27 Powers

2006-11-17T14:02:00.000-08:00

muffle me
can't breathe
hard on the chest
bad things
no space
no reprieve
can't breathe
muffle me

All Pure

2006-06-04T21:58:00.000-07:00

Stepping off the plane and walking out that front door
The winds brush my face frozen
The thoughts of living here once, but no more
Her car pulls up and I get in

All Pure

The dog whose nose is wet on my face
The bark, the muddy paws

All Pure

And I am, just as I am

Freedom, dreams, wanting, yearning for that freedom to run away

Jump on the next plane to Italy
with her.
Away
Could I? I wonder...
Could I really? Yes. I think I could.
And all the thoughts that follow...

All Pure

To wake up as the journalist who photographs around the world

A flat in Paris
A man in Italy

Or the Hippy who lives in her van at the beach who paints her dreams

Pure desire

As pure as my mind and hand that writes this
As pure as the music blasting in my ears
As pure as the crazy imaginings that flow through my heart

All Pure

Stef - wild write 3.16.06 - Dream or Reality?

2006-03-19T20:02:00.000-08:00

I found myself up at 3am, he wasn't there. I searched the bed, the living room, nothing.
Where was he. Was I actually awake? Was I dreaming?
Walking throughout all the rooms. No where.
Wake up! You're dreaming. He's not really gone.
You hear her cry again. Where is she? Why can't I go to her?
I lean against the sink; darkness.
I turn on the light quick, my eyes squint.
Wake up! Wake up!
Did he leave? Did I know he was leaving?
Wake up!
Cries again...go to her.
Silence. Did she really cry?
I think so - quiet. Don't go yet, maybe she'll fall back asleep.
Does she know he's gone?
Does she realize it's only me?
I want to cry.
Did something happen? Did he really leave?
I go to her. Ear on door; waiting to hear the cry, the breath.
She's sleeping.
Did I really dream this? Am I awake?
I pinch myself because that's what they say.
I look to the photograph on the wall, are the 3 of us there?
Yes, still there.
I stumble back to an empty bed.
4am. Lay awake - my head racing.
Should I call? Did something happen?
I can't remember anything. Did he tell me he was leaving? Is he gone for good?
No, can't be.
He'd never leave her.
4:30am, here I am still awake.
I turn over, cold in bed with flannel pajamas, a sweatshirt and wool socks.
I can't get warm.
4:45 awaken, the door lock is coming undone. I must of fallen asleep. The door opens. I lay still, not wanting to breathe.
Why? Why am I so afraid? Afraid of what?
The dark. The darkness holds so much. So much of the unknown.
He creeps in, clothes off, slips into bed. I lay still. He rolls into me.
Nothing.
Minutes go by. I whisper; "where were you?" Nothing. I wishiper again; "where were you?" Heavy breath on my neck.
Nothing.
I exhale. Breathe. Breathe.
6am alarm goes off - awake.

snowsparkle wild-write 2-2-06

2006-02-05T07:27:00.000-08:00

Leave your house naked
don't pause at the door
there is no hesitation when
skin wants the sky

My son and i shared a short-lived new year's tradition. When i turned 50 a couple years ago, it felt like instant permission to do things i'd never done before. On that new year's day, when my son and i saw the rain dancing on the wooden deck in our backyard, we tore off our clothes and joined in the dance. I tell you, the feeling was unexpected. The heat of my body floated outward to greet the cool rain. Body, hair and breath caught the scents: fresh, wet, morning. We danced, feet and arms flailing like some crazed vaudvillean dream. Our laughter frightened the cats and my husband. Then, falling back into the house through the open door, we wanted nothing but the whole day to carry this peace, this reckless peace, armloads of "yes you may's."

This new year, my teenage son couldn't find a way for it to be ok to dance naked in the dawn with his mom. So we danced our separate dances with less joy, less exhuberance, less recklessness. It seemed the faintest wisp of what it had been before. Still, it was something.

Being in the writing space and wild writing with all these women sometimes feels like leaving the house naked. Self-acceptance and the way things are held lightly invite me to walk the walk of naked words. Lift things up to the light, never mind the sagging breasts and jowls.

