAAASSEEE!!! whats your name? I'm on my way."
"Sorry girl, we're closed, you're just gonna have to put those pipe dreams down, My name's Jesse Fernandez."
So of course I go on for a half hour, lying and crying and truly praying he'll give in and give me get this excuse for bonding and cuddling and all other essentials in movie watching.
"LISTEN JESS! I NEED THIS FILM AND I'M COMIN DOWN THERE! Transforming to a sexier tone, "Which way would you like me, front or back door?"
Baffled, "Uhh, if you come right now, where you goin' watch it?"
"With you in the store, honey. I've already gotta key"
"No you don't, and youre not coming." He then went into something perverted and sounded a little high himself, and definitely had to snap outta something when Poppy's car slowly neared the glass wall that separated us. I got out while American Spirit (so Jesse wouldn't be jealous I had a hot dude in the car) played the dumb brother, making spastic hand gestures and quick kicks, while I slithered past the windows, yanked on the door and pulled out my bling bling pure gold necklace, with a skeleton key hanging from it. Still on the phone, "Jesse, it's me. Open up baby."
"Holy shit, you really came. Uh, uh, I can't... wait whose that guy in the car? We're closed!"
After another half hour of trying to convince J Dogg to give us what we needed, and failing but not failing each other, we went back to the quarters that bred Mr. Spirit himself.
Five years passed and my boots still fit the steps my poetry slammed and riot rammed all stars once filled. Central Park, and by this time i knew upon meeting American Spirit there would be no ice cream involved, none that involved dairy anyway. I anxiously wandered into the park, thinking he could pop out of nowhere, reveal himself, secretly hoping those noises I was hearing (or perhaps imagining) were his attempt of frightening me. Steel benches enclosing diamonds of their own warmly led my soles toward Him. "Guide Me!" I belted. Within seconds and through a puff of his self-rolled smokes emerged the shadow of He who I would Love. Sporting that same bandana i fell for and his style I hadn't yet known was his style but still assumed it was 'good style.' Laughter and language assuming attraction led us in circles and we had to find a way out of this beautiful sarcastic park. Through the Darklands we were sidewalking, and the glorious black sky of once glummed fluff and goo opened its perplexed web, flashing slight illuminations of navy, silver and midnite, it prompted us to go. willing and ready, we entered.
Poppy lent me the car if it was back by 7 a.m. "Of course Dad!"
Everywhere and nowhere to go leading the way I steered and screeched and scared the poor boy, there was a reason my license had been suspended twice and I probably had a few warrants out in our neighboring Western states. "You can only be a crazy driver if you're a good driver. I could be a 'good,' safe driver if I wanted, but where's the fun in that?" Buckled and belted he wrenched his side bar (of course I drove extra wild, that was the type of ride we were both looking for, right?) and attempted to spell out directions to an old Pointe we now cherish within our childhood memories. Ok so of course he was a typical man, pretended like he knew where he was going, and I actually think he really did think he knew where he was going, but after 45 minutes of fuel frittering i decided this had to stop. He led me to an on-ramp but "OH shit! this is wrong!" stop the car. back it up. I woulda risked it but it was too much too fast, not too furious. Finally we found our way and sat and listened to each other's stories and connected more than i had with any one of interest in a long time. The silent, vacant flats set an eerie setting, reminding us both of that opening scene in Zodiac (when the pair of lovers preparing to get down and dirty take a harsh beating of bulletts); my sick intrigue with serial killers constantly creeps, picking, creating scenarios in my susceptible little head. Better said than I could, 'we had a successions of bursts of recognition in each other, each one trumped by the next.' From the booze ban in high school replaced by positioning pranks on others, this connection was unreal. Funniest movies ever, he asked. "ok, Houseguest, White Chicks, right now ummm Superbad."
"ok ok, but have you seen Tropic Thunder?" -Because he is who he is, American Spirit, loves this. The satire, the wit, Fucking Robert Downey Jr. as an Australian black man. The war that defined us. Killed us. United and tied and supposedly untied the hate and segregation and racism but i say it just knotted it tighter- "No, and I didn't really care to. I have this weird obsession with Vietnam and I think those funny guys are laughing at my era and I don't appreciate it."
"It's hilarious you gotta see it."
Any excuse for more time spent and I called the movie store, pulling my usual over the phone flirt 'i get what i want and you're helping me get there' attitude. Stoned out of his mind employee answers and I demand he let me rent after hours, "I NEED TROPIC THUNDER!!" I yell, half desperate half cracked out sounding, "MY PARENTS KICKED ME OUT OF THE HOUSE AND I JUST NEED THIS TO SAVE MY LIFE!!! PLEEAAAASSEEE!!! whats your name? I'm on my way."
"Sorry girl, we're closed, you're just gonna have to put those pipe dreams down, My name's Jesse Fernandez."
So of course I go on for a half hour, lying and crying and truly praying he'll give in and give me get this excuse for bonding and cuddling and all other essentials in movie watching.
"LISTEN JESS! I NEED THIS FILM AND I'M COMIN DOWN THERE! Transforming to a sexier tone, "Which way would you like me, front or back door?"
Baffled, "Uhh, if you come right now, where you goin' watch it?"
"With you in the store, honey. I've already gotta key"
"No you don't, and youre not coming." He then went into something perverted and sounded a little high himself, and definitely had to snap outta something when Poppy's car slowly neared the glass wall that separated us. I got out while American Spirit (so Jesse wouldn't be jealous I had a hot dude in the car) played the dumb brother, making spastic hand gestures and quick kicks, while I slithered past the windows, yanked on the door and pulled out my bling bling pure gold necklace, with a skeleton key hanging from it. Still on the phone, "Jesse, it's me. Open up baby."
