giving up

Nothing makes up for it: not the beats, not the crowd, not the clothes on the girls. Not the twinkling lights, not the fountain, not free champagne under the stars. Not the excess, not even the pain. The mystique of the old converted cottages has vanished. Instead a sleazy fog envelopes the bustling patio. effervescent energy melts into gold and black and tan and green, a smoggy twilight the color of money. Invisible busboys replace broken bottles instantly. tough black leather banquettes remain unmarred despite the stilettos that crush down on them nightly.

I try to calm down and take it all in. the green lights of the sign outside Miceli's, the bored salesclerk at house of pain (where I got my 2nd tattoo). The lights outside Mood nearly blind us. The other times I danced at Mood I found LA magic: free drinks, sketchy photographers, guys that we recognized busting sick moves on the dance floor. I linger by the bar, move in slow motion. TImbaland mixed with Mickey Avalon crowds into my ears and the beats push me into my friends. I don't lose myself here anymore. I remember a bowling alley and extract myself from the mass of bodies just before midnight. A whoosh of cool air propels me out the heavy double doors of the club. My vinyl platform heels glide over the dirty sidewalk stars to my car as I type out the address of my next destination into the web browser of my phone.


i find the real LA by leaving, as usual. I like to drive up the coastal highway, get lost in a canyon, trace the sillouhette of the mountain until it burns into my brain. I feel alive on PCH, on the beach. I soak up the glitter of the sun and watch it dance across the water. i feel the heat of dry brush and sand and asphalt melt into my skin. tonight I skim across the freeways in my tiny beat up Toyota. City stretches for miles. I parallel park in front of a discount grocery store in Highland Park and tiptoe across the faded carpet of a former bowling alley. Slow molasases pours through my veins and I float up to heaven on a lazy guitar riff. It feels like salvation under silver spray painted stars in the almost empty bar. I try not to lie.

LA swallows you up and spits you out raw. It's either magical or fake or somewhere in between. The magic happens nightly when I believe the fake to be most real. I sail up the highway, coast on the left, canyons on the right, to find serenity I hate getting overwhelmed in the rush to be the next somebody somwhere. Somone else can have that. I’ll take the quiet.

LA is a city of broken dreams that live on in a graveyard of graffittied alleys and freeways and late night bathrooms. It's where dreams go to die. She lies naked on a bed, wrapped in a white fluffy comforter, mind racing. rock music pumping. I grasp tightly to shards of dreams.

Of course I get caught up in the magic of a show. in the light of the diner, in the stars’ faint glow. Of course, when we’re apart, it fades.

fairyland

I don’t even want to think about where I am. it's too much. I got on a plane and tried not to pay attention. I read a book, checked my email. Listened to the same songs. Can't ever remember where I am. Don’t need to know. It's all the same. It was like time had stopped. Had any time passed at all? I didn’t realize I wanted to go back there so badly. I miss it. I miss life, the familiar haze of glossy memory masks the piercing pain. nothing is as good as the memory I keep.

She ran scared through the streets of downtown LA. We tripped around the cavernous bar in patent leather high heels. I wished so hard that time had stopped. That block brought back memories that I’d rather forget. Reading in the park, Walking to lunch, to the subway, to sav-on. Why did it have to be there? i want to go back before too much champagne and hedonism, before decadance and sleaze and rock and roll, before I pretended all that that meant I was worth something. he was standing right next to me. I was in shock, over it before it ever started. Fuck pretending. The past is not worth revisiting.

Nothing is constant. Grow up grow down grow around. sit in traffic till nothing happens. Wasted life or found time? Gotta live closer to the beach (she says). You’re the same and so am i. We haven't changed in seven years. You never left.

You were everything I ever talked about. I still don’t want to understand how I live for you. I want to go back to when it was perfect. Was it ever perfect? If perfect isn't allowed then what does not perfect feel like? I pretend you listen to me but when I only know myself, I cannot know you. Maybe we thought the same thing. Maybe not. A Lover’s temptress goes down best when served cold, over ice, underground. But theres no underground in Los Angeles. Los Angeles is the future and underground is ancient. The future is trash, it is up and out and everywhere. It can’t exist without the past. Can I exist without you?