Fight

2005-11-17T23:01:00.000-08:00

Last night I was sad. I felt it coming on early in the day, that sad, sad feeling that everything is wrong, that any other perspective is nothing but an illusion, that I am defective—that I have an internal defect that makes me this way, makes me sad and wrong eternally.

I fought back.

"I'm sad because I'm sad," I said, "and it doesn't mean anything. Tomorrow may be different. Five minutes from now may be different."

Today IS different. Not happy, not sad, though I've had moments of each. But yesterday—all that—I know it was about Life of Pi, about the hyena killing the zebra by tearing open its belly and eating its guts from the inside. I know it was about the hyena beheading Orange Juice, the orangutan that was rescued as an infant and raised together with Pi like a sibling. I know it was about Pi stranded on that 26-foot lifeboat, terrorized by the hyena and the tiger, and about feeling sorry for them, for Pi and especially for the animals, who didn't ask to be put on the ship, who weren't willingly moving to their new zoo homes when the ship sank.

I know its just a story. Its all just a story--you, me, the whole thing.

Yesterday I was sad. Really, really sad. The kind of sad that wants to transform itself into despair. "I'm sad because I'm sad," I said. "And it doesn't mean anything."

I fought back.

Juicy

2005-11-04T23:05:00.000-08:00

See what you do.
Take the blue from that painting over there and wrap it in something—words, phyllo dough.
Bake with color.
Take a play day.
Reel in a golden fish, melt it down and cast another shape.
Hike up Mt. Kilmanjaro—first you will have to find the trail in the foothills.
Milk a goat.
Milk a sheep.
Feel the warm teats, the warm liquid, the wool warmed by sun.
Hear the bleating.
Sew up your lips.
Sew them together to keep the drivel inside, to avoid saying something you'll regret.
See what you do with a little self-direction.
So much time at the beck and call of others.
See what you do.
Make some spaghetti with codfish balls in a sorrel sauce.
Make chocolate spaghettini with currants and a caramel glaze.
Pray.
Think about whether there's actually anything out there to pray to.
Doubt.
Feel silly for praying.
Pay the bills on time with online bill pay, free from the credit union.
It's great.
Try some other limited time offer.
Whatever you do, don't think of Alicia.
You don't need her approval.
Think of desert sands shifting, the scent of heat that looms in the air, the motorized drone of a passing Winnebago.
Think about how you are great and perfect.
Eat a maraschino cherry.
Think "yuk".
Remember Villa Italian on Sepulveda. Or was it Overland Ave?
Wish you could go there for a square slice of pizza.
Remember how your family always called it Villa Italia, dropping off the final n.
Remember the two large fans in the wall that looked like some kind of World War II submarine turbines.
Really see those big metal blades and the dust strands that decorated their cylindrical mounts.
Remember how you loved them best, how you thought they could save your soul, like those fans were your own personal Jesus made of steel.
Think about how weird that is, and also how normal.
Multiply that type of thinking times all the people in the world, because people do think that way.
There's a lot of bizarre imagery looming in the psychic space of our species, all wrapped up together: tangled gods in the shape of boats, mechanical pencils, suede shoes, an alligator handbag.
See that tree? That peach tree over there?
The fruit is ripe.
Go ahead, pluck one.
Eat it.
Juicy.

your pink lips

2005-10-20T00:11:00.000-07:00

didn't anyone ever tell you
not to play with fire?
what are you thinking, putting your hand
in the flame like that,
watching the skin bubble?

a soft snowfall in march
your pink lips kissing a white rose
the outline of your figure in a doorway

why don't you surrender,
lay down your heart?
true, you risk losing it forever
a skulking coyote could make a quick snack of it

but if you said, i'm helpless
if you said, i'm out of love
if you said, i'm emptier than zero
lonelier than god

a nymph would touch a bird in the forest
a wing would flap
you would feel a fluttering in your middle

why don't you retire yourself,
your storytelling?
tell your own story someone else's way
then you will see

Saying Yes.

