Let It Be Me

 

September comes and the days go tight.  Tentacles grasp, snatch, twist themselves, vines rooted deep crawl through my toes, wrap around my ankles, up my legs.  I watch the greens and pinks slip away to browns.  Slow hurries into quick, rushes about, reaches for dreams, planted from the year before.

Time runs click tock.

All those things folded and tucked away for another day.  All those things that have to be pulled out from underneath the brush, all those things in rooted under beds rotting in corners of bed rooms and offices and kitchens.  All those things to be dug out from the back of junk drawers, unearthed in kitchens to be tilled and spread, seeded and separated.  Thank you’s, happy birthday’s, congratulation’s, good job’s, rsvp’s, broken promises to be studied, analyzed, organized, donated, tossed, remembered, burned, ritualized, scrubbed clean. Stapled, paper clipped, rubber banded, shredded. Candle burning sticks and stones may break my bones and what about the Elmer’s Glue from years and years and years and those years so long ago?

Time is winding down.

Leaves change and let go they fall fire red decompose yellow. Die transparent.  Crackle crisp under the boots of plaid skirted pony-tailed schoolgirls that carry pink and purple backpacks and text on their smart phones.  We wrote notes on lined loose leaf that we  folded into triangles and passed back and forth at recess.

In September my skin catches fire.leaves fire

It reminds me
I have been attached to grief.

Rattled. Shingled. Raw.

I remember.  I feel back into the pins and needles and numb of twenty-five Septembers ago.  I remember winding my 280 ZX through Laurel and Mulholland and Cold Water.  I remember swerving and skidding and the squealing breaks, let it be me, let it be me, let it be me, let it be me… slicing through thick canyon on heavy Autumn days.  I remember careening into Beverly Hills. Let it be me.   I remember white piles, powder dumped from brown glass onto dirty mirrors sniffed from pinkies and thumbs and tiny spoons and keys, the razor clicks divvy out lines to be snorted and sucked up and smoked and the rolled dollar bills, used and smelling acrid sweet. Absolute bloodied white light late night Marlboro Lights rock line shots and Hendrix till sun light .  Let it be me.

Hot fire harvest moon shines.
I remember
that dream.

Time brands.
I itch.
I scratch.
I pick
I irritate my scars.

Meanwhile, September speeds up, plows through October into November and burrows under the white winter blankets of drift for hibernation.

I am awake
I remember a dream.

Let it be me.

Grateful

 

The musty smell of old books
Thinned sepia pages fragile between my fingers
Dust particles and life dance in the sun’s rays
And the clicking of my fingers on the keys of my board
is music
And the words
The words
The words
Flowing onto the white page
And time
To watch it all
Swirl around me

Isn’t it funny
how right before a cry
tears sting a little
at least they sting my eyes
before they cleanse
right before my cry
like some of the lyrics an old friend sang
right before I was caught
by ambush
my tears taste like salt
sometimes I let them run down my cheek
and I catch them in the corner of my mouth
or stick my tongue to one side and taste my brine
and I’ll pick up my journal
and write all about it
each and every surge

and how a sneeze tickles
before it brings so much relief
a big sigh
that says that felt good

dark chocolate moments, maybe a 72%
linger
sometimes                                                  
I’ll even go for the milk or
God forbid the white
even though once the full woman at the counter
of Sees Candies scolded, “That’s not even real chocolate”
It’s still sweet and creamy

and the sun warm on my skin
and the smell of a used bookstore

and growing up
the leaves
piles and piles and piles of
raked leaves
and the damp smell of a real autumn
and the crisp burning logs in the air
and the tingling of my dry skin
tight cracked smiling lips
after being out playing for hours
and tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich
for lunch

and the waves                                          
and the sand
and the dolphins
always the dolphins
don’t they just
the dolphins
in the calm oceans, rough oceans, surfing the waves,
blue ocean
grey ocean
green ocean
dolphins’ ocean

and the sky is my canvas
to paint my colors and mood and images
and through it all
what amazes me so
is that there is always something
more