"Holy shit, you really came. Uh, uh, I can't... wait whose that guy in the car? We're closed!"
After another half hour of trying to convince J Dogg to give us what we needed, and failing but not failing each other, we went back to the quarters that bred Mr. Spirit himself.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
byrd
When you're feeling so alone, tell me where is it you go?
If I'm sittin in my boots I'll grab the jingle jangles
and take a trip to the Sun
In hopes of finding Mr. Tambourine Man,
or somethin' close to him
Flip through channels and airwaves
and every wave that I've ridden I'll remember how I crashed
why is the water so salty? The taste is on my tongue and I
can't shake this feeling,
it's been hangin out too long.
Pirates come and go and steal my heart every time
I guess the treasure in my chest was too easy to find
They all say I love you but is any of it even real?
words and words and words and words and
how do they leave us to feel?
you deny your path was the righteous one,
but baby look how many followers you got..
How can you turn away, I promise don't be afraid,
this is your last chance with me, your last and final shot..
To my head I'm gone dead you killed me with you're golden bow and arrow
when I saw how narrow
you are.
You aren't mine anymore, you always knew I was a whore
Cowboys and Indians I don't think you know who you wanna be
So just run, run away
never put your gun away
and keep goin and keep on makin all the pretty girls smile
It's what you do best so keep developing your talents
I got no hate or even malice for you
but I'm Alive
and I won't cry
anymore. No no no more no, more
lets fly
lets dance
lets take a chance and make for change
maybe make a few bucks while we're at it
we'll be cats in other lives
but we're byrd in this one
if you gotta broken wing
i'll patch it right up, if you let me.
But baby tell where you go, when you're empty, so alone.
So I can find you
and you can save me...
lets fly
If I'm sittin in my boots I'll grab the jingle jangles
and take a trip to the Sun
In hopes of finding Mr. Tambourine Man,
or somethin' close to him
Flip through channels and airwaves
and every wave that I've ridden I'll remember how I crashed
why is the water so salty? The taste is on my tongue and I
can't shake this feeling,
it's been hangin out too long.
Pirates come and go and steal my heart every time
I guess the treasure in my chest was too easy to find
They all say I love you but is any of it even real?
words and words and words and words and
how do they leave us to feel?
you deny your path was the righteous one,
but baby look how many followers you got..
How can you turn away, I promise don't be afraid,
this is your last chance with me, your last and final shot..
To my head I'm gone dead you killed me with you're golden bow and arrow
when I saw how narrow
you are.
You aren't mine anymore, you always knew I was a whore
Cowboys and Indians I don't think you know who you wanna be
So just run, run away
never put your gun away
and keep goin and keep on makin all the pretty girls smile
It's what you do best so keep developing your talents
I got no hate or even malice for you
but I'm Alive
and I won't cry
anymore. No no no more no, more
lets fly
lets dance
lets take a chance and make for change
maybe make a few bucks while we're at it
we'll be cats in other lives
but we're byrd in this one
if you gotta broken wing
i'll patch it right up, if you let me.
But baby tell where you go, when you're empty, so alone.
So I can find you
and you can save me...
lets fly
Sunday, March 1, 2009
let us be lovers
He had been texting me all night
Said we were gonna go get ice cream, talk, get to know each other.
I didn't even know this guy, but that sounded way too normal, too normal for him anyway.
I was always doubtful of America. Always. It had nothing to do with American Spirit, it was the history of my whole life in the States that formed my fear, my hesitance of "falling for that." i've been there. i've been That girl. the sad, broken hooded girl with the tears, the mascara streaks, with HIS footprints still present on her skin, HE couldn't catch her teardrops, wish upon her stars, love her the way she needed. Neither of us could walk a straight line, nonetheless walk it together. So, like we all do, I went through the cycle a time too many. And now I was dizzy. I was not to be played a fool. I was not to be hurt. So I became the player, the ball in my court and I did what I pleased and became in charge. Quick enough I was numb; if someone had to get hurt, like the rules implied, it wouldn't be me.
so i set out on that rainy December California night, wipers full in motion and my guards up. i searched through the drizzle for the hitchhiker, that American Spirit (I had no idea what it would taste of} that would catch my drift and unexpectedly feed his soul to me.
Said we were gonna go get ice cream, talk, get to know each other.
I didn't even know this guy, but that sounded way too normal, too normal for him anyway.
I was always doubtful of America. Always. It had nothing to do with American Spirit, it was the history of my whole life in the States that formed my fear, my hesitance of "falling for that." i've been there. i've been That girl. the sad, broken hooded girl with the tears, the mascara streaks, with HIS footprints still present on her skin, HE couldn't catch her teardrops, wish upon her stars, love her the way she needed. Neither of us could walk a straight line, nonetheless walk it together. So, like we all do, I went through the cycle a time too many. And now I was dizzy. I was not to be played a fool. I was not to be hurt. So I became the player, the ball in my court and I did what I pleased and became in charge. Quick enough I was numb; if someone had to get hurt, like the rules implied, it wouldn't be me.
so i set out on that rainy December California night, wipers full in motion and my guards up. i searched through the drizzle for the hitchhiker, that American Spirit (I had no idea what it would taste of} that would catch my drift and unexpectedly feed his soul to me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)