2005-10-18T09:52:00.000-07:00

I'd rather be topless. Her jeep sped off; these words cozied up around her license plate. I leave my car and walk into the divey Mexican place on International Boulevard, and I wonder. I wonder if my two friends seated on either side of me will make a go of it, and try a kiss, a caress, when they look at the stars tonight. I wonder how long we’ll have Martin, I wonder about this as I sweep him into a polka after dinner, after being gifted a free Mexican ballad on the digital jukebox. We dance down the aisle, past our table and our spent margaritas, and his words come out with urgency – “HOLD THE DOORS!" and his wife and Jon immediately obey, and swing the two doors wide for Martin and I to dance into the street. It’s good for the soul, this spontaneous exuberance, this glimmer of celebration for no reason. Something about dancing like this says YES to life. Perhaps it’s the contrast between giggles and the dirty floor. Perhaps for that moment, the tenderness, the connection helps us to transcend it all, and it matters not where we are, because we are being. Because we are joy, because we love, just because the doors are open.

denying my denial

2005-09-21T12:29:00.000-07:00

it snuck up on me
this crush
i'd blamed the bubbly giddy laughter
on long work days and little sleep
blamed the animated phone conversations
on too much coffee
blamed the tripping over my words
on having too much to do
excused my probing questions
as being normal for an inquisitive blogger type
but then i did the math
while he was describing his camping trips
and how his interest in gourmet cooking began
23 years ago at age 14
i found myself doing the math
and that's when I knew
the moment i slid that 37 right up next to my 51 years
and gasped at the age difference
i knew i had a crush
a sweet little flickering flame
licking at my heart
filling me with both
dread and desire
and also what i'd asked for
in the depths of my secret soul
a measure of joy and wonder
insensible imaginings and
a sudden loss of balance
unfamiliar to my sturdy self
as if i'd looked down and found a pair of sequined
high heeled shoes glittering brightly on my feet
trembling on the thin tightrope miles above earth
and no safety net in sight

Girl Scout Blow Out

2005-09-13T20:20:00.000-07:00

The women's camping trip in Tahoe I organized begins. Part mother hen, part girl scout, part father's daughter is how I feel. I have the ax (a lucky 50 points on the Scrabble Board), the lantern and the baseball bat, the army shovel and the air mattress, the campstove and the mega-tent. It's all prepared. Pitched the tent early with methodical precision. Carved a place in the dirt. Planted eight solid stakes to keep the thing on the ground, plus tied it to a tree for good measure. Everyone's here. Four remarkably dazzling women. Little star and I make dinner. Eat by 6:30 pm. Yum. Mixed green salad with pecans, cranberries, goat cheese and vinaigrette. I make marinated bbq'd halibut, and pasta with sauteed mushrooms and spices. Right after, I say I want to do dishes; Little star says wait til after dessert. Little bird builds the fire and we listen in bliss while she plays the banjo. Appalachian tunes in Tahoe, so sweet, so sweet. Relax. Relax. But now: hmmm...dishes in the dark(!) The wind is picking up. (Hemingway's "The Three Day Blow"...Knowed it.) Little star wears her headlamp and finally the dishes done. We put them away by lantern light. I kill the big log fire in a stupid way I'll regret later. Head off to brush my teeth and pee before diving into the tent. 10:30 dog-tired and I'm just about to reach for the tent zipper when ssshhhhSSSSSHHSHHHHHHSSSHHHSUUUUUWWWWWOOOOOOSHHHH! Extreme blast of wind out of nowhere snaps a tent pole, straightens the fastened coil, uproots the stakes and the tent breaches belly up with 30 lbs of gear. Would have blown clear across the campground if it hadn't been tied to the tree. (ps. listen to your intuitions, you'll be glad you did). I try to revive the tent and get tangled in the mess. I hear a strange sound... it's me calling for help. I hear myself yell "I need help with my TENT!" The words hover on the wind and there's a brief silence as if whoever heard it wasn't sure what they'd heard. Then a flurry of action: little bird and mega-wordsmith come to my rescue. At the cost of their own warmth and comfort, they come to my rescue. They make magic of the chaos. Open the tent. Retrieve the mattress, bedclothes, flashlight, clothing, water and book. Shove it all into the back of my truck. I'm still reeling from the catastrophe that I worked so hard to protect against. Power of the wind, power of these women... incredible, intense. I feel humbled and in awe of their generosity; their kindness. Climb into the warm bed made by little bird and count my fortunes in the friends surrounding me. Feel so unworthy. So unworthy. And grateful.

free for a moment

2005-09-07T21:02:00.000-07:00

alone
alone in this big foggy city
alone
no stroller to push
no mouth to feed
no bag to carry
no worries
me
alone
walking fast
ducking into every little door I wanted
alone
the feeling of being free
even if for just a moment

Appetite

2005-08-17T22:40:00.000-07:00

Eighty degrees in the big top.

