skin like velvet

the subway slithers underfoot and a cold wind blows dead dry leaves. night people crawl out of doorways and linger under storefronts. I sniffle in the wind and try not to turn into tears, try to consider putting down the cold hard knife I hold pressed against my skin, try to remember why I want to untangle my heart from its cool blade, try to tell myself I'm worth it. I’ve lived a thousand lifetimes and it hasn’t gotten any easier. A patio, a garden, a cigarette, a shared memory. a feeling we crave that we may never find in each other again. I must really like to punish myself. The thought faintly flickers through my head and I hurriedly push it away, bury it under soft jazz and fuzzy lights and kisses and smooth skin, soft hands, arms, legs. i want forever in this moment.

my car veers past alleys lined with victorian beach homes and turns right at El Tarasco. shakira sings estoy aqui and I hit the back button over and over again until i remember all the words. I stop in a parking lot near the boardwalk and leave the car. an orange streetlight burns into my retinas. el nino-like winds whip the palm trees and spit sand and water everywhere. i want to lose my memories in the rainy darkness and emerge baptized by the salty Pacific. i want to toss my thoughts into the frothy seas where they will tangle with trash and seaweed while i run free.

hustler

bass guitar tumbles up the rainy street from the whisky on sunset and larrabee. sirens spin into the distance. the cars make a slick slipping sound as they cruise the boulevard lined with sex shops and pizza joints. I sit on the patio and listen. another guitar pounds out a methodical rhythm occasionally punctuated by a singer's yelp. I cross the street and blend into the crowd. the venue is nearly at capacity, the patrons in their mid thirties, wearing flannel, ripped levis, and motorcycle boots, holding cups of foam and budweiser.

the song changes into a melody and I see the guitarist bent over with sweaty curls flopping in his face, framed by orange light. the drummer sits shirtless, smashing cymbals and snares. the bassist stands upright and stared up at the lights while his fingers worked their way up and down the neck of the guitar. to his left stands the singer. he cradles the mic, whispers words that echo back from the pa system. his voice sends me spinning into galaxies and exploding stars that soon won't exist. the rhythm changes and he detaches the mic, snaps its cord and howls, reaches one hand up to the fiery stage lights and begs for forgiveness. the song stops and the audience rewards his effort with one handed claps and half hearted shouts. a few enthusiastic fans jump and scream from a cluster in front of the singer, inches from the stage. i wonder if the sound engineer has flashed the five minute sign yet. the singer looks down and curves his lip into a sinister smile in the near-silence. then the drummer counts off and the band dives into one more rollicking nameless song. when the singer looks up again, a look of disbelief flickers across his rumpled face and he stretches his lips into another howl.

we teeter on the edge of closeness. and everything insane. rain falls down and covers everything below. we can't pretend we're everything. we're not each other's missing piece. I feel myself slipping away with this realization. I draw a line to keep you far behind. I know I can exist somewhere.

970

When we were young my sisters and I raced across the Colorado meadows chasing dreams and blowing dandelions. The sun shone brightly as we followed muddy streams up the hills until they trailed off underneath a forest web of leaves. We played house amidst rusted tin cans and grey boulders wedged under trees while my mother kneeled in the mud and planted columbines in the shadow of our cabin. We disappeared for hours, running up the dusty unpaved road with the corgies at our heels until we could not breath.
Sheep mountain carved a sharp, sloping silouhette against the sky. Patches of snow danced across its peaks like freckles. A dense forest stretched across the lower half of the mountain, connecting the earth to the grey purple mountaintop. Evergreens breached timberline in thinning triangles. An august thunderstorm opened up and my sneakers squished with every step. Rocks glistened in the rain. Sparse grass decorated the steep terrain. My purple poncho flapped like wings in the wind as I breathed deeply and slowly ascended the last switchback. I don’t remember exactly when a sparkling lake revealed itself silently as I climbed. Opposite the lake sat a view of the entire valley. From a perch of 12,000 feet I drank in sweeping granite hills stained with rust colored iron deposits, hidden forests so dark and black and the soft green meadows that lay below. Trout Lake lapped against the highway, reduced to a giant puddle from afar. Cabins dotted its banks like tiny fleas. The dusty dirt access road wound a satin ribbon along the foot of aspen covered hills.

what is new york?

la is like quicksand & I'm a falling star. everything is quicksand. everthing is la. what's not la? sushi & fireflies & rooftops & bridges & grey water & fire escapes & leather punk jackets & sake & sock man & wigs & jujitsu & 2 boots pizza & the random middle aged jazz bands @ cake shop & scrawled graffiti in dirty bathrooms & rosemary clooney & projectors & comic book sketches of the skyline & pom mojitos in a lotus filled restaurant in bk & patios blurred by tiny candles & too many redbull cocktails & dancing in the basement of an aparment bldg on 134th & bars lined with taxidermied prarie dogs & as many men in suits as jeans & city boys who rollerblade past the avenues with goldfrapp blaring in their headphones & the soft melt of a city girl's snarling subway-ride exterior as strobe lights wash over her bare shoulders

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.