AS SIMPLE AS THAT

 

AS SIMPLE AS THAT

my man is away
i am quiet
left behind
with coffee and the cats

i remember back
when i was young
left behind
with drama twisted sheets
an empty bed

like jane
the girl with one eye
and lopsided perspective
she is young
swimming in the pool
of sex
thinking
analyzing
determining
figuring
strategizing
preaching change
blaming
left behind
with the why of it all

she doesn’t know
what being young
is for, to dive
into drama
and love it

to feel the water
thick with scum
coat your skin
to digest
each swallow
each blow
each thrust
each wave
with conviction

i watch jane
kick flail
cry against the current

– move with it –
i say
-before him
i moved with it, let
it snap me about –
she isn’t listening

i don’t tell her
that i let the rock
smoke sex whatever
pull and push me
whenever
wherever

my man
he didn’t come
to me
the current
delivered me
right up
to the empty
barstool
to his right

i looked over
saw his hazel eyes
shaded
with thick black lash

i spoke
he answered
it was as simple as that

**This is a poem from my book, as simple as that

 

LIP GLOSS

 

LIPGLOSS

My new year’s resolution this year is LIP GLOSS.

More shine
More sparkle
More glitter
More smooth
More softness
More satin and silk and suede
I love me some suede
More leather like butter
What the hell
More butter
Sweet creamy or salted
More open
More writing
More reading
More books
More of my words read by more and more and more people
More of my poems published
More of me published
More of my pieces published
More of my books sold
Even more love and joy and passion and happiness
Even More sex
More sex
What the hell
More sex
–You know it is the cure for the common everything
More grace
More gratitude
More appreciation
–Given and taken

 over exposed

So far, so good
We are three weeks
into 2014 and I leave the house
Lips Berry Beaming and Glossed
I’m Ginger Sensed and smiling Origins

My new years resolution this year is LIP GLOSS

What’s yours?

Hot Mess

 

“You’re a hot mess!” Rebekah said.

I was still catching my breath.  My skin was hot and sticky.  I was on my knees pushing into the pole, my arms stretched,  tugging at my shoulders, gripping the metal above my head.  It felt cool on my belly. My hair was wild, covering my face, a strand caught in my mouth.  Rebekah was smiling; standing with her right knee bent, right foot resting on her left, leaning against the stereo console.  She held my gold Nano, like a gift in her hand.

I could still feel the swell of my song, the sax, the drum brush, the heat of my music, strong and powerful, wrapping itself inside of me, moving down massaging my spine, circling its way around my hips, through my belly, inside my thighs and diffusing itself in my legs and out my red tipped toes.

swirlsofcolorI had just let go.  I let my body take over. My head would fall to the right, stretch out and around to the left and pull back and down, my body side-stretching vertebra by vertebra snaking itself, following my head. I had to grab onto a wall, crawl on the floor or lean into one of the white overstuffed chairs for support as I danced. I let my body find her  way as she slipped underneath the song and twisted through to her own pulse.  She curved up and down and around poles, landing, back arched, chest forward onto the floor, on her back, writhing onto her belly and pausing, leg lifting into the air, bending back and pulling herself around to her back again. She melted into an oozing rainbow of red, ruffles, black patent leather, lace and skin.  She painted me with splashes onto the wall, with swirls that dripped down the poles, with splatters that marked the chairs.

Now I’m part of a living memory, a history that’s grooved itself into the wood floor, part of the tradition of stripping down and diving into spirit.

I’ll come back in the New Year and sink into soft purple. When I reach my fingers in front of me, arms stretched, legs splayed open, pulling myself into the room, I’ll feel the pulse of my history as I trace my fingertips along the raised surface of tongue and groove boards.  I’ll absorb the celebration of the women who’ve danced before and cheer for those that’ll come after.  I’ll feel the pieces of broken shell and watch soft yolk ooze golden yellow.  That glowing knowledge and love, freedom and truth decorate this room.

I broke free of my shell this year.  I tossed it away piece by piece.  I watched it burn as I flung it into my fire. I watched old memories, old ways and old cares spark orange and light the winter night sky.bruning fire

I like that.  I like that I’m a dancing, happy, free, inspired, chest open, heart forward, arms raised, gorgeous, strong, grateful, smiling, stripping down, layer-by-layer, hot mess.  I like that I’m peeling into myself.  I like that the deeper I go the messier and happier I get.  Yeah.  Rebekah’s right.  I am a fucking HOT MESS.

I smiled.  “That’s my new year’s resolution.” I said.

 

 

The song I danced to on December 31, 2012 was Christina Aguilera’s Nasty Naughty Boy.  Happy New Year!

Happiness

 

I love new journals. When I start a new journal those first few pages are perfect. That perfection, well, it doesn’t last more than about seven pages. My handwriting gets messy and I cross out words, lines, and sentences. I put big “X”s through whole paragraphs and even might write the word SHIT in big capital letters under the X. I wish I were neater.

