Pages

Thursday, July 17, 2014

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.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Finalists for new headshots

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

THEATRICAL




COMMERCIAL

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



Thursday, July 10, 2014

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.

Saturday, July 5, 2014

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




Thursday, July 3, 2014

TFLN Poem - Three Doors Down, Texting

Hey.

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



(330):


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.

Thursday, June 26, 2014

TFLN Poem - Bidet, Breakdown

Hey.

Here's this week's www.textsfromlastnight.com poem.  Thanks to Stacy Keele for helping me pick one this week.  There were a bunch of contenders, and they all seemed so good.  She went with this one based entirely on the Austin area code.

And then I went with it, dove in,  free writing, and it got dark quickly, as it always does.  This template fascinates me so much.  I love dramatic narrative poems.  How does a person get to where they are based on where they've been?  What has altered them?  What are their stubborn, deeply held, sometimes absurd beliefs?

Here we go!



(512):

I can't decide if I'm depressed or if this is just what life without a bidet feels like.

Hitchhiked all day until I ended up in
Cedar Creek.  Harder than I thought it’d be.
Torn up coke can hidden on the 110 came up quick
Through my black converse sneaker, slashed up my right
Heel. Stuffed some pages from my dream notebook into the shoe,
Pressed it down, flagged a trucker. He exhaled gunpowder
And runny beer. Sucked him off.  Eyes closed, brutal, efficient.
I hadn’t showered in seventy three hours and six minutes.

Did he, did Thomas ever love me?
Did he watch me sleeping, morning come morning
Studying my face until the lines grew wrinkled
And make an algorithm in his academic, tidy mind
Exactly when he’d cut me loose, find someone firmer
And more fun?

He was so goddamn proud of that bathroom.
So cosmopolitan, he said. So civilized, with ionized water
To clean and hoses to treat your tender, soiled self.
He would call me his little bidet
As he gently pressed me down and held his
Quickness into me.
It was  - I just used to find it so charming.
Then I looked it up.
The French.
It means pony.
Some dumb, helpless animal you ride.
Not even on your level.
That’s when I felt the walls in my heart
Tremble, and a hammer appeared in my hand
And I took to the porcelain
And screamed and screamed
Until there was thick, chalky dust and Thomas found me in the rubble,
Slapped me to the floor, kicked me til my blood pursed through my coat
And he sent me running.

Keep telling myself: the pain, the transitory friends, the bottomless cask
of suffering,
The mottled love, the resonating, sin-swept bones,
The chapped, bitter flecks of cum on my teeth were temporary.
But the work, what’s made – what’s sheltered, won’t be taken.
It will keep.
It will keep me warm.

Thursday, June 19, 2014

TFLN Poem - Con Atrevido, Culture Clash

Hey.

Here's the www.textsfromlastnight.com poem of the week.

Accidentally found myself talking about race and culture in this one. Being biracial, it's always a tough feeling. Not being white or brown enough for some. Getting odd looks from parents of girlfriends and wearing non-threatening sweaters to overcompensate for the tension. Being asked, "Where are you from?" and already having prepared a stock answer ahead of time which suits your taste and sensibilities.

Here we go!



(617):

i would really appreciate it if you would stop texting my girlfriend.

(508):


Ever seen a bunch of crabs, live ones,
Layered deep in a bucket?
Soon as one tries to get loose, pry itself free,
The others, they pull him back, stuff him down.
That’s you. You passive-aggressive, tweed-suited,
Crossword-puzzle-in-ink-dabbling, condescending dick.
I ain’t gonna step away from a chance with Gloria.
We go back.  You’re just the seasonal flavor.
Once you see the real stories, the marrow behind
Those gray, regal eyes, once you catch her abuelita’s
Warrior voice, locked behind the curses she taught her,
The words she don’t use much no more, but still
That power, it’s quiet and shored up along
Her spine, supplicates at her breasts - once you witness the fire,
you'll run, like a  pinche coward. She is a machine 
Of death and prophesy, entiendes?  La palabra asesino.
What? You don’t  - you don’t  -
Of course.  You’re pocho. I get it. Watered down.
Cafe con leche turned americano..
No longer Guillermo, but Bill.  You ever make babies
With Gloria, probably give them stupid cookie-cutter
Wonder Bread names like Harper or Kaiden.
And like that, all the past, the fragile significance, it’s gone.
Know this: that woman, that wonderful, terrifying
Creature, bears a scar, size of a hammer,
Down the back of her thigh. Thin crime of skin.
She’ll never tell you the tale.
I know what happened.
That is love. Shared Sorrow. That’s what we got.