TFLN - Magic, Mundane

Hey,

Here's this week's www.textsfromlastnight.com poem.

(717)

How the hell does my fucking boss know about the goddamn magician I fucked?

This –

This goes against some kind of code,

Right?

Magicians aren’t supposed to reveal tricks.

And, besides –

It wasn’t , it wasn’t my fault.

Jeez. I’m not some messed up skank

Spending weekends in Atlantic City,

Leaning up against every stage door,

Scanning for a man quick with his fingers,

Hungry for a little buck strange.

It was just a blind date.

Jules wasn’t wearing a cape or slathered in baby oil.

Just a tweed jacket.  We ate Ethiopian cuisine,

Talked about publishing, losing parents young.

That sudden, somber shift your jaw makes

When you realize you’re the oldest

And have to tender the load. Childhood’s over.

Never got to share that unexpected pain with someone before.

He heard me. Not just rote, empty pity. He had walked that cruel road. 

And soon, we were at his place, two hungry, complementary shapes.

And that night, I woke to pee,

Looked around, saw the velour costumes,the cages of rabbits, white turtle doves.

The kerosene torches, the thin, wobbly swords, the wooden devices meant to bind

Another woman, cut in her two,

And winch her whole. Reborn.  And  I’ll admit.  I wanted that.

For a moment. To be his weirder half.

But the world looks unkindly upon the strange.   

Best to be ordinary. Show no colors. Tell no stories.

I collected my clothes.

I held my breath.

Tried not to sob.

And left.

TFLN - Dates, Destruction

Hey.

Here's this week's www.textsfromlastnight.com poem.

(914):

First date was awkward. I think I just saw someone die.

I’m trying online dating.

Being truthful with the questions.

Yes, I want kids. No, I’m not looking for a stupid fling,

An evening with my clit, and that’s it.

And sure, maybe it’s shallow –

But I like a man in a suit,

And a guy with some money.

I’m drawn to a brawny sort,

Someone complex who can fix a car or take apart a sink

And lingers with faint aftershave.

And, for this town, that usually means finance guys.

Tons of finance guys.

And they lie. All the goddamn time.

Old pics, or some sideways pillow talk,

Or they’re just the opposite of their parts.

Like last night.

Freddy was blond, chiseled,

Went to Harvard on a rowing scholarship, took me to a Brazilian place,

(got to practice my Spanish when I ordered and everything)

But he kept out his phone, wouldn’t stop texting,

And he knew nothing about current events.

I racked my brains, adjusted my bra strap,

Tried to think of a common spark of conversation.

And then an old man, balancing on a walker, outside the window

Huddled along the rainy crosswalk,

Screamed, and a shiver of noise and piercing lights

Tore him apart.  Then, he was out of view.

Silence. I held my manicured breath.

The ambulance lazily rolled in, fifteen minutes later,

No lights. No hurry. Nothing to be done.

And the first thought, my first thought,

As Freddy kept talking about his timeshare

In the Poconos, was this:

At least there’ll be something to talk about on Facebook.

TFLN Poem - Parity, Partnership

Hey.

Here's this week's  www.textsfromlastnight.com poem.

(248):

I make my boyfriend pay for half of my birth control. We call it his monthly rent.

The Japanese have it right,

You know?  With verbs and such.

It’s not one person exacting desire upon another

With us. It’s two silly people, pleasuring together.

So Billy comes up with twenty five bucks each month,

Slips it in a crossed out mother’s day card and writes a self-penned haiku.

We balance. We till our emotional acre.

Loathe washing dishes. So he makes up songs about

Tiny, evil, pig-tailed clones. He considers each dish, scrubs it clean. My hip to his.

I dry.

He’s scared of death. I put the collector of breath on trial

In our bathroom, wore a shower cap as a judge’s wig,

Sentenced it to life without parole. Plunger as a gavel.

And then we celebrated, laughing and peeling off the soggy fear.

Each kiss more hungry than the last.

I have trouble sleeping. So he rubs his hands together,

Until each pore is a bright, determined ember,

And he traces me, feet to the roots of my hair,

Restoring my moon shadow. I snore, he smiles.