Some people are neat, really well put together. They’re ironed and buttoned up, pressed and lip-sticked. I want to be one of those girls, the ones that never leave the house without their lip-gloss. I bring it with me but then I forget to put it on.

Like this girl I bumped into from high school at LAX. She looked as if she were off to brunch with girlfriends in her ironed white champagne flute and perfect hair and makeup. I think her $500 designer jeans were even pressed. When we were kids we’d dress up to fly, because back then flying was fancy with winding first class staircases and piano bars in coach, but not now. I had to run into her? Now? When I had no make up on, not even my lip-gloss. My hair was greasy and it was caught between my shoulder and the strap of my travel bag, pulling my head to the right. I hadn’t washed it since my haircut and color two days earlier. I spotted her as I was pulling my hair free.

I thought she looked familiar, but everyone in LA looks familiar. I assume they’re an actor. At some point isn’t everyone in LA an actor? She wasn’t an actor. She was Trista. Popular Trista. Pretty, thin, long legged, perfect Trista. She hadn’t changed. Except maybe her chest, it was fuller, plumper. It could have been a Victoria Secret Wonder treasure.

“Carolyn, how are you?” she asked. “Come sit here.” She patted the empty seat next to her. I plopped my bag on the floor and sat down. She rambled, talking on about herself and her life. She said she was still living in Beverly Hills, that she was on her way up to San Francisco to visit family, that she was a writer.

“Wow” I asked, “what do you write?” I had been taking my Method Writing class for a couple of years but I still was shy about calling myself a writer. When I met anyone who was a writer I wanted to know everything about what they wrote and if they were they published and did they love writing as much as I did?

“I write screenplays and I’m a copywriter and …and” her eyes widened, she looked surprised, as if she had seen someone from high school that she didn’t want to see. She was glaring at my left hand. “…uh…you’re MARRied?”

“Yes.” I said, “We got married in ‘03”. It’s as if a cool breeze had blown through the terminal. Her dark brown almond eyes narrowed, they got darker. They seemed almost black. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled to attention. I could see her cheeks blush. She looked away toward the gate and her hair flew behind her. She turned back, flipped her hair over her left shoulder. Cher used to do that with her hair on the Sonny and Cher show.

“Who are you in touch with from high school?” She asked. I couldn’t remember the last time I spoke to anyone from high school.

“No one.” I said.

“Really? Aren’t you close with anyone?” She asked. “Those were the greatest years! I had so much fun. I loved high school.” She had friends, she was gorgeous, she was on the volleyball team, went to dances, had dates; of course she fucking loved high school.

“Trista,” I said, “those really weren’t my favorite years.”

“Wow, that’s too bad.” She said. “I just had dinner with Veronica Frank. You two were friends back then, weren’t you? And Jeannie, you remember her don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “Veronica and I were close, Jeannie, not so much.” Veronica and I had a falling out after college, she wasn’t thrilled with my choices and made it clear: ‘You’re wasting your life away in Santa Barbara slinging hash, that’s so beneath you.’ Jeannie and I were never friends.

“Oh! You know who looks aMAZing?” Trista reached out and touched my arm. “L.S.” She said.

L.S. was my big crush, from that first day in 7th grade homeroom when I sat in front of him. He’d pull at my hair; tap my shoulder, lean forward in his chair and whisper in my ear. Our teacher, Mr. Markovich would scold him. “Mr. S.,” his voice reverberated, it felt as if the windows might shatter, “How is it that life hands out bowls of cherries and with you, I’ve received a bowl of the pits?” I fell hard for L.S. Trista knew it. Hell, everyone knew it. In eighth grade L kissed me behind the double doors of the multi-purpose room. I was in love. High school was going to be great. We’d have so much fun at dances, ooooh and he’d take me to the prom and we’d be high school sweethearts. That didn’t happen. In fact, he didn’t talk to me for four years. None of my friends from grammar school did. I don’t know what happened exactly. At first, I was devastated, and then I moved on. I made new friends that I don’t keep in touch with, like Veronica.

My wedding ring must be Trista’s kryptonite, because when she looked at it, she morphed from a grown up person bumping into a high school acquaintance to a cattish high school prom queen threatened that someone might steel her bedazzled crown.

I should show her a picture of Bill and me just to fuck with her. That’s not nice. Here’s the thing L.S. isn’t my kryptonite. He hasn’t been for a long fucking time. After graduation I turned and walked down the front lawn of Beverly Hills High School and didn’t look back. That was that. High school was done and my yellow brick road adventure started. Hey, I’m glad for Lee, good for him, that he looks amazing. And Trista, well, I wish her happiness. I wish Lee happiness too. I mean, don’t we all deserve happiness?

“That’s great.” I said to Trista. I smiled.