Monday, December 03, 2018

it's an odd interface
this blog now. if i'n in compose, it fills me in. between about 30 characters. maybe it'll
help me get back to
left justification.
it's a limiter that auto-
scrolls but i can beat
i thnk, let me look.

Thursday, October 18, 2018

just found this

eve of the eclipse in aiken sc from tampa by way of warm springs geogia. i rode through trumps amreica, on the backroads south and west, south and east, of atlantanineteen fifteen sixteen, .towns that didn't so much as not grow into their teens as they were left behind when the big interstates moved by. once, before bush's america brought you obama's america, you'd drive through these little towns and a shop or two would be closed in the downtowns because someone built a brandnew shop n mart at the corner cross from the cemetary but now, only the corporate survive. within ten square miles is only places for breakfast in the whole of the county is mcdonald's or piggly wiggly. we stop at both asking where's the diner, admonishing the workers what the hell, where is your loyalty to mom n pop where is a fresh egg, a cup of honest coffee and just fried bacon. when the diners of america crash, the recession's cancer grows unabated. the time is ripe for fascism, if what you mean is corporate rule, and i do. zebulon is still thriving, no visible means of support and churches, churches dot the landscape like melanoma gone rouge. there are few exception to the withering of communities along the eightyone spur. closed doors, boarded windows. in sparta, church edifices are a stark contrast with the houses that dot the small two line hiway at the edge of the oconee. villages with tree eaten structures melt into towns whose entire downtowns are burnt husks of enterprise stunted by the rise of global marketing and goods where bargaining power rests in volume and movement. so. trumps america has weed grown streets and an opiod epidemc. trumps america has weed busted brothers and mafioso fighting for turf through the courts, trumps america was ravaged by their grandfather's employers, who then escaped overseas to avoid all responsibility and uh ,taxes. trumps america knows they're fucked and wants to believe that a single man, if just crazy enough, can turn the tide of a waning empire. they feel it slipping away in real time, the manivured lawn, the thwo pint five, the someday my prince will comes. but what i want is to tell you about the hotel aiken. located on richland street. it's about three miles from the horse racing hall of fame, breeder's so downtown that my third story room has a view of the street where the spaces are diagonal, like they have all the room and all the traffic of the fifties like big finned cadalacs are cuising d whiskey blvd on the way to the rye patch for a party thrown by hope. aross the way , on sthe flat roof of the two story brick building, lookes perfecr for a patio bar. which i wish you'd conjure because i cannot. my magic was all use in in the keeping it together in the car. instead eat the best cheeseburger ever at city billiards, head to the hotel's tiki bar where smoking is allowed because it's an outdoor bar, and light em if you have em. the lobby is cross between seventies plaza hotel and mc donald's dining rooms. breakfast is behind the curtain from six to ten and the elevator is out of order. always. its white metal cageforlornly painted shut and no doubt hasn't run since the original operator died in nineteen forty eight. the non smoking room is three flights up. cool air fom the lobby disappears at the first landing while the afternoon's heat is felt at the last half flight after the turn= it's ten at night. at least the room opens first time and feels cool at 80 degrees. the first thing i notice is the open desk drawer, close it, it slowly reopens. there is a ticking sound coming from above. a ceiling fan rocks precariously on ten foot pole. there are six sprinkler heads in the plaster twenty feet above us. at least they're ready for a fire. in nineteen thirty. i stumble to the bathroom but that's wrong. i haven't been drinking. the black and white tile and dark wood vainty look installed in the forties but the door and moulding are newer and falling apart. after a hot shower, the wall paper above the door outside the bathroom peels up. i stumble out of the bathroom, still not drinking. the floor is decidedly tilted, i explain. the black out curtains cover the window but a streak of streetlight penetrates where something sharp has ripped a couple of slashes.

Saturday, September 08, 2018

if only our tears could heal us

Sunday, July 22, 2018

dear lblogg, what's happened to my interface? none of the tools are visible, none of the buttons are available. do you just want me to leave ? i am composing in html box and i think what will this look like when i post? no sense to preview, i want the real thing.

Saturday, July 21, 2018

Thursday, July 19, 2018

el favela

you'd think i'd be immune to the shanty towns
lack of hygiene, dirty water carried on 
head or hip or maybe if lucky with a stick,
 two on a pole.  but the age of cholera begins
on a different continent and the bugs,
while similar in symptom, are as different
as koala and polar bears, so we die, nestfuls
of us, the living can't bury us fast enough
all the rains, all the rainy graves
 of water., let us drink, let us baptise
in this holiest of holes and complete
the becoming of the circle.


it's been quieter now we're old.
you tried to tell me how it is,
the fading, the forgetting. i'm glad
so many years are gone but why
is my uncle still pulling up my dress
why do i still pretend to sleep why
do i see the skeleton head of shock
theatre and mom ever since
she saw that hitchcock movie psycho
 scared to take a shower
even though she had a nice tile one
with a sliding glass door in the master
i am still walking in on her as she bathes
water  on skin, curled
upon herself not exactly hiding
breasts but not forthcooming saying
oops excuse me, i left my brush
then grabbing it and leaving like most
of the good times that i had with you
or anyone else because only pain
sticks by us, even when all else has passed.


la favella is in my heart
she sings to me with a thousand
coughs in the wee morning
hours her perfume like the water
treatment plant, her hair tangled
power lines i grasp as we journey
the long ride in the back of the van
fueled by rumours and dreams.
we're coming to america haunted
by what it used to be. cardboard
signs become roofs and beds
which cannot keep us dry.

on the tv a man resembling my uncle says this land is not for us, says they are the elite, says go home, go home. but this is my home. this tiny scrap of wood and plaster pinned with electricity is where i live. we use memories to fuel the fire, but even the hard ones burn too fast in the long long night.

Monday, July 09, 2018

and that's the thing she said

 i want to look out this window and pretend
i have insight into what's out there.
but it's the same unfiltered courtyard
the same eyes staring from blackout
curtains so a glimpse of the sky
feels like some sort of freedom, crickets
sound an anthem for hot
  summer breezeways that lead to
  alt worlds.  i just want you to understand
it was too much to bear. the judgement
and questions ,implied or existant,
seemed unwelcome either way 
we couldn't talk anymore, standing
in a time poisoned river surrounded
by dead promises and rotting dreams
mourning the hot iron's unstruckness.

or maybe that's all in retrospect.
the sun does its usual thing out there
i've been stuck inside all day but i know
looks are deceiving. it's a sauna
outside, barely worth getting dressed for.


i gave a party and only a third of the people
who responded showed up. there was way
too much food but i blame myself
for not checking in with the kid before
ordering. all i get is vague answers so maybe
that's the thing. i need to communicate
better, stop making assumptions.
i shoulda just made reservations
let them deal with it all. same price
easier on the body. or forget parties
completely because for reals
how is that better than just
buying the shit she needs outright.
the way i figure it, those blankets
and onesies and single box of diapers
cost about 30 bux a piece. and no crib
in sight.
somehow your desire to throw a shower
which is different from a dinner or party
became my plan and burden to bear.
it really sucks that's what i did. why?
i thought it would be cheaper. but not
in to day's age and time. nopes
it's better to have it a place
and just show up with the presents
and that's how you have a get
to know you gathering. live n learn
but i don't think i would need
to do that again.

shit. i just want to talk about it
and feel not so much justified
as damn woman, as shown a bit
of gratitude. yeah it's like the pops says
she's not very grateful. but
maybe she can learn.