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the_things_i_carry
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Piso Mojado
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my mind my past my worries my laugh my yours my mine
men i have loved- flashes of lovemaking and heartache. men i could fall in love with given the chance- their grace and moments frozen in my mind
and all my flaws that repeat and morph into different yet similar patterns. like fires spreading- popping up from one tree to the next through the roots
but i'm not saying anything new here
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050203
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Piso Mojado
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we had been apart for a week and i picked him up with short hair this time. we shopped for all the luxury foods we desired at Trader Joes- laughing in the aisles among families and middle-aged. we pitched a tent in the early afternoon next to momdadkids- and made love quietly. afterwards we fed each other the blueberries and cheese, giggling at the marvelousness of the day.
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050203
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Piso Mojado
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January in Boston had brought snow- clean fresh snow covering everything. Although weak from mono, I bundled up and met up with the girls. They got high and we walked across campus to the forest behind the Econ building. Snow up to my waist, to my chest. Laughing, fell back trustingly to make snow angels- staring at the blue grey sky above- bare tree branches. Tromping, big exaggerated footsteps. Snowballs. White- blinding white.
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050203
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Piso Mojado
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We had broken up the night before. I wore all white to work. Your father and I walked around the block- he reminded me that I can't just drop people. I left at noon and drove down Pico blvd, sobbing at the stoplights.
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050203
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Piso Mojado
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Insomnia left the nights wide open.
Xavier, long-haired and barefooted, would knock on my door and we would smoke by the front doors, shivering in the cold, huge exhales expelling white clouds.
Turning up my speakers, I danced to ambient-trance, watching my shadow on the wall.
Dawn rose so slowly, blackgreybluepink from the narrow window of which I thought of jumping out of so often.
Strumming on the guitar, crying to old camp songs.
For Whom the Bell Tolls. Ishmael. Bret Easton Ellis.
Pot. Coke. Celexa. Ambien.
Taking my camera down for dawn pictures of the snowy campus at sunrise.
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050203
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Piso Mojado
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We walked down to the Jordan- there was a playground on the way and pebbles instead of sand.
I heard you pray for the first time. Your voice naked and sensual and pure. I sat in the opposite corner of the hotel room. You davened by the window.
You rubbed wine into my bare flesh.
Eating with the table to ourselves, we sang along with the adult choir after meals. The suggestive ripeness of farm-grown persimons we ate for desert was tantalizing.
We had taken the bus with bulletproof windows blurring the landscape.
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050203
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Piso Mojado
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In the weeks following Heidi's death, i would awake in the morning with hands sore from being fists clenching the sheets all night.
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050208
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riveting and true
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coming soon to an audio blathe world wide and near YOU the entire sordid account of a landlords plan to drive a tenant from his property
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050208
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Piso Mojado
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Midafternoon at my dad's house years ago- Bengi had just woken up from a nap and exicitedly retold the events of his dreams for me, his little hands and face marked with sheet-creases. I took a picture, his eyes soft.
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050211
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falling_alone
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books and a passport.
no passport required for where i am.
travel may descend upon me anywhere.
paints and pencils.
waterbottles and paper.
inspiration is so fickle.
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050211
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