We love making.

Finalists for new headshots

All photography by LSOWA Photography
http://www.lsowaphotography.com/

THEATRICAL

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(for children's theatre, creeper roles, etc)

TFLN Poem - Revenge, Repeating

Hey.

Here's this week's www.textsfromlastnight.com poem.

(703):

YOU WILL DIE AND I WILL CARVE 'I TOLD YOU SO' ON YOUR HEADSTONE

You.

You will die.

You will die and I will carve “I TOLD YOU SO”

You will die and I will carve “I TOLD YOU SO” on your headstone.

You will die and I will carve “I TOLD YOU SO” on your headstone with the bowie knife.

You will die and I will carve “I TOLD YOU SO” on your headstone with the bowie knife you made out of a spare bong and a shark’s tooth.

You will die and I will carve “I TOLD YOU SO” on your headstone with the bowie knife you made out of a spare bong and a shark’s tooth because you’ve got no mind.

You will die and I will carve “I TOLD YOU SO” on your headstone with the bowie knife you made out of a spare bong and a shark’s tooth because you’ve got no mind. You’re a fist that punches the air.

You will die and I will carve “I TOLD YOU SO” on your headstone with the bowie knife you made out of a spare bong and a shark’s tooth because you’ve got no mind. You’re a fist that punches the air, echolocating with blood and hollow blindness.

You will die and I will carve “I TOLD YOU SO” on your headstone with the bowie knife you made out of a spare bong and a shark’s tooth because you’ve got no mind. You’re a fist that punches the air, echolocating with blood and hollow blindness. You don’t heal.

You will die and I will carve “I TOLD YOU SO” on your headstone with the bowie knife you made out of a spare bong and a shark’s tooth because you’ve got no mind. You’re a fist that punches the air, echolocating with blood and hollow blindness. You don’t heal. You’re staring at the train tracks.

You will die and I will carve “I TOLD YOU SO” on your headstone with the bowie knife you made out of a spare bong and a shark’s tooth because you’ve got no mind. You’re a fist that punches the air, echolocating with blood and hollow blindness. You don’t heal. You’re staring at the train tracks, lit firecracker and a smile on your face.

You.
You had a boy.

You had a boy you made.

You had a boy you made in the dark.

You had a boy you made in the dark when you were twisted.

You had a boy you made in the dark when you were twisted on rotgut and probation.

You had a boy you made in the dark when you were twisted on rotgut and probation. Never going back, you said.

You had a boy you made in the dark when you were twisted on rotgut and probation. Never going back, you said. Never staying place.

You had a boy you made in the dark when you were twisted on rotgut and probation. Never going back, you said. Never staying place.  You know you’re hunted.

You had a boy you made in the dark when you were twisted on rotgut and probation. Never going back, you said. Never staying place.  You know you’re hunted.  Spread your seed all you want.

You had got a boy you made in the dark when you were twisted on rotgut and probation. Never going back, you said. Never staying place.  You know you’re hunted.  Spread your seed all you want. Let it scatter like weeds.

You had a boy you made in the dark when you were twisted on rotgut and probation. Never going back, you said. Never staying place.  You know you’re hunted.  Spread your seed all you want. Let it scatter like weeds. But I'll still clear 'em.

You had a boy you made in the dark when you were twisted on rotgut and probation. Never going back, you said. Never staying place.  You know you’re hunted.  Spread your seed all you want. Let it scatter like weeds. But I'll still clear 'em.  I always do.

You had a boy you made in the dark when you were twisted on rotgut and probation. Never going back, you said. Never staying place.  You know you’re hunted.  Spread your seed all you want. Let it scatter like weeds. But I'll still clear 'em. I always do. It's a kindness.

You had a boy you made in the dark when you were twisted on rotgut and probation. Never going back, you said. Never staying place.  You know you’re hunted.  Spread your seed all you want. Let it scatter like weeds. But I'll still clear 'em. I always do. It's a kindness. You already killed them.

You had a boy you made in the dark when you were twisted on rotgut and probation. Never going back, you said. Never staying place.  You know you’re hunted.  Spread your seed all you want. Let it scatter like weeds. But I'll still clear 'em. I always do. It's a kindness. You already killed them. The boy, the whip-scorned women.

