times up!

times up.jpg

You got an hour!
Like a prison alarm – BAAAAAAANG!
Time’s up.

Almost there.
Sit and write.
Close that door and swallow the stillness whole.
Throw it back like you mean it.
Take it, it’s yours.

Cuz you know that Quiet creaks opens the magic door…
Where the Still Voice lives.
The Still Voice, you know the one
Like an echo of an echo that whispers, “What about me?”

What about that book?
What about that play?
What about that movie?
What about that job?

tomorrow

Waiting...

An ache.
A pain so sharp, it cuts.
Senses are lost in a fog, come back soon.
And there’s a void.
A real one.
Why did he have to go?

Heart beats heavy sighs and legs demand a slower pace.
It takes a million years for arms to move this way and that.
Three weeks is a very long time..
Huge.
Ginormous.
And yet, benign.

I think of those who’ve passed.
Like the pictures of Ron Heren, taped to the fatal pole, the one that ended his life.
A corner where Jackie and I must wait for the lights to change.
Death.
Leaving your loved one is like a death.
And yet, so benign.

Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say goodnight till it be morrow.

Be tomorrow now.
Fast forward to the race’s end.
Change the lights quick.
Bring back comfort, my pillows and blankets.
Speed this time forward like a jet plane.

happy birthday [boom poem for lover]

happy birthday, my love

We celebrate my beautiful man’s birthday today.
I wrote this poem when we first met.
I haven’t changed my mind on any of it.

Happy birthday, my love.

He’s quite the badass.
He’s a rebel and he’s the too cool for school.
He’s behind the crowd, he’s the slow walker, he’s the leader of the pack without trying to be.
He’s the sage and the delinquent in one.
He’s the joker, the enigma, the shadow, and then also the ray that seeps in slowly, ever so slowly, before blasting up the room.

Oh, the ever present, Sun. The Son.

He walks into a space and, “All Hail Caesar!”
But he doesn’t like that.
Maybe he doesn’t hear it?
Could be that he tries to ignore it.
I mean, come on, it’s only natural.
Stupid me, should’ve known.

He doesn’t try. He allows all to just be.
He wants to be my Savior, the good spirit in my life, but then he also drags down the rose-colored curtains.
Shoves my face closer to the ever complicated, but neatly organized, brightly-colored (never grays or lights!) and intricate onion-skins, of life.

“Look deep,” he asks of me.
Demands of me.
Softly. Kindly. Delicately.
Skin.
Hot breath.
Touch me.

He’s quite the spirit, keeps me on my toes.
Keeps me thinking and reflecting, and then questioning, and then doubting, and then pondering, and then questioning, and then asking, and then thinking again.

His presence wafts in without your notice.
You inhale him long enough to gain shape of his recognition.
Exhale, everyone.
And then BOOM.
Like, that —

He’s gone.

Done (pt 2)

POPS the club

And of those who say they’ll stay,
who will go?
I am anxious
to be happy, genuinely.
I am hoping
things will only get better.
I am clinging
on to things that stay the same.
I am spiteful
for things that change.
I am giving up
on the things that slowly drift away.
I am grabbing
on to the stuff that hurts me most.
I am trying
to grasp on to stuff that I shouldn’t.
I am losing
my sanity oh-so slowly.
I a starting
to realize ow unfair life is even to those who wait.

__
Done by Iona Scott, Before There Were Bars, POPS The Club

explode like a motherfucker

explode like a motherfucker

I ache for silence.
I yearn for space, for quiet.
The A/C blares, this’ll help for now.
I push the Creator up and out, write!
Hurray! We don’t have time.
An old voice.

Headache.
Late night indecision based on waiting up for love and hoping to finish that podcast.
Jackie, quiet and sleepy.
Thank God. I feel tension release when I see this.

What’s yearning for space about? What’s this silence I seek?
I know there’s more to this.
Go deeper…

No music. A good thing. One step closer to silence.
Even though those two over there chat away.
Shaded table.
Darjeeling tea brews, honey at the ready.
I wait for her.

No, wait.
I wait for direction.
For me to explode like a motherfucker.
Liza Fernandez

get milk

 

got milk?

FADE IN:

He: Well, it’s like a pyramid.

She: Don’t talk to me about pyramids. That guy? That fuckin’ Bernie Madoff? Have you seen the movie with Michelle Pfeifer and Robert DeNiro?

He: That’s not what I mean —

She: — Well, it’s fucked up. And everyone said the movie was shit but I liked it. Anyway.

He: This pyramid is different, Auntie.

She: Different, how?

He: You put your life’s goal at the top and then you backward map.

She: A map?

He: Backward Map!

She: Well —

He: — If you gotta go down the street to buy a carton of milk, what would you do to get there?

She: Is this a game? Like, do you want an answ —

He: — I’m trying to explain what it means. You would put your shoes on, get your jacket on, find your purse, look for your keys, get your wallet, make sure you have enough money to buy milk —

She’: Yeah I know, milk is getting very expensive —

He: — AND THEN. And then you have to cross the street, pass the school and head to the corner store. Backward mapping is the reverse. You start with the carton of milk in your hand and you map out how you got there.

She: Gotcha. So, what does milk have to do with your pyramids?

Sigh.

He: Nothing, forget the milk. I’m trying to tell you that I got the gist of how I’m going to get to university.

She: Oh that, how? Selling milk?

She giggles. He sighs.

FADE OUT.

cali teen

bless you

Red tank.
Short denim jeans.
Orange hair growing out from a collision of blonde shades.
Black socks squeezed into matching flip flops.
Old rollie. Used and reused.
Sweet, classic Cali teenager.

Thirteen? 14? 16? No more than that.

She looks nervous, diverts her eyes.
“Can I share the table with you?” I ask.
Thumb in mouth ripping at skin, she nods with eyes drawn away.
Staring off in the distance…

She looks passed the line of impatient coffee addicts, through the back wall, as if waiting to get caught.
A father? Boyfriend? Cousin? A dysfunctional mother?
No one loved me enough to stop me.
My mind goes wild with horror stories.
Too much television.

I sneeze.
She doesn’t say anything. I clock this.
A woman essay-typing 2 tables down turns, “Bless you.”
“Thank you,” I tell the woman through my nod.
Bless you, I say under my breath.
Yes you, sweet Cali teen, creating potholes in your thumbs.
Don’t you know you are blessed?

Not sure what trip you’re taking – be it bus, train or side streets.
You are blessed.
You are blessed.
Your are blessed.
Do you believe it?
Hell, do I?