my jaw problems suck

because they induce headaches when I'm coziest.
face mashed into the pillowtop, cheeks dislodged for dreaming. ouch, ouch,

however may I burrow?
I prop my face up, hand down, knuckles at my temples.

my new straight life

Ok ok ok ok ok not so bad. Blackbird "with the lesbian bartenders" has 2 straight guys, and they're already my favorites. "I was thinking about the mezcal." "do you like spicy? bitter?" "Yeah." "I know just the drink. I can make you something wonderful."

And I trust him, the bearded jack, and the tiny, engaging argentine with the papyrus scrolls listing drinks in proper german prose and caps with curved Ls - agave, cardamom, bell pepper, rhubarb. cinnamon and plum wine. rosemary and maple. mist of scotch. amaro nonino.

It's all sparkle, and no glow. Thank god!

Doodles, tamales, and hand-carved cherry bar-heads, save my soul.

its ok

because comfort comes at both
the most waken and sleepyest moments
because wherever you are you will find your way to one.

a baby in cascais

the man who lay on the beach

dreaming, and analyzing the flowers - with the authentic words, and the glow, like liquid sunmelt all over my body and soul, launching an entire language into

my spirit for the first time

is having a baby.

at 26, my last guarded youthful fantasy

launching into tropical fruits, art in cobblestone streets, villas with linens, turquoise seas, and 100% natural attitude within it,

has been struck with life.

The kind that kicks you and tells you, "wake up! go to work." when your throat hurts.

Ay, the language of twisted trees with blossoms in the moon that smell amazing

and make your skin shake;

and the home I found on a greek island which I turned into

my room in a hole, in chinatown, to recreate every night in the same pajamas -

our youthful fantasy lives on and shakes its head at time.

dust; windex; clutter; sore throats, and babies.

18-22. 18-22. All of my fantasies, 18-22. cuban rooftops, dawn in Mycenaean territory, overlooking the goats; sunset with papaya and hawaiian gypsy music; the company is never so fresh.

22-26, 22-26. Same four years, and I've built a stale patience

of a woman.

I can swingdance for goofs and sautee artichokes and eating one in my cramped hallway floor straddling the heater, resenting a stale white striking some untuned chord in my heart.

I have to choose in the meaning of life to have meaning.

I have to choose in love, to wake up.

If I am not present, I am not. Why is life cold, if I have life. What use is a foggy city, with no angst. My skin needs some whisper, without bashfulness. A deep kiss, without self-consciousness. My curiosities have dwindled to shadows of themselves, like schoolnights in elementary school. Somewhere in there there was a fire, somewhere I was weary, somewhere I sang.

My guitars are all over my house, one in each room, each missing strings.

My orchid refuses to die, unwatered on my mantle, reaching up like a ballerina.

A tissue paper I destroyed in careful shapes damaged by the wind of opening and closing my door guards the exit of my room, with a drawing of my orchid etched into the tissue the color of the thin, south atlantic sea.

My computer shouts, "IT's Twelve O'Clock". My clay animals which are whisles, from Latvia and Panama and India and Mexico all look at me patiently. "This isn't over yet, Alice, this isn't over yet," and forgive me for not closing my drawers, or buying a new lamp in years.

May the bursts flow through me! Please, extend your half-life, push me to care about the corners of the good things, bear me again, I am not burrowing, I am here, help me present.

The Tall Redheaded Woman

She has appeared twice already before me. This woman is like a ghost. She is powerful, and she is silent. Her pants are dry cleaned, and she is not stiff.

my new gay life

why does this place make me eat everything with my fingers?
the french fries are so tiny and curried I have to reach down and grab six shreds to get a bite.
Why so sugar,
why so icy.
why am I the only woman here on women's night, elbows on the cold marble -reeking of straight, or old, or happily invisible, while I lean on the cold clean marble, as the green lights fade to purple, and he disappears.

I'm suffering here to interrupt him adjusting the tv. "Excuse me? So realistically how long do I have to wait to not be the only one at the bar?"
"the girls are waiting to come out."
He looked at me like an alien.

Well, at least they closed the door. The marble is freezing, and I am no longer sad I wore my merino, and big black pants, and frumpy ballet flats. My eyes and my new deep gray nails will be it for me tonight, if I last. 30 minutes, 3 hours later, It's still daytime and dark and cold.

The big, dark, metal lounge facing the street echoes in its aluminum weeknight abandonment. The castle door up front trembles on its drafty edge.

top reasons why my hip may have been rotated causing my spine to be shaped like a Z

1. scrunching to lie down on the work shuttle between silicon valley and home
it's cold in here
laptops make terrible pillows
where o where do my feet go?

2. too much salsa dancing, too little sex

3. I only tend to eat things which require citrus-thinned sauces which, in turn, require dipping with other pieces of food. examples from the past 24 hours
ceviche
hearts of pine salad
artichoke hearts
or maybe it's just food-on-food lunge-overs
mussels in beer sauce
hommos and pita

4. I broke my big toe in September
I may subconsciously
Limp

5. I can only dream with my face out the window, stomach down, knee twisted up

6. broken tailbone at ten left me left-cheek chair sitting for over a decade of right-handed school desks