A motorbike loop-de-loops in its cage
with a numbing roar.

The machines and people are bad enough,
but the tiger they destroy.

A trick tiger they have made.

I watch the eyes glint with appetite
for the whip-master.

the great unpacking

2005-08-01T09:09:00.000-07:00

goodness knows
there were things she'd had to let go of -
"what to keep and what to throw away,"
is how her friend put it, stumbling in the midst
of motherhood and marriage,
those twin parentheses of security
formatting even her dark days.

but this was not that same excision.
this was paperbacks and photos and mementos
of everything that had managed, somehow,
to make the final cut.
this was dishware, old poetry, and wire sculptures.
this was starfish, a basketball trophy, and costumes.
this was a tape collection, a glue gun, pjs.

this was not an unhinging, a cyclone
of irretrievable loss, a catacylsm of memory.
this required only
a cup of strong coffee,
patience
and a little shelf space.

and though her back was taut with the move,
her hands a swamp of paper cuts and ache,
her head juggling the measurements of storage,
through it all, her heart had remained
blissfully, unreservedly
intact.

and because of this reprieve
from all the possible shatteredness
she saw the pile from the perch of her coffee cup
and realized how easy she had it,
her great unpacking the simplest matter
of boxes.

inside and out

2005-07-29T21:04:00.000-07:00

an early morning
getting ready - something you're just not used to doing
but have to get back into it
work is starting
today though - it wasn't work
it was sitting down with a friend
getting out of the house for some adult time
a cold morning
overcast
the way I was feeling inside and out
sitting at a table with other women
talking
connecting
listening
real, authentic life
desire
knowing and remembering me before
before she was born
finding out I'm a 7
I need to have faith
Know that I'm on the right path, right now,
knowing that this is all going to work out
be present
be here now
at this table
with women
connecting
listening
the walk home a little brighter
a little warmer
inside and out

LIke Reaching

2005-07-29T08:04:00.000-07:00

like reaching
on a cold morning
for something
besides this coffee
this good, strong coffee

like reaching
peering
seeking
something
on a friday morning
cold
cartoons
kids

and a quiet feeling
a tired feeling

one reader said she thought I was smothering my soul
and it haunts me
my homeopath said I was riding a class 5 rapid
and that I was doing a very good job
even if it could kill me

in my writing class last night
7 women around my dining room table
many, mostly gay, some not
I felt compelled
why?
to write about fucking him
wrote about the power of it
the seizure of it
didn't write about the emptiness part
the part where I collapse inside myself afterwards
the part where I have to go home, get home, and fast

i'm telling you
it's hard to tell the truth about some things
especially to your friends
and even to yourself
and sometimes
let's cut me some slack
that truth comes slowly
reveals itself in cups
of strong, black coffee

comfort food

2005-07-08T14:07:00.000-07:00

creamy polenta, mashed potatoes, spaghetti & meatballs, mac and cheese sizzling from the oven, hot chocolaty brownies, a hershey bar with almonds - waxy in my mouth, new jersey blueberries with sugar on top - cool and in a bowl, sharing the big spoon with dad, on the couch, in summer.

ole's waffle shop, alameda 2005

something about
going back
the old; the familiar.
here
blue haired ladies replaced with younger blondes
who bring plates
of eggs and bacon, of meatloaf,
the brown gravy not alone
on the plate
like him, alone,
near the clock, also separate from it’s companion
Laughing Sally
they all remember her, Laughing Sally,
from Playland at the Beach, when times were different,
when they dressed up for a day of shopping, womanly gloves, manly hats;
when they dressed for anything, and life seemed more glamorous
than this one
the clock pulled out of its world
into this one
and like him, out of place
at the end of the yellow plastic counter
wondering
why is someone
photographing him
as he eats
comfort.