Fires burn down so you rebuild. Each wave washes our sins away. Renewal depends on destruction, light depends on darkness, but how close can you get? Always a new place to go…never the same.

summerland

There's grafitti on your cell phone and glitter on your nose. I sometimes think that's all I need. My mind won't tell the truth & my body leads me on until these little cues pile up. We rode the train and piled our stuff high on the seat. Watched the suburbs fly by. You said I'd know it if you cried. I leaned against you and watched the world around us and wondered if we'd still exist after coming this far, this fast. We watched the traffic from a meadow. You pointed out the poison ivy. Guilt nags at my elbow, tainting any happiness with the thought that its not real and that it’s not ok to feel. I was afraid to look into your eyes. I didn’t want to see myself reflected back. Luckily the darkness hid them as we sat beside the pool. The stars covered our bare shoulders in sparkles when we walked across the lawn. Your body distracted me when we laid across the bed. Right before I left you pulled me into your parents' shower and under a stream of steaming water I finally peered into your eyes. I saw shimmery crystal amber gold lit by the early afternoon sunlight. I didn't see me or you. Just golden depths anchored by a dripping nose.

be careful what you wish for

without you by my side the city breathes slow life into my lungs. taxis drive, i ride the train, routine finds me and when i least expect it i realize i'm fine. in your eyes we dance to silent songs, lifted by the wind. planets crawl along their paths. from a distance it all makes sense. i'm just so low except when you're around. i never thought i'd see you in this town. a quick burst of lightning brought me up and now i'm down where the streets are shitty there's trash on the ground and I'm all dressed up to dance until i can't be found above the crowd, on stage, a wooden puppet without a frown or a smile to make her real because a puppet doesn't feel. i can't erase the beauty of your eyes with shining planets hidden, solar systems where we'd feel so cool floating down the avenues, no gravity just you and me, making our parade of dreams last into the night,..

it's never over

you apologized for skipping out of town and now i'm down to my last cigarette again. i think i got blinded by the fire i found inside your eyes. call me later call me never just don't say forever unless you can stay forever. please. i'm still so empty, hollow. can't feel it unless i'm consumed by you. i don't know what i'm doing. haunted by a ghost. i can't shake the dream. i want to run free but from what? the chains? i'm still so disappointed. 3-d shapes push my mind, searing memories, brilliant, alive. summer girl in city mode. crackling heat leads me astray, mirages disappear into smoke when i draw near. illusion of contentment melts into a dripping mess. i tuck my hair into a blue beret, keep walking in the rain. untouched by madness on the outside. blisters on my heels water drips down my back. i burn bridges on a rooftop one shiny cigarette at a time

in my city it's you and me. in this city. whichever city i call mine. you and me and the memory of another summer spent walking under the same moon. what am i to you anyway? a fucking toy? a substitute for some boy? it's my life too. i don't want to spend it denying the obvious one shot of whiskey at a time. fiery burn numbs my soul, quiets the anger underneath until i wake up, confused, not really angry at you. i just want to feel alive and know it's not a lie. i don't need booze to love myself, i just need you, without the empty promises. i just need to know i can trust, that it's not just misplaced lust, that we share but something more, that when you walk out that door you'lll come back sober and alive.

can it just be you and me and ella playing softly and candles and white wine and we can talk all the time? whatever you are to me grows harder to forget each night i let another take me to that place i see your face, your wispy curls and soft green eyes. don't act surprised, you know it's true. i haven't had my fill of your candy lips, haven't memorized the taste of your porcelain skin. you don't have to spend the night. i don't know if i won't say the wrong thing when there's no air to breathe.

maybe we were drunk but i guess that's ok as long as you'll still be there for at least another day.
she dances by the window then turns out the light. i kiss her bare shoulder, watch her fade into the night.

are you SURE he called a locksmith?

fell asleep running scared. cold crisp linen turned sweaty with our bodies wrapped up in the sheets. the sun came up before I could pass out. outside the city rose for work while my back pressed against his chest. while he laced up his shoes, he asked too many questions. who was the last person you kissed? who treated you well? and I spoke quickly. the bar had pink neon lights and rattlesnake-skin covered stools. we settled on a couch. something caught my eye and when I turned back he kissed me, quickly. I'm so restless now. I smoke more cigarettes but nothing cures this restlessness......

