I revisit the Blue Album
because I loved it so much
More than once I’ve loved a song dearly
before it gained any real meaning to me
“Your drug is a heart breaker/
My love is a life taker”
Lyrics I loved
Until I listened once
for the first time in years
“My love is a life taker”
I’ve slept with at least two men
who are now dead. I thought
And started the song over.
I took a series of photos of what I looked like
in the morning when I’d just woken up.
My hair, always a mess
because I move around a lot in my sleep.
In some of them
I’m still drunk from the night before.
In some of them
the background changes
from the bathroom in my old apartment
with the paper-thin walls
to the pastel green with white trim
of my ex-whatever’s bathroom.
My eyeliner is still on
smeared all around my eyes
because I didn’t take it off
like I always do at home
because I wasn’t at home
I was with some dude.
In one photo I’m wearing his t-shirt
my eyes are barely open
and in several of them
I still look hammered.
I was sitting on a barstool
next to this guy
who fancies himself
some kind of outlaw cowboy,
but was really just another suburban drunk,
showing him the photos in my phone
and he laughed
and told me
he didn’t know why
but it was kind of hot.
Where I should have seen a red flag,
I saw my in.
Just for fun, here is most of that collection of photos. From a time when I was blonde, drunk, and had terrible judgment.
I’ve got some of my chapbook ‘I Wasn’t In Love With You, I Was Just Really Drunk’ left over from the Ladybox event the weekend before last, as well as Tell Me A Story/ I’m A Fucking Lady/ Ladybox logo stickers and I’m A Fucking Lady/Ladybox logo patches!
If you’re interested in purchasing any of these items, please shoot me a message at firstname.lastname@example.org
PayPal pretty much a must.
(write up of I Wasn’t In Love With You, I Was Just Really Drunk @ Vol.1 Brooklyn
The streets of San Francisco are filled with homeless people. Today, the first time in all my day trips to the city, I see a cluster of uniformed police officers roaming around Market Street and stopping wherever a homeless person is leaning against a building to tell them to move along. Force them to move along. Where? Where are they supposed to go?
I’m sitting in the window of a diner, staring out, killing time. The cluster of cops I passed a few blocks back make their way to the diner. All I can see is a set of feet sticking out from the side of the building on to the sidewalk. The four of them put on black and blue latex gloves in case the have to touch the man passed out against the diner.
They tell him to get up. They pull at him, a group effort to get him to wobble to his feet. They tell him that he’s soaked, in case he didn’t already know. One officer laughs openly at the man and whatever his slurred response was. The officer throws his head back with laughter and claps.
The man stands but slumps against the wall.
The officers just stare at him and tell him again that he has to go. The man stumbles a few paces and stops directly in front of the window I’m facing out. He lurches, hunched over, pants around his knees and a blanket draped around his shoulders. An officer looks in at me as I take a sip of coffee. He gestures inside and I can see his mouth telling the man that I’m trying to eat and he has to get away from the window. The officer smiles at me and I stare back and shake my head, hoping he can read my expression: “Don’t bring me into this.”
The man is dropping things and picking them up again. Mouth open, oblivious, he wanders down the street away from the diner. The same officer who laughed throws his hands up in the air and hobbles around the sidewalk, mimicking the homeless man and laughing joyously, all teeth, I glare out the window until they move along.