How To Unpeel Yourself

2005-07-04T21:40:00.000-07:00

Start where it hurts.
(Find a sore spot.)
Remove skin.
Pick pick pick
until a river of red
runs away with your
tale of woe.

There, just there,
take one more layer.
One more thin edge.
And lift to reveal the new
tender webbing that
envelops you
like rose petals.

gone fishing

2005-07-01T19:17:00.000-07:00

Deep sea diving. Home on the 14th of the month.

stars

2005-06-24T21:58:00.000-07:00

if there were stars that night
i did not see them

what i saw was vinyl upholstery
the open mouth of the bottle
robbie’s face close in the muggy darkness of the back seat
speeding white headlights
green exit signs punctuating the night

what i saw was hollywood approaching
a kind of teenage freedom
five girls staggering down sunset full of blackberry brandy
and southern comfort
and boys, boys with cars, boys who procured bottles
by the fifth

this was after sonia moved to las vegas for a year and came back shavonne
but before the curtain of my innocence fell
before holly left forever
before i wrecked my rabbit and my spleen on olsen road
before rich strung himself up in his dark apartment
before david stepped off the freeway overpass

it was just a night like other nights
like the night z came up from hollywood
in his rock and roll leather
to climb the suburban foothills with
five high school girls
all of us coming home full of cactus needles
taking turns in the shower
with beer and tweezers

this was before the string of bad boyfriends
before i went to rob’s dorm room with my last few lines of cocaine
before i first tasted raw oysters on a date in la jolla
before my girlfriends started asking me to have threesomes
before my grandmother died, and then my father, and then my other grandmother
before the lead-weight jobs
before the clomid, the injections, the cyst, the miscarriage

what i remember is the rush of darkness
the hum of the road
the thuh-thuh of reflectors under tires
the podlike feeling of riding fast in that car
parentless, invincible, free

if there were stars that night
i did not see them

panties

2005-06-23T11:49:00.000-07:00

There are 13 panties
when he sings pussycat
pussycat
I love you
cute, thin, panties, scattered messily on the stage
like delicate white, pink, and black flowers

Now there are 21 panties
one pink thong
lands on tom’s right arm, near the microphone chord
and to his right
one white bra, white cups, lonely
wait for attention
for love
to be touched
to be seen
to have fun

We all want it
love, hot sex, someone to take charge once in a while
to leave the panties messy on the floor
and say what’s true
and so I’ll say it.
as bob does it,
sings pussycat pussycat I love you
like he did one year ago
with the tom jonesing band
on our wedding night on his knees
I’m unhappy in this instant
over his tousle with the usher
but I listen to his voice in my ear
and let it enter me
and ask for passion without anger
wonder if it’s possible
as he coos and caresses me
in his tux
one year away
from I do.

clara in the cave

2005-06-21T12:17:00.000-07:00

It’s not pretty, the arguing
with a mother in a silver wheelchair.

Stalactites hang from the underside of a desert floor
piercing through cool moist air
daughter
pants and pushes her up the incline
thinks the brakes are on, but not
mother
proclaiming independence
I don’t need you
and frees herself from the chair
and runs, literally runs, up the ramp.

Unimpressive, she says
not like the gleaming white cavern in Virginia
with the pipe organ built into the formations, that summer, back then.

Mother and daughter enter the throne room
twenty-foot-long straws, undulating ribbons, a soaring mythical column
hundreds of thousands of years
of drips, minerals, wetness
secret treasure
awe and wonder wash over them.

As they leave, indignance and independence release their grip.
The rush of desert air brings them back to reality
that they are two women
with the same turn on their noses
the same ache in their left hip
and the mother’s momentary bristling
at the difference
between old and young
is buried,
she can’t talk of resentment
that she can’t do some things
that it’s not her turn anymore.

she looks into the eyes of the daughter she loves
eyes that are like his, her husbands eyes, long gone
and she knows it’s ok to be 80
and be a mother
standing in the parking lot
of Karchner Caverns
in the hot desert air.

