Part One. Victory Blvd
(hint: read between the lines)
It was hot, the dog-days-of-summer-in-the-Valley kind of hot. These two lovebirds were eager to find a peaceful shade at any nearest tree, a tree this side of a place the she lovebird had never been, but had always wanted to "experience." Thanks to the internet, she quickly found a perfectly shady place!
"Where's Victory Blvd?", she asked while thinking she might already know, because everyone kinda knows where Victory is. Of course, he was all, "A few blocks up from Vanowen. Duh." And she's like, "Where's Vanowen?" And he's like, "Ah Fuck it! We're getting out of the Valley." She was all smiles.
And they lived happily ever after.
(For a friend)
Every year my distant memory reminds me that I should wear the summer like a wedding dress, made of blue-colored strings played in variations of C Major. And so by July I collect the summer sun in a basket full of strings, and let summer happen. And you should too, despite a desire of being held captive by yesterdays spring, and being pulled by autumn into your tomorrow. A memory needs space to grow, so that you can be reminded to wear your today, to listen to the symphony it drapes over and under your skin. Let the summer chords settle in your pores. Let the settling happen, while you wear this celebration, of you.
The California sun has a way of turning Angeleno green into golden hues of paleteros, vert ramps and puppy smiles. Droughts only exist where there is no replacement for water.
When the rivers rise
to meet where my words once fell and failed me,
so that the words can find balance in swimming.
When I can remain still and comfortably desperate at my desk to write,
in order to forgive myself of my wrongs.
When the day comes that I can finally move on,
from everything that I thought I was,
in a universe I constructed with balsa wood foundations
and houses made of sand castles of his ashes.
When the rivers finally rise to make mud of those ashes,
so that the sun can set the ashes to clay,
as a reminder that everything was real.
And when I can wake up to put a smile on, before deciding what to wear,
and he's still there.
When all of this...is, not dreamt
is when I can say I found the Ark that Noah built,
the one that saves us from ourselves.
The 'animals' were just an illusion.
the wind draws fast,
our desires onto us.
we say hello to yesterday,
sleep on my pillow,
to wake in our bed
your skin on my back,
with pleasure to follow.
the wind draws fast,
our memories from us.
hello, my morning.
The longing for a memory
of a voice, the sound of your name echoing in enunciated emotions
when all is lost,
will never be answered with a text messaged hello or I love you.
Voice speaks louder
than what we hear.
Her lungs are scarred by a life in transit. Constant breaths, with out holding in. By evening she rushes to conquer life with thought, movement...living,
before time conquers her with, "I can't."
- an excerpt, in progress
The deepest shades of her white, with translucent eyes and longish wheat blonde hair. The richest shades of his black, with soft masculine curls and eyes to stare forever into. This is half of me, the other half taken from the sands of faraway make believe lands, with distant languages that have no use for simple new-world letters but that we still study so as to never forget. These worlds melt into shades of my brown. Of their brown, of our brown. A shade of brown that makes up fifty-seven percent of this cities population. A brown that another fifteen percent of this cities population considers white...but will always be brown. But brown is not a color, unless we've been forced to wonder who we are and where we're from...and when we're from. Brown is not a color, unless the black, white and gold disappear into shame. Brown is not a color, unless we choose to let those other shades of white eclipse any remnants of our courage and life rooted in this lands history. Brown is not a color, unless they tell us it is.