white after labor day.

My new house creaks,
Especially when everyone
Is sleeping soundly,
And the eerie orange glow
Cast by the street lamps
Is pouring in through the cracks in the curtains,
And the shadows are dancing
On the plaster walls of my bedroom,
And I can’t differentiate the stars
From the military jets soaring above,
And only the suspicious, windowless vans
And empty city buses are cruising about.

We live by the cemetery.
I see funeral processions every day.
I am constantly reminded
Of my own mortality.

But, I’m learning to live again:
I sing while I wash the dishes,
And watch as my hands prune.
I sit out on our front porch—
The roof supported by pillars
Resembling roman ruins—
And it’s like being at the theatre,
The porch railing separating myself—
Perched in my plastic loge chair,
Chain-smoking—from the stage.
The wildflower garden beneath me, filled with
Trumpeting perennials and hibiscus,
Manned by the humming birds and honey bees,
Acts as the orchestra pit.
And I watch the play unravel before me.
The cast: the ghetto blasters rocking out in their cars,
The hipster in his mid-thirties—
Decked out in his color coordinated pastel threads,
Aviator glasses,
And a thoroughly 70’s haircut—
Zooming by and honking and waving frantically
On his seafoamgreen moped.
The apathetic mailwoman, delivering letters and bills
To the wrong addresses.
The school kids scampering home,
The drunken rednecks, cursing and staggering about,
The meth-heads babbling to themselves,
The haughty hookers stomping down the cement sidewalk catwalk,
The ghetto boys trying to look intimidating:
I smile at them; they ignore me.
(It’s good to be in the hood.)
At night, I entertain company, and we drink
Boxed wine from plastic placentas,
And pretend to be super fuckin’ classy,
Fully aware that the booze won’t taste any less cheap
When sipped from elegant crystal glasses.

(I’ve been drinking red wine almost every night,
Staining my lips purple.
I have to wash away the evidence every morning.)



I went home for Labor Day
And visited friends.

(It’s nice when people run
Their schedules by me
Just to make sure I’m available
To see them—it makes me feel important,
Like I’m worth something:
Worth time, worth energy,
Worth fractioning out
A slice of day.
Do I sound like a douche bag?
I realize I’m no crackerjack prize,
But it’s nice to know that people
Actually want me around.)

Friday, we drowned ourselves in tequila,
And pretended to be the alcoholic bitches on vh1,
Rubbing what we spilled into our legs like lotion.
One of the most pertinent and meaningful lines of the evening
Came from the drunkest man in the house:
“Do wha’makessssyouu happy,
you only live life once,
so’njoy it, and do what makesssyou happy”
he slurred, as he handed us his booze.
I’ll raise my glass to that.
Here’s to doing what makes you happy.
And here’s to trying to be happy, despite the odds.
Cheers.

I listened as a crack-head explained
How liberating it was to break her own dishes,
And somehow, it made sense:
How, when someone else breaks your dishes,
It’s frustrating, but when you’re the source
Of the destruction,
It’s freeing and therapeutic.
I nodded and emphasized.

I porch-sat with a good friend,
And noted that
The leaves were turning red,
And the daises were dead,
And it hit me that
Summer was actually ending
And fall is right at our heels.



My hair is finally growing out.
I’m glad. I missed it. I feel like fall.
It’s funny how much people’s hair grows
While you’re away.


My friends’ hair grew.
I visited my clairvoyant friend—the virgin of the couch
With a haircut like Lady Gaga’s—
And her sister, the women’s studies lesbian—
Who updated me on her personal study of women—
Their hair grew.
And we watched nonsensical Japanese films:
They were unnerving.
We chain-smoked and cackled,
And we resembled a coven of witches.
And we fantasized about how jolly it would be
If we really were a coven of witches,
Casting spells and hexes on our enemies,
Brewing surefire potions for true love,
Tending to an herb garden
Of mistletoe, lavender, rosemary, sage and thyme,
Worshipping the moonlit nights
And flying across the midnight sky on broomsticks.
Maybe I should drop out of art school
And take up witchcraft.
Then I wouldn’t have to paint any more still-lifes,
Or grow up.


Is it pathetic that
One of my main plans for the future
Is for the apocalypse to finally arrive,
Or for the aliens to invade,
And beam me up off of this planet
Just so I can avoid growing up?
I don’t think so.


At least,
I’m starting to finally feel like myself again.
My heart is finally healing,
I am finally breathing.
No more self-loathing,
Or playing out impossible
And unrealistic scenarios,
I’m not sure what
I’m supposed to be doing with myself.
But at least I can consume myself
With something new,
And finally focus on doing
What makes me happy.