frosting

i rather like the idea
of the dark secret
of the imperfect
housewife smile masking
hard desire
instincts of flight
in a perfectly coiffed
world
style and grace
begging for a closet
encounter

i rather like the idea
that things are so predictably wrong
the power
of the social has lead
to sweetness and dreams
in the dirtiest forms.

tempted

and he's a boy
with a heart
with a kiss
with a tongue
with a miss
and a piss
and a start
and a gun
he's a boy
with a soul
with a fire
who's a liar
with a start
and a part
of a mind
just like mine
with a fence
and a sense
apprehens
ive
run
with a pain
and a stain
of blood
and a gun
such a male
with the bail
and a sail
and a
run.

c r u m b l e

i am a perpetual
habitual
professional
ruiner.

watch me go
like a circus clown
even the best go down

and that would be me
a
m e.

xoxo,

~a

momentous

it is in these minute details
these moments of precious time
where I've watched birds flutter
away
watched you cry yourself to sleep
small moments
that near to another's chest might
mean nothing
it is in these times
of hard heart pounding
silence

that I appreciate you

yes, you're there still
time after
across
time.

I have not stopped...

I am not gone.
Merely breaking a bit.

I'll be trapped in a hotel in Los Angeles for the next three days. I'm sure something creative will come of it.

xo,

~a

anxiety aphrodisia

enough said
over fed

took me away
to a place
new
where soft were the
lips
shrewd was the glue
that held us
kept us
made us unable
to get this

tomorrow is new
anew
and the best
of times
we thought were
long gone
are knocking
and cleverly
mixing
with imagined
dreams
and gin
and tonic

your warm car
over there
in the shadows
of a park
the battery is
dead
we have to walk

lessons learned
i think not

because you and
i
are coming back
through the door
through the smoke
for more
more

and yet again,

more.

behind the scenes

wasted
wasting away
barely bloomed
and already falling

moisture kiss
condensation brought
from nowhere
left crystalline
drops on petals

awakened
opened
lily of the valley
scent
wafts

so fast
too fast

perhaps to be plucked
stolen
ravaged

left crumpled
on dry soil
no hope for
reattachment

a cliche
a final
soliloquy
"loved you"
trapped
metaphorically speaking
dead flower

becomes


nothing.

hurt with a side of best intentions

he wants to send a letter
what could it say?
thanks for breaking me
thanks for giving me hope
then running away
thanks for not being strong enough
thanks for ignoring your intuition
thank you ever so much
for flashing those blues to me
in the first place

thanks for going home
and above all
thanks for calling me
one final time
and saying,
"I know."

***I wrote this a loooong time ago, found it in my drafts.

runsong

I've got no more want
for the finer things in your head
or to forgive you
in the warmth of my bed.

I'll cry and I'll scream
I'll curse just to be mean.
Yet it's all these deep feelings
that you will never see.

It's my falling tears
and all the hateful glares
that tell you to hurt me
then try to care

Pay close attention
look me in the eyes
Turn down your radio
and tell me not to cry.

Turn down your radio
I can't hear myself think
Don't break these walls down
Perhaps after another drink
I lay my head down
attempt to get some sleep

Don't dare wake me
while I'm trying to dream.

*********************

I wrote this simple little song ten years ago. It popped into my head recently, so I decided to document it.

I hope.

I do so hope your visit is going well
that planes and trains
have brought you a heart
that beats louder than
mine.
One that perhaps
is a bit more free
and more capable of thumping
in a controlled manner.
I do so hope that you're
sharing breakfast
and laughing over stories
of yesterday and tomorrow
and babies and kittens.
I do so hope that you had
at least one night of drinking
that ended with the two of you writhing
on a motel bed.
I do so hope
No really, I do.

suprasternal notch

Amidst a forested landscape
worn thin by trodding feet
and vacant prayer,
I found him
gingerly sleeping at the base of an oak.
He presumed he would slumber this way forever,
expected his palm curled around
an emerging root
would seize in that manner.
The wooden vein would fuse
and twist with his
sturdy hand.
Willingly, he planned to feed his bones
and spirit
to keep this monument ever green.
Yet, I found him
and my mere heartbeat
caused hazel eyes to blink,
hand to leave root.
He begged for a kiss, just one touch on red lips
and I acquiesced.
In that soul kiss,
he pulled and he grasped
at hair tendrils and neck
as though I was his rescue,
savior from a forever of
tree form.

"You must sleep."
I whispered.
"The sun is rising
and my journey has just begun."

His root hand,
traced the base of my throat
and he fell back,
back to his tree
and returned to his dreams.