brentwood's finest

James drove a wide, faded copper Cadillac with a shiny mud flap girl silhouette planted firmly across the grill. The vanity plate read MR SLIM. A hint of gray appeared on his jaw when he didn’t shave, tracing a pepper-flecked line to the diamond and gold dollar sign stud poking through one ear. A navy baseball cap hid his sepia-toned scalp. As head of security for Brentwood Gardens Shopping Center he arrived on site by 7 a.m. every day. He unlocked the gates to the outdoor mall nestled against the mansions and dry brush that trailed up into the Santa Monica Mountains. If no other maintenance task required his key James rode the escalator up a flight to the Daily Grill to grab a paper and a small coffee. He then positioned himself on a bench in the bougainvillea-lined center of the mall, his head obscured by section A of the Los Angeles Times and one of his long legs folded perpendicular to the knee of the other to reveal a grey athletic sock. He glanced up from the Times when I rushed by each weekday at 9:57 a.m. balancing my store key with my coffee tumbler, water bottle, and bags of customer requests from my company’s Marina store. He always threw me a wide grin and an enthusiastic, if inexplicable, “Hey Roxy Baby!”

When I interviewed at the perfume and gift shop, on the ground level of the Brentwood Gardens center, I did not pay much attention to the other tenants. The mall looked the same as when it had when I had run up the escalators in leggings and leotards at 13, out of breath and late for ballet class. I noticed no changes from the days when I ditched eighth period to linger over Chinese chicken salad at California Pizza Kitchen and smoke cigarettes on the benches in front of Ron Herman, trying to impress the cool older salesgirl whose dad owned the eponymous boutique. As a high school senior, I arranged to meet E, Internet boyfriend #2, in person for the first time at that same second-floor C.P.K. on a quiet fall Monday for a round of wine and spinach appetizers. At 22 I took the job that included blending custom perfumes and making gift baskets.

There I met James, who stood at least six foot six and was skinnier than Snoop Dogg. His waist seemed to start at my chest, its slenderness accentuated by a narrow black belt supporting a jangling fistful of keys. He had a blonde young wife from Australia who designed jewelry and dreamed of recording an album. I rarely caught a glimpse of her except when she came to visit James and browse the annual half price sale on Louboutins and Jimmy Choos at Madison. The couple walked arm in arm as they toured the mall’s tiny circular promenade; they always stopped by my jewelry counter to try on vintage enamel heart jewelry. After clasping the chain she swiveled around to ask “Slim” if he liked it. He always did.

James read the Times through the Sports section every morning and then stood around in the sun with his hands in his pockets, surveying foot traffic and chatting with the dark-haired Prudential real estate boss from the third floor. Occasionally James retreated to the TV-equipped second-floor office to escape the sun, where he put up his feet and continually checked the pager management gave him.

The mornings crawled by in the mall. I longed to see a grandmother in True Religion Jeans and a Da Nang tank, desperate for Bat Mitzvah gifts, or a new mom in need of an expensive-looking, unscented hostess gift for her husband’s boss & wife—a gift that won’t clash with the recipient’s unknown home décor. After an hour passed with no customers I even yearned for a New Age Pilates addict with a designer perfume she wanted me to clone, or at least a return to process. Instead tourists in twos and threes wandered through the door in need of directions and confused, non-Brentwood residents stopped in to inquire about parking validation or the French shop that closed in ’01.

In the stretches of time between customers I stared blankly out the window, lost in thought while dusting window displays or filling 1oz sample bottles with China Rain lotion. James’ lanky figure caught my eye midmorning as he rode the escalator down to check in with the valet. On his way back up he dropped by for the free M&Ms we kept in a glass bowl next to the register.

James had worked at the mall for over 25 years. He checked the subterranean parking garage for cracks in the predawn hours as aftershocks reverberated from the 1992 Northridge earthquake and he descended from his early-afternoon second-floor vantage point to stand outside my store every time we had more than three or four browsers.

