ARTIST, WRITER, CREATIVE OUTLET FINDER
She’s a blonde in real life
Under that blood moon semi-permanent red hair dye
There’s something about her
Beyond what looks like a rent-evading, chemically aged alcohol-drinking catastrophe
Someone deserving of their intrigue being figured out
I was in Asia staying with newfound friends
It was the future – soft light warmed everything
Sounds and sites of vegetables simmering in pots were everywhere
I shaved part of my head making it easier to wear wigs and put on disguises
Wearing this bizarre 1970s motorcycle helmet, white with red racing stripes
The stress of being in these new surroundings was so exciting it made me vomit
A cute calico befriended me, always looking like they were going to speak – they never did of course, just kept purring, following me, or were they guiding me?
I found you in a scrapped-out airstream, told you I loved you being my best friend
We cried a little, it wasn’t sad, just being there with each other was good – for the first time in a long while I felt like myself
It took a dream, waking from sleep on the couch in pain, being transported to feel like me, if even for a moment again.
Sitting on the balcony of our hotel room,
A still morning greets us, looking out over the water
Drinking French press Kona
The oils from the freshly plunged coffee mingled with the smell of morning dew
Surrounded by sail boats and the view of Tijuana
You discovering the bliss of lox on an everything bagel
The day was crisp
Wrapped in cozy sweaters
Watching the gulls catch air, floating effortlessly by
One of my favorite memories
Captured in the amber of my mind
Stretch, feel skin cracking from beneath Winter’s permafrost.
Ache at the bones snapping into place after the yawn of cold morning shrinks in the Spring sun.
Pull off scratching socks that heated you through the night, cold toes be gone.
Smooth oil over this organ, this canvas that’s been painted black with the loudness of heartbreak and righteous discontent.
Robbed of the season’s stolen time.
Not a single bit of goodness fits through the strainer you’ve ripped gaping holes in.
There were things to celebrate.
Yet they shared the same room as the shattered pieces of heart.
Feeling like an awkward lanky teen yearning to burst from anxiety into their prime.
Selfish in these feelings. In this push through, in the same house fighting through the awful and the sublime.
Spring arrived lacking anything that sniffs of newness.
Pull the curtains shut, put a sweater on, pull the hood over your head.
Lay down in the unmade bed. Sheets needing to be washed that still smell like her.
Refuse, just one more day to rot in the love of stolen kisses.
Stuck in the ordeal of perpetual eventide.
Every single memory tied up in her hair, in her ashes.
A smooth red wooden box embellished with her name.
The urn, the lingering frankincense clinging to the drawstring silver bag.
Her hand pressed into clay for remembrance.
Plant the rosemary, plant the wildflowers.
Hang the chime.
Place a sleeping statue in her favorite napping sun.
Mourn her.
Celebrate her.
Move tomorrow, embrace Spring slowly with fresh legs.
Hang on tight while racing downhill, helmet on, the motorcycle thrills
Hadn’t thought of that memory in so many years, a happy recollection of a father-daughter time
Hanging in the space of her mind, held precious, playing frame by frame
Her thoughts become music, his hero’s welcome song
Blind man’s zoo has come to town, wearing silver jeweled crowns
Each holding a painted blackened rose, to open thoughts their minds won’t close
And on their sight this autumn night, let blindness from you go
Where thoughts are free and children see that blindness is a travesty
With open hands the invite stands, the day to seize is yours
When thought is free, the blind can see, it opens every door
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Here’s how it happened–
It was Homecoming, 1992.
I was never popular, never going to be part of the Homecoming crowd.
In fact, I had already graduated the summer before, and found out from friends that everyone could be in the Homecoming Parade.
What?
You heard right, anyone could be in the Homecoming parade, as long as one of us was still in High School.
Welp, that was it. I was going to get a gang of the coolest art girls in town to be in the parade.
It was a small town, still is. One of those one light places with a church on each corner of the intersection, a single bank, and a lonely gas station.
We decided to name ourselves “Blind Man’s Zoo” for the parade, hence the poem for our little charade.
I had just been to a 10,000 Maniacs show, was in love with Natalie Merchant and that album – it seemed to perfectly fit.
We each carried black rose bouquets, donned our best vintage gear, and dyed our hair black – which said on the box was temporary.
We wore handmade silver crowns with giant gems and copious amounts of glitter to really set off the occasion.
Accompanying us was a massive tie-dyed sign spray-painted with our name across it. Two of our buddies walked in front of us with it, their heads held magnificently high.
The best part was having an antique car club offer to drive us in the parade.
We each rode in a convertible corvette that night. My sister’s ride I was especially fond of, it had the sexiest billiard ball gear shift.
So down our one-light town, we rode — with the Homecoming Court and the State Championship-winning football team.
Onto the track, circling the football field, all of us waving with our black roses and silver-painted Burger King crowns, the Friday night lights working for us.
Our friends kept holding the banner high, champions of the night. We parked while the marching band blasted their teen spirit behind us.
It was a perfect night, one I won’t forget, and that black henna hair dye didn’t wash out.