I'm doing that fun thing...

where I neglect all of my friends
and myself.
And I stop answering the phone
and I don't pay attention at work.
It doesn't matter what I eat,
what I drink
what I smoke.
It doesn't matter that I'm
losing my voice.
Bleh.
I hate when I get like this.
It's almost like getting so drunk that you black out,
(which I've never done),
then having to clean up all the messes
you made while you were on your
drunken rampage.
Except I'm just neglecting
and I'll have to pull the
various weeds and clean
the dust
that collected
while I was being selfish.

one last sigh

This bit of blue litters my white so.
Stark cold autumn eve is crying all over
my insides.
I'm dying
to go home. Home being nameless and faceless.
(Something feels like home and I've never even
been there.)
No decisions need be made, the path is
waiting for my bare feet.
(It's all visible, from my mind balcony.)

Alas, this is not the case. I am faced with
jungle like thickets and blackberry brambles.
They will need endless cutting. It's a job
that will
(inevitably)
spill blood.
Wouldn't you like to lie with me?
In the archaic sense?

is the sun setting on this corner of the internet?

My blog audience has grown. People really are concerned about me and my randomly acidic mind. I asked for it, I lamented that no one visited or cared what I had to say. Now that you're here and listening, I sometimes feel as though I censor myself.

It's hard enough for me to come to terms with my insides and displaying them for all the world to see...well I'm lame and fear judgement. Actually, I experienced judgement and it stung.

I think I will keep trucking...but I'm not sure how personal things will be. Who knows? I could just be babbling.

Anyway, maybe the sun is just setting on this chapter. We shall see.

xo,

~a

p.s. This is a picture of Lake Powell, one of the most amazing places I've ever been.

getting hit on by a young angry english man at a charity event I snuck into. yes, I'm classy.

"Hello."
"Hello."
"I'm Dan."
"I'm Amy."
"You look like Marilyn Monroe."
"What?"
"You look like Marilyn Monroe except with red hair. And you're prettier."
"okay. Why are you here?"
"I don't know. I fucking hate Sacramento. Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"You look like a fucking movie star. Do you have a boyfriend?"
"Actually, I'm married."
"Where's your husband?"
"At home. Why are you so angry?"
"You're angry too."
(At this point, a man I know who happens to own a strip club in Sacramento seems to think I need rescue. He saunters over, hands me a glass of wine and proceeds to grab my hand and drag me away. We'll say his name is Joe.)
"Joe! What the fuck?", Dan yells.
(5 minutes later, at the bar, Dan returns.)
"So what? He wins?"
"I wasn't aware we were playing for anything."
"You're here for money aren't you."
"No, I'm here for fun."
"You're wearing a fucking fur. You're here for money. Stop looking at me like that."
"Where the hell did you come from? Really?"
"What does he have that I don't? I mean, look at him. I fucking hate that guy."
"Then you don't really know him."
"You're smart aren't you? Want to dance?"
(We danced, he got moody, I eventually had to be rescued again. The end.)

secret drummer

He is enigmatic
famous in his day
but gone now
to what?
producing and writing
occasional background singing
genius lost
keeping to himself.
But occasionally,
every once in awhile
he talks to me.
No one knows.
But he does.
Hopefully, he never sees this.

cafes, byways, and highways

I have flown from bus stop to rest stop
to dark highway to gravel road,
from your mouth
to my grave and back again.
Lies in my back pocket, promises
clutched in hand.
Ribbons to once-was
worn in my hair.
Back to the front and around to the
shore, clockwise and frontwise
never quite getting free with my notions.
Picking up along the way, such scavengers
as lust and greed
love and need.
Leaving behind a trail of myopic bread crumbs.
Morsels of mistakes.
Truthfully,
no matter where my soul is
my not so discreet looks and thoughts
are cast in your far away direction.
I just want a good cup of coffee
and an artful exchange.

guitar times.

Casting notes into the air
the most clumsy guitar player
this river city has ever seen
is locked in her cave.
But it serves as a distraction I tell you
This genius mind,
Miss 155,
learns four or five chords a day
but the brain power doesn't translate
to finger power
and I can't hold the damn strings down
or switch fast enough.
It's frustrating
and oh so therapeutic.
Give me awhile,
I'll play for you.
Perhaps I'll even sing.

writer's block

In one of my more emotional times, words are escaping me. The little bastards. Nothing will come out...I'm just sitting here, pent up and frustrated.

sacrosanct angel

He's found
another
sacrosanct angel.

She is fiery
and without remorse.
Her every predestined
movement
in his direction
seems to be
cloud like
fluid like,
as though she floats
her way into his soul.

Ethereal, whimsical,
all of the above.
How can he
make her come home?
Buried in his twisted wet pillow,
he cries for her in
the night.
Cries for her creamy
skin that is
so soft and
atrocious.
Her heated shell,
that leaves his fingertips
blistered from just a
slight caress.

Yet another villainous
wicked
vicious
captivating
celestial being
has invaded his blood
muscle.