hot pink signatures

i snip through my hair dropping ends &
beginnings & scraps
into the sink, twirl around &
strain for angles dig my fingers deep into my roots
squeeze my eyes shut
shake my head fast hard so the
hairdust endings fall out to
litter my shoulders
turn on the faucet and clear the sink
each hair leaving a tracing
a signature in hot pink dye
looping and spiralling webs on the
cool white porcelain, a map of my
eccentricities.

leaving

talking to kevin i told him that's what I do; i'm
the leaving type and he looks at me he
raises his eyebrows he says
eventually you'll have to stay somewhere
and i nod of course cuz no matter what i say i'm
tired of all the leaving.
my last few days in a place every encounter
feels like it needs to be a goodbye
you know, just in case & we
waste our precious time talking of
where i'm going to be, not
where we are.
my last few days every night
i never sleep till the clock hits morning and my
body tells me it needs a couple hours of
unawareness.
my last few days i don't know how to react so i
cut short the people i love and
focus on what's just out of reach out of
sight, in the leaving.
i leave people, i leave places, when they've
hooked into me lightly enough
that i can still tear free; deep enough
to leave a scar.
& i tell myself leaving is easier but
it exhausts me.

i think i need more indefinites in my life because i
live through each place knowing my time there is closing.
i want to stay stay stay stay LEAVE with no warnings, no
forethought, no
goodbyes.


on bald head island:

kaleidoscope

hot afternoon & we're
melting away, trying
not to move
sit still and let the world
kaleidoscope around us
this cold drink in my hand, these
familiar faces surrounding as we
lounge around and wave our hands at flies,
at friends, at the thick air
underage skater boys with sticky smiles
old men hiding beers inside paper bags
hipster girls in heels bumming cigarettes
moving and flowing through this street scene dance
of hellos and goodbyes and this day
this month this summer - they're
going too fast i need a pause
a signal, a memento
something more to
hold onto.

last days

raspberry hair
volcanic
sunglasses that tint my world the soft greenish brown of 70s films
i feel myself melting away like a popsicle (raspberry popsicle!)
they can't touch me except they can, oh they can

no unfamiliar faces

do each other

who knows what's real
what's pretend when there's
all this time to kill, all this
sticky summer air &
these empty streets & there's
nothing to do so we do
what we can, do
what we want, do
each other

summer flings

romances seem easy, seem lovely but less intricate - what's beautiful is the intimacies we create outside of the contexts of exclusivity and ownership and even sexuality. let's color our own pictures of love of life of friendship

i think i expect too little from people, expect them to expect too little from me.

i don't even want to think about
things
just want to spend all my evenings in the
half-dark, never sleeping
till almost dawn
curling up whispers
passed between shadowy faces
expressions almost indecipherable but for
the occasional flash of smile
let's be near, let's be dear, let's be
undefined&indiscriminate and always
newnewnew; let's
go to bed.

shall we?

Let's have a gas station romance, an insomniac future, a revolution. Calling all runaways and commitment-phobes - we can build sand castles and cloud constellations, take midnight bike rides that leave us starry-eyed and wanting more; when our voices get scratchy in our throats we'll shout even louder. I want to spill out my secrets to strangers, create intimacies and miracles and then vanish into a new reality.

Lola

             She slipped off the stool, asked me to babysit her beer while she peed, and I nodded, turned and smiled at him in what i thought would turn into an uncomfortable silence filled with our unfamiliarity; we'd reintroduced ourselves yet again but I wasn't sure what there was to say. He reached for his back pocket. "Do you smoke?" "Yeah....if I can bum one..." He smiled, rubbing his sweaty hair.
             In the other room he stuck a cigarette between his lips as we stood in the doorway, pulled out a book of matches then remembered and offered me the pack, cupped his hands around a flame as I inhaled. We wove around the boys playing pool to find familiar faces in the nook in the back; he sat on the table and I folded myself onto the floor, looking around and smiling faintly as introductions were made and beers were compared.
             "You look like Lola."
             I looked up, laughing, "Who's Lola?"
             "Lola from Run Lola Run. You know." I claimed it was just the hair but he shook his head, no, no it's her style too, it's the tilt of my head.

fortresses

              Sitting on the floor behind the counter feels like hiding, and I suppose that's what we're doing, ducking down out of sight, away from our job and their eyes and any responsibilities. Down here, curled beside the humming refrigerators, we're kids building fortresses out of cushions; we've downsized our spaces and simplified our world. The few square feet of grimy stone, the coffee grinds and plastic lids I can see we've neglected to sweep from way beneath the counters, the prepackaged muzak streaming out the speakers. We're giggling, he's singing, I lean my head back on the cool metal, close my eyes, let out a sigh. Our knees are almost touching. I open my eyes for a peek and smile...the front door bangs open and he jumps up a customer a customer at last! Reluctantly I'm easing to my feet, grabbing the big milk pitcher and wiping the steaming wand, blinking as my reality expands once more.