Fun for Every Juan

2005-06-09T16:47:00.000-07:00

The heat dampens all of me, as I sit in the car, the can of Fresca warming between my knees. All ten years of me, white skinny legs and arms, ten years of me, pushing the dog off my upper thigh, pushing her hard, as she scratches me, leaving painful red swirls on my leg with her nails, hurrying to get wherever she is not. In the back seat with my aunt, her hair red, always red, her body thin like mine. I put down Gone with the Wind to read the first sign:

PEDRO’S SOUTH OF THE BORDER
Fun for every Juan

The miles in the Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme station wagon pass by excruciatingly slowly. The Georgia peaches in the back window roast in the sun, their scent fills the car, mingling with the Virginia ham on the floor. I’m tired of waiting to eat the ham, but I can eat a peach, eat it now, as the miles pass on Uniroyal tires; my dad’s allegiance to the brand always a mystery, and I wonder when it will happen -- the inevitable jerk of the car, the limp to the edge of the hot pavement in South Carolina, when we get the blow-out. Will it come before Dad’s speeding ticket, will it come before the interstate is built, in this year before I have a period, before my first kiss, before I fall in love with the desert and out of love with Mike. Before my aunt introduces me to sherry, with ice, at the restaurant on the pier in St. Augustine FLA, where I throw bread to the fish, water churning, and I’m glued to the rail, watching them.

Pedro’s weather forecast…

Back to Gone with the Wind. How can Scarlet’s waist be 14 inches! I’m only ten, and my waist is 14 inches. I’m in love with Ashley, not Rhett, and don’t understand why Scarlet brushes him off. Can't she see he's the one?

Chili today. Hot Tamale.

There are around 100 of these signs, marking the miles before and after Pedroland, each one an event, something to look forward to, while the tires hum and we count the hours from New Jersey to Miami. Even though it’s the only thing for miles we never stop to get a closer look at the 200 foot tall sombrero that’s has been there since the 1950’s, guiding people south, guiding us to the Florida beach. The ferris wheel, the ice cream, the Himalaya, simply delay me wearing my favorite straw hat, and putting white zinc on my nose and winning the right forearm tanning contest with dad.

Now I’m only hours away from little baby pecan pies and cold milk from the beach shop, from the smell of the canvas raft in the seawater and the squeak of my body as I climb on top to float, float, float, dreamy in the sea my aunt is afraid of. Only hours from the kitchenette, from the smell of orange blossom somethings for sale at the souvenir stores, from the sizzling sirloin steak and corn at Captain Jacks. Hours from the Ramada Inn, where mom leaves the dog in the hot hot car, windows up, while we have lunch, and come out to find the car was opened, the rescued pet standing confused in the entry fountain, tongue out, panting, almost dead, and I wasn’t sure I cared. It’s time to go to the beach.

something catches

2005-06-05T10:17:00.000-07:00

eventually something catches
...catches my eye...
that flower on the corner
the garbage on street
the butterfly sitting on the pavement
the sun creating shadows on the green grass
something catches my eye and I stop...
stop and pay attention
pay attention like a photographer should
I catch myself...
I catch a glimpse of that man at the table reading his paper and drinking his coffee.
he doesn't see me, I watch him, he's entered my head, but I've not entered his.
what's it like to be a part of someone's mind you aren't aware of
I want into their minds, their lives..
I want to know and feel how they feel...
I catch a glimpse of the woman sitting in traffic next to me singing
I can't hear the music or even know if there is any?
I catch a glimpse of Tim slipping into the shower, the glimpse of his naked body.
the glimpse of his underware peaking out of his pants
the glimpse of her bra sticking out of her low cut t-shirt
the thong outside her low slung pants
I catch a glimpse of the woman littering like no one saw
the man tripping over the sidewalk
the dog pooping on the rose bushes..
the glipse of the world passing by...
stopping for that moment to take in the quietness of an empty apartment.
I leave the lights off and sit in darkness.the man across from us pulls his blinds - he's only in boxers.I don't see anything, he doesn't see me.

sparks

2005-06-04T20:02:00.000-07:00

They both needed different things
And also the same things
Where the paths crossed
Their language became electric
A charged reaching-for-something
A wired type of sparring
An unintentional jab
A parting zap
A shower of sparks
Igniting a knowing smile
She recognized herself
Plugged into aggression-mode
Practicing her technique
On an unintended target
Savoring the way it felt
Expressing long-suppressed instincts
Like a wolf pup play-fighting with a sibling
Dreaming of a future kill
She felt good and strong
Playful and vibrant
Right up until the moment
It became real
His expression changed
The intended parting zap
Delivered

At Sears

2005-06-04T08:40:00.000-07:00

My father has an office under the escalator. All day, people move up and down, smoothly, evenly, feeling on their faces the brushing wind that is unique to escalator travel, carrying shopping bags and grasping the hands of squirming children. Down below, my father sells insurance. He has a wide plastic briefcase that opens up into a kind of slide projector. The suitcase is gray. He uses it to make promises, to show people what security looks like.