Most security issues at the mall involved the occasional homeless man looking for a quiet corner to smoke crack. Occasionally a graver threat emerged. James told me that next door, Ice Accessories had been held up in an armed robbery and that if anyone ever messed with his girls, he’d give it to them. Six months later another armed robbery occurred at Ron Herman and the owners invested in a private security guard. I thought James would be insulted but he approved, given the pricey clothes and casual, open atmosphere of the shop. Not long after that incident I noticed that the metal chains on the $400 Morphine Generation tank tops at Theodore were for security purposes.

I breathed relief at the hordes of skinny blonde carpool moms in Hard Tail yoga pants that poured in between 12 and 2, demanding 2 soy candles in every scent possible and 8 reed diffusers, all gift-wrapped and labeled. During these hours James could also be called on to give Sammy a hand when her caretaker couldn’t get the wheelchair and the stuffed shopping bags in the elevator. One day a bleach-blonde, puffy-lipped divorcee wearing fur came by with her six kids to pick up a gift basket that her father had pre-ordered, James whispered across the register that the woman always tried to spend on her father’s credit card, even at age 40, causing other shops much chagrin about reversed credit card transactions. We weren’t to charge a thing that was not pre-authorized, he told my coworker and me, no matter how much she whined. After letting her three-year-old twins run wild while she tried on necklaces, the customer implored me to add on a $56 Rigaud votive and a $172 tourmaline necklace, I shot James a questioning look and he picked up her bags, jokingly offering to give her a hand to the car until she herded her kids out the door.

“What’s up, Roxy Baby?” James asked me as we sat shoulder to shoulder outside smoking on the bench in the first lull of the late afternoon one day.
“Not much.” I responded. “What are you doing this weekend?”
“Looking at cars,” he answered. Three days later the in-house car wash service scrubbed and vacuumed his old Cadillac for the last time. The next day a shiny black ’05 Cadillac sedan took its place in the stacked parking spot closest to the south elevator.

plotting another escape

fuck you, walking back into my life brandishing a kitchen knife. cool blade as soft as your touch and i like it too much to say a thing. i just keep my eyes open wide, trying to look in yours while i navigate this city of sleazy bars and angry cars. don't say we never went that far. we teetered on the edge of everything insane, of everything sincere. and now you're here. there's a taxi waiting in the distance. i'm going to get in, leave you all behind. no more broken skin or misty walks by morningside. what we had is gone. i need to take this cab and sail away into the city night, quickly, without a fight. you've made it clear that what we had stopped before it ever started, so take me to JFK because i want to get away. go anywhere. the desert, where it's too warm to feel the ice that's formed around my heart, and if we're still apart in spirit i'll know it's not because of me. it's not the end. i'm starting over every day and i'm about to make my way through this maze of one way streets and sunsets on the beach, rooftops and goddess eyes, more than one lonely sunrise. i can make a life out of all the old. find a new clean path to illuminate my dreams and sort out all this madness because nothing's what it seems. when my world is upside down i need to slowly put it back one piece at a time into a brand new unfamiliar peace of mind.

flipped

i almost forgave you for everything you're not on the 101 last night. blood glowed in the light. a backward glance revealed a smiling face. i don't let myself dream anymore. fragile glass dreams that shatter when you slam the door. the pieces won't go back together after breaking all those times and i didn't mean to punch a hole through the wall when i thew that bottle. i was just sad. too many broken dreams turned into all i ever had.

(good friends stay on your side, always ready to listen, like the ocean. i've got good friends flung far across the continent, bad friends right here sucking me dry. so quick to toast our friendship, so quick to say goodbye.)

pristine darkness, consume me. take my bodily offering to the gods. remove this searing pressure. make it fade away as the ocean gently laps on the sand. dirty hair, dirty skin. less of a sin when you're both out for nothing.

the russian

tiny cheekbones, shiny eyes. a wrinkled navy boy scout shirt. you told me stories of working the coal mines in ukraine as your smile bored a hole into my head. you were late so i smoked a cigarette outside lulu's. once inside you scored free apple martinis, touched my knee under the table, told me about your band. the bar emptied quickly, no time to hear your jukebox selections. with a flick of your wrist you dumped half a shot of jaeger into each red bull. we raised the silver cans and you gently grabbed my skin, put your lips on mine, then swallowed down your drink. i looked you over carefully - tufts of dark hair, vintage blazer. lost in the spanish streets of hollywood we didn't have much to say. you found me hiding against a mirrored wall. it gave me away but i protected myself the second time around. i can't believe i almost let you in. i blame the comedown, the almost-high, the crackling heat drifting off melrose and fairfax at 4 a.m.

