Dear Circus Freak,

So talking to you feels good. If I felt more comfortable with the present state of my body I would catch a bus to LA and try to convert you to my personal cult of me.

we would eat dark chocolate and skip the carrot cake (because of its naughty implications) and laugh. we would try to integrate your 5,000 personalities and figure out better ways to lash out at your monkey.

you would under no circumstance attempt to get to know or understand my bladder or any other orafice with out explicit instruction from the big cheese, but never take direction from the big champagne cake.It goes limp far too quickly to be of any use.

but alas, I rest here in vegas with my dimples and lumps and leave you to "hustlebuns" around LA...doing that thing you do, with or sans patchuli, balls to the wind, ass hair matted like god intended but never would admit...yes, the stage has been set and balls are in motion ( and also to the wind as previously stated).

maybe if the intern thing doesn't pan out I will become a mime...but like a talking one that drinks too much. I could do running social commentary or narrate german sheiss porn. the game would not be getting to me to talk, but to shut up and stop urinating in public.

yeah. that would be cool.

so you wanna make out sometime?

Old Vegas,new life

My favorite thing about the desert.

Today was a lazy Sunday in Sin City.

Ballad of an Ex-Patriot
we have watched our leaders die.
you
my america
war torn open
gaping wound
you
like your heroes
bleeding,
broken machines
I can still taste
your poverty,
hunger,
screaming in the mouth
as fear
Interrupts
skylines,lifetimes
with factories,
prisons,
The border:
An effort to make
emperors
of lesser men and
slaves
of all the rest and
you
of pain inflicted
passively-
we have have witnessed infinite suffering
passively-
men,women born
of earth and sky
falling, becoming
slaves
in fields
blistering,
burning
under the sun
men, women growing...still
like the ocotillo
and like the ocotillo
I stood
naked, incomplete
under layers of winter
my hands growing...cold
beneath his clothes
seeking out your cities,
desert bleeding highways cutting
through valleys,stripmalls
The Inland Empire and
you
smog and salt
now seasons away
I can still taste
your revolution,
vision
of working men,women
flooding,fleeing
The land they have
cultivated for years
of wealthy men
lying,dying in
the beds they have
made of our tears
A revolution
of you,
your skin against mine
you,
my america,
dreaming, dissident
gaping wound
you left me
bleeding, mourning,
you, for an eternity
I would rather suffer,
Feel your absence
than for a moment
return and
find
you
feeling
nothing-

Addio

Flashback...

He is standing under a streetlight,hands indicating exactly how much taller he'd like to be. I loved him then. In that moment. He holds my gaze and I know he feels the same. I had spent the year before in Italy, I lived and loved without him...2 days before I had grabbed my best girlfriend, an ill fitting straw hat and had showed up at a picketline he was walking in San Diego. I loved him in that moment. Now we were back in SF in our old neighbourhood and I wanted nothing more than to touch him. To tell him what I was feeling. To let him know that he had me at "Pecan Pie". That no one else mattered...but I never did. Within a year he was gone and I, broken, went back to Europe to avenge the death of that relationship.

I buried him. I wrote poetry and threw rocks at the sun. I drank bottles of wine and had dangerous lovers. I buried him...made plans, traveled loosely, buried myself in music, traded Europe for Central America and Central America for the Dirty Dirty. I loved recklessly and blindly. I hurt. I buried him and I forgot.

Flash Forward...

I am in Vegas, banging my head against the wall. He is irrational. He lashes out. I wish he would just ask me how I feel instead of putting up walls and pushing me away. After all this time, you'd think we could just relaz and enjoy each other.

new hair for a new beginning.