Saturday, December 17, 2011

the woman who thought she was more than a samba

the woman who thought she was more than a samba

the woman who thought she was more than a samba rode underground trains dressed up for dancing, as usual
never mind that she looked good succulent like peaches, tattoos on her skin enough to make most men sign
rats strung out on methadone rode underground trains with her, rats in a trance scratching balancing oblivious children on thier laps
rats in a trance scratching asleep ears glued to radios blaring city music, metallic abrasive hard city music
the woman who thought she was more than a samba rode underground trains, terrified
she'd forget how to dance
her dreams were filled with ghosts, young men she knew who danced with each other consumed by ambiguous dilemmas
grinding their narrow hips to snakelike city music, metallic abrasive hard city music. grinding their narrow hips against her sloping, naked back like buffaloes shedding their fur against a tree, whispering - "it's a shame you aren't a have so much man in you."
in brazil the women samba only with their legs. their faces are somber and their upper torsos never move
in haiti people draw themselves without arms and don't seem to dance at all
exuding matinee idol ambience the young men she knew wore white and sported moustaches "we are a tropical people" they remind her, "the most innovative in the universe" they gyrated desperately and stayed drunk in bars "we're in, this year"
it's a shame i weren't a man and who's the woman here? she oftern asked herself. sometimes she screamed: i'm older than you think. i'm getting so sick of you. i can't even remember your names. you all look the same...
she fell in love once and the wounds never healed. it was romance old as the hills. predictable in its maze. what medieval tapestry he wove to keep her still
gazelles loped past their window and veils kept out the sun. she had her own take on things, her perfume-scented version of the story. never mind that he always won, leaving unfinished poems under her bed. orchestra strung upside down from the ceiling. traces of blood as souvenirs of their exclusive combat zone
the woman who thought she was more than a samba carried her solitude around in pouches made of chinese silk. changing her jewelry with each new lover. insisting they move with sullen grace. stressing the importance of style on a dance floor. how arrogantly they might hold up their heads
her dreams were filled with ghosts perched on her bony wrists, grinning gargoyles who menaced her every step and wouldn't let her go
she longed to be her mother in a silver dress. some softly fading memory lifting her legs in a sinuous tango

Friday, March 25, 2011

on hold

Lonely lonesome, She stands topless at the kitchen counter
Spring is here and she wants to bask in the sun while she washes the dishes
She told herself the dishwasher was broken
This helps the time go by slower
Her brush stroke is gentle and soothing on her skin
Something her body had been craving
She just wanted to be touched
The warm water is melting her inside
As her mind wanders so does her hands
She thinks of him as she rubs her soapy hands along her neck
Down her hips
Across her torso
The dishes
well, they're on hold

Friday, March 11, 2011

wanna be a billionaire so freaking bad

If I had enough money to do whatever I wanted with it..
I'd start with a dance studio. More like a warehouse with mirrors everywhere. Where anyone could come dance/workout/stretch/relieve all stress and pain. Just go crazy with life's simple movement of refreshment. The rooms would be soundproof so someone could bump all the bass they want in one room and straight instrumental in the other..

Nothing makes me feel higher then some sweet melody with a bongo jammin in the background while I roll on the cold hardwood floor

twisting turning in and out of a wonderful creative movement of the utmost pleasure

rooms where you can meditate.. hundreds of candles

sheer fabric hanging from wall to wall

yeah. something like that.

Thursday, March 10, 2011


As gross as this sounds..
when I pick away at my scabs I feel like I'm picking a part something in my life that was meant to be there for whatever reason it was. When actuality I was just hammered and paid the consequences. They are ugly and beautiful at the same time. I don't know if i want to cover them or not. That would be a body FULL of tattoos.. They're never going away. So its like a tattoo. I need to be more creative on my story behind the (what feels like) 100 scars. Like.. jumping out of a moving vehicle to escape being kidnapped? Or.. saving a dog from a burning fire? Bathing suit season is so hard for me, but no one makes me feel self conscious? So how do I except them better? Remind myself every day how stupid I was to get trashed and go skateboarding or run through the sand and eat shit every 4 steps. Its not so easy. But things happen for a reason and so far I haven't learned my lesson. I guess thats the next and true step.. learn from your mistakes or else your body is gonna get tore up!