behind the music

it was one of those blurry nights between christmas and new years, in an apartment complex on cherokee. his walls were painted red, no furniture, just a desk and a guitar. he poured whiskey into brightly colored glasses. we sat on the hardwood floor. he tore my dress by accident. like a college girl i pretended not to notice. we almost did this one year ealier in a jacuzzi with my best friend at his manager's house. what is it with these LA DJs and their managers? get fucked like rockstars under moonlight in the hills. on the roof. details please. well, i let him write his name. dyed my hair so i wasn't his type. said hi and not much else at moscow. i went back to school, back east, hit up new york city, killed some time. he showed up in italian vogue as paris hilton's backing band. the next time i saw him he already had a new gig.

comorbidity

suicide fantasy, roach motel. how you gonna get to heaven if you always look like hell? cyanide ice cream, cotton candy nose. whisper quickly before i have to go.

you took me to your cardboard house, mattress on the floor, yesterday's pizza still in the box, half eaten. the sun shone past the tiny kitchen, almost reached your pillow. i sunk too quickly into that beat-up mattress. you automatically reached for a cigarette. we fucked quickly, like you could sense my repulsion through my opaque facade. i thought i hid it well.

a dragon clawed its way across her tiny shoulder, breathing fire for the both of them. i don't know why i took so many pills, do you? i didn't think i would get so sick. their shiny coat deceived me. pangs of guilt shot through my body as i huddled over the toilet. you knew better and i learned and you didn't care when i caught you making love in the living room. mine makes better music i half-sneered, afraid the truth would sink in a little deeper. you saw through my lies but never stopped casting suspicious looks my way. i pressed my back against that cold bedroom door and smoked away my soul.

i think i got played. i looked into your eyes a second too long and went blind again. another lover who's not a friend. maybe i don't want my heart to mend. i'll never outrun the pesticide spray but without you by my side i just might be okay.

need help sleeping?

the night we met again you sat on a blood-stained patio spitting fiery half sentence sobs until you couldn't breathe. the marina moon lit the gleaming sea. the next day jellyfish filled the murky water, swimming suspended next to old soda cups and submerged plastic bags. you ran free to the sunlight and stuck your dirty toes in the sand, let the white light bleach away your scars. i wandered up and down the alphabetically-named streets with names like driftwood and spinnaker and topsail. i found you curled up on a wrinkled towel, blond hair splayed in all directions. i dropped my keys, touched your motionless shoulder, waited for you to wake up.

refracted light

and the noise and the boys and the hands and the lives that we live when we lie and can’t pass the time alone. you’re made of sparkly star dust, your wings keep time as they beat against mine. you’re a laugh and a smile that I don’t get to see. you hide from everyone, lately, even me. I could try again but i choose to come here instead where the fairies wear boots, stomp around in the night. They don’t have that holy california light. My city makes me sad, its all I ever had. The concrete breaks the silence. Where’s your voice when I need it most? Dulled into the speakers of my phone. Another goodbye, another plane trip. I’m trying to keep my grip on reality, trying to plant my foot, choose the path today. Open bar feeds sick little chicks. Sandy, young things, suck your dick. Don’t be afraid, we’ve all been there except now I’ve started to really care for you, for me, for anything that could be.

not losing myself in anyone: just the gentle curve of the n train as it lumbers into the sleeping city. above ground, so that i see the glint of the subway's silver roof in the 4 am moonlight; in the empty hollow voice of a nameless singer who recalls lonely streets and decrepit city dives; a bottle filled with coke and jack, downed quickly while looking for a taxi in astoria; the brilliant pain of a strobe light and high heels, when nothing matters but the movements of my body across from a boy.

evolve evolve with the past, with the present. move forward into the future while screaming out into the abyss below. hold tightly to the ghost if you must. I will not sink back into the cushy past of whispered kisses and dreams we shared. a robotic army marches over the hill at dawn stomping feet keep time with the second hand of the tower clock. under their wing of presupposed confidence they've got me with dreams marred by the realization that even those who want to know me best still don't get inside. a whispered kiss, a shaking hand, the heavy fragrance of thai jasmine just after sunset--I just want to wake up in the same place for months at a time. with my toothbrush and my clock. I just want to hear the radio boys and know where I am, aware of my location without looking out the window, without searching for a mental template to match the view outside.