One day I am walking around the store with my mother, father, and brother. We are here for Toughskins jeans. I have a green pair and a red pair, and my brother has brown and blue ones. We each need another pair. As we pass by Lingerie, my mother drags me aside, saying to my father and brother, "We'll catch up with you."

I am ten years old and already I have small mounds forming under my t-shirt. I have not noticed, but my mother has. She has been plotting, waiting to ambush me. The woman in Lingerie is wrinkled, smells of milk and must. She gives me a knowing look, tinged with pity, that says she is sorry I am growing titties so young. I hate her. I hate my mom. The woman wraps me with a tape measure, turns the tape measure this way and that, proclaims a number and letter for me to harness around myself when I dress in the morning for the 6th grade.

Another day I am much younger. I am about as tall as my father's hip. I am alone with him, walking through Appliances. We are walking fast, on our way somewhere. I reach up to hold his hand and my pinky finger is met by a burning sting. I cry out and yank my hand back. Tears spill from my eyes. My father halts, startled. He bends down to examine the red circle on my finger and says he is sorry. He is sorry he was holding his cigarette in toward his palm so I couldn't see it.

He is sorry, too, that I know something about him: that he holds dangerous things in places that can't be detected; but this he does not say.

My grandmother laughing

2005-05-27T21:06:00.000-07:00

My grandmother laughing
Cigarette in mid drag
Was a sparkle
My grandmother laughing
Anytime
Instead of crying
Was a gift
Lamby, lover
This is what she called me
Her eyes twinkling
“Sit with me sugar,” she’d say
beckoning me to the land
of channel #5 meets Merit Menthols
a dreamy combination
of pleasure and sin.

full moon full

2005-05-25T20:35:00.000-07:00

Four lovely women and a dog on a sofa early Sunday evening. One playing a small blue guitar, two stroking a soft golden Maisy girl doggy, one perched on the arm of the sofa. Conversations shimmer like the last rays of sun filtering through the tree's dancing leaves. Slow, ambling conversations float like the full moon or an orange warmth above the glowing campfire. Love can be like that. Simple, peaceful, uncomplicated.... nothing to grab onto, yet enough of it for everyone.

a kind of forgetting

2005-05-25T19:17:00.000-07:00

all day, all of this day spent in love. i don't remember if i've ever known such a thing. in fact, i know i haven't. but she was with me all day, literally, physically, and i didn't and don't want it to stop, and it's strange to look outside and realize a whole day has passed, a whole day, and how funny it is that's it's just felt like minutes, i'm telling you, minutes, and i wonder why that is, and why i still can't get enough, and how it isn't like that obsessive kind of love, it doesn't feel like that, because if it did i wouldn't be eating, i'd be losing weight, disappearing, sallow or jaundiced with swollen glands, that kind of not eating, and we ate today, several meals, full ones, we ate and ate well, so it isn't obsession, can't be, even though i'm still hungry, thirsty, aching, even though i am all these things, it feels like the right kind of hunger and thirst and ache, for some reason, a whole day passing and still, it feels right, and i am relieved because i didn't know love could be like this, wanted to believe it but couldn't, and yet, and yet, it's here, the right kind of hunger and thirst and ache. it's here.

Inchworm

2005-05-24T21:42:00.000-07:00

I was out in my back yard, wearing my leather jacket—it was coldish—and there this inching thing, this little green crawly, bunching itself up and unbunching, scrunching and unscrunching, propelling itself, propelling, propelling. Just a little thing it was, just a little inch-long critter pulsing ahead, steadfast, speeding over my shoulder to far-off lands.

Here is my own tiny tiny, my own itty bitty, my own little pulsing, offered to the women of 27 Powers.