You had a boy you made in the dark when you were twisted on rotgut and probation. Never going back, you said. Never staying place.  You know you’re hunted.  Spread your seed all you want. Let it scatter like weeds. But I'll still clear 'em. I always do. It's a kindness. You already killed them. The boy, the whip-scorned women. I just close the account.

You.
You.

You will die.

We've Got To Try - First Draft of New Song (for K.K. for me)

Hey.

I'm done with regret.

I look at my changing body, getting smaller and smaller.

I examine my mental health, feeling more malleable than ages. Granted, my normal is never gonna be close to most people's normal. I'm a deeply empathic soul.  But, while stressors may affect me time to time,  I feel the urge to help others again, and doing so gives me grace and cheer.

And this song, while specifically for K.K, it's also for me. It's for the world. It's a sign that I'm happy. I'm ready to be willing to be happy.  To take risks in order to find some new, uncharted levels of happy.

And yes, things went with K.K. pretty much like I thought they would. But the song still rings true. It's a song of hope, for both of us.  That we'll find someone caring and right that will curl us with shared joy.

I know I'm not easy. I know that I'm super intense. I know that 999 out of a 1000 people are gonna be turned off by me or only want me in teeny tiny doses. 

But I've got to try.

Here we go!

Lyrics

first verse

ive got my heart up
youve got your guard up
i know that healing
ive been reeling
spent these past three years feeling
mighty unappealing
brought up poor
never self same sure
but im growing kind
youve got your stories
wanna hear your stories
favorite ice cream flavor
speak ill savor
talk about your tattoos
and your next door neighbor
lets make time
for a dinner date im
rather fond of your mind

chorus
you told me on the train
youre grabbing fistfuls of happy
want to join you as you play
share in your secret smile
as you caper and wile away
you told me on the train
that youre done with relationships
i softly heard you sigh
i know the struggle comes hard
but honey weve got to try
weve got to try

second verse
i know its silly
oh yes im silly
gotta keep it silly
certain really
measure out the tougher stuff
 not willy nilly
grin by grin
what a tale we spin
through the fire in your song
lets love the moment
holy blessed moment
wick away the torment
find whats dormant
press into each other become self informant
nothings planned
if youll have me stand
take my hand
come along

chorus

bridge
and even though i might not be your type
thats fine
let our friendship intertwine
no longer strangers clad with familiar faces
and even though our hearts may sometimes
shudder shake
better that than lie awake
never know that wondrous sense of
being vulnerable

final verse
got my heart up
youve got your guard up
i know that healing
ive been reeling
spent these past three years feeling
mighty unappealing
brought up poor
never self same sure
but im growing kind

chorus x 2

TFLN Poem - Three Doors Down, Texting

Hey.

Here's this week's www.textsfromlastnight.com poem .

(330):

First off: I'm drunk so fuck you. Second: you weren't a bad girlfriend. Tres: thats 3 in spanish. Number 4: fuck 3 Doors Down

Ok. Being polite, she made an Irish goodbye

Hours ago.  Prolly round the time I polished off the cheap vodka

I found behind the cupboard, in a plastic container.

It’s never good when liquor greets you in lightweight plastic.

And I’m here. I showed up. I showed - I showed up,  didn’t, I? That’s extra credit.

Key still worked.  You’ve still got that goofy ass cow fridge magnet

Your mom gave you. And it’s clutching an old pic of mine, me before

My eyes grew hard and people instinctively started giving me room

On the subway.

Wasn’t always this way.

Wasn’t always so intense.

We would make baby talk and lie under the stars and sip slurpees and if the hammer of sadness pressed upon us we would drink the rivulets of laughter in our eyes

I’m texting you.

You’re not responding.

I know.

I’m still texting.

I have to.

I’m here. I just wanted to see the place.

One last time.

Through a milky layer of dust.

Sifting through your music collection.

And you’ve got “Here Without You” three times on an Ipod.

And just – just fuck that.

Fuck that.

The hardest part of death isn’t just losing you.

The hardest part of death is that I’m still alive.