I told her I felt like I just woke up as the elevator pulled us through the late afternoon heat. she said you need prozac. I kind of agreed even though we just met.

48 hours in LA

I threw myself into the city with extra force knowing it would be our last time out like this for awhile. the industrial boiler room sucked us in and spun us around until we couldn't tell which way was up. I called TF knowing I had already moved on in my heart, making plans. we parked the car on a gritty street corner and slipped downstairs dressed like dandies and spice girls with hippie curls and fedoras.

the next day i visited rehab. the newbies crowed with tales of needles and liquor store bathrooms, shooting up on pch. we lost ourselves in chakra balancing.

our last night we took shots of tequila and downed bellinis in our hotel lobby bar. for years of los angeles and hopefully many more to come. friends trickled down from the roof to say goodbye to Claudia. A said los angeles was already crumbling without her. we drove down to alameda and ducked into his loft. I slipped out of my patent leather heels and buried my toes in the fuzzy white rug. at 3 we took off for another club, stopping for gas along the way. Like we would do it again next week except we wouldn’t.

the parking attendant hobbled across the asphalt with the help of a cane to give me sixteen dollars change and we ducked into an alley, climbed under a torn canvas curtain to find a dingy loft space with a full bar and a makeshift seating area decorated by lawn chairs. drinks were free. Marie thought she was gonna puke but ended up making out on a couch for two hours. Claudia snapped photos in the soft light and danced in a halo of glittery beats. I would miss her the most, but i was already used to that. she would miss this. her LA. when we finally left the alley it was light. holy shit Marie said. I sobered up quickly in the grey downtown dawn and we took the freeways back to hollywood and then the boulevard back to santa monica, passing smashed foilage and dirty wind until we hit the beach.

its a lot farther than you think from the palladium to the burgundy room

girl power give me flowers
throw them to the crowd
shred your guitar, don’t go too far
all we have is now

I fell asleep at the punk rock show
woke up on the dirty floor
waited by the backstage door
didn't know how to say no

fingers on my hip bones
he's screamin to a microphone
camera flash to feel alone
in the middle of the night

cheap weed and spanish streets
passed out on expensive sheets
crushing hearts beneath our heels
don't say u don't know how it feels

because once is never enough

I smoothed over my miniskirt, adjusted my tube top, buried my gum in a tissue, and stared straight ahead. when the elevator opened he loped out. I clicked the unlock button and he careened into the passenger seat of my tiny car, leaned in to give me a hug. I changed gears as joy division blared out of the radio.

we flipped around in a swift, calculated u and roared onto the 10, windows down, hot air mixing with the air conditioned car interior. we got off at fairfax and worked our way up towards the darkened hills. we passed little eithiopia and canters deli, nova, largo, and the whole foods where some fool backed into me once. we hung a right on santa monica and creeped through the traffic. the slick west hollywood streetlights made the night as bright as day. we passed the pleasure chest, the parlour club, and the shiny closed storefronts. we drove until the sidewalks turned dirty.

i slipped the car into a spot across from velvet & applied clear l'oreal lip gloss in the rearview. dry heat rose up from the boulevard. it permeated our pores, frizzed my once-blow dried hair. he took off across the street. my bony ankles threatened to topple as I chased after him. couples with dyed black hair and lip piercings, combat boots and striped tights and corsets stood around the entrance. a mohawked photographer snapped our photo. my eyes flashed ice beneath the blaze around us.

next time I won't stop before the hills. i'll follow the pizza and powder brushes, sneak past the canyon roads clogged with cop cars. i'll end up on a mountain balcony smoking cigarettes til the sun floats up over the 101 and traces its way west over mulholland. there will be no lingering midnight glances at trannie del taco, no fingers gripping yours as we tear across the pavement. your face wasn't bathed in moonlight. it was just the street that night.