I put on my mint-flavored chapstick,
purchased for
three eighty-nine at
my local convenience store
plastic earbuds pushed
deeply into my
deaf ears, almost
touching my brain,
but not quite drowning
out the penetrating sounds of
wooden pencils
scribbling on thin sheets of
lined paper
time’s almost running
out,
you’re this close to
becoming a failure.
I look at my receipt—
I realize I can’t read.
My lips are chapped again.
Of course, you don’t have to convince me
That our long walks into the dusk
While the remnants of summer angled away,
Meant nothing,
Was an ill-conceived, purposeless lark
That failed, even as a diversion,
All told, was a complicated episode best forgotten by us both,
Even though my contributions to the arbitrary designs
Brought to life by your fevered imagination,
Did help you pass the time,
Until your own healing began.
All the same,
You might want to know
That the churning winds and vainglorious clouds,
Our swaying through the chill until our shoulders touched,
And remained in contact,
The crunch of leaves underfoot,
Your burnt red smile —
Which you insisted appeared only to mark the change of seasons —
Stripped away the reluctant acrobat --
Whose only feat was to swing from rib to rib
And inhibit my breaths --
Leaving a faint scar on my chest that,
In dimly illumed reflections and,
If no one else is present,
To the best of my recollection
Resembles you.
I was my own introduction to brown women.
Acted as I believed my birth mother would.
Brought up on stereotypes
Watching my friends’ mothers use their smarts and beddable knowledge
to create the life they knew.
Brown women.
And although my mother tried to comfort me with the fact that she
was not “white, but olive” complexion,
our thinking was the differentiation,
of adaption versus adoption.
I did not desire cupidity.
I wanted to have the audacity,
to question everything I’ve ever known.
I wanted to experience all the places they told me not to go.
And then in a blink of an eye…
they took me home.
Arms wide open to a woman I’ve never known,
she came with others, who had faces like my own.
My protean ability to configure languages,
had the “R”’s rolling off my tongue like ripples.
In a room full of families,
I had never felt more alone
even though he came together like brown paint stipples.
Tangible hugs then became mountainous words.
“Te quiero hijita”
She says to me.
I look at my mom for permission that I didn’t want.
And I whisper it back,
“Te quiero tambien”.
Brown woman.
Brown mother.
Mami.
You are not “olive”.
I touch her hand…
You are not “olive”.
I’ve missed you.
These are the words I could never say to my olive mother,
Please continue to keep loving me brown.
I fear my mother would love me more if I had straight teeth— (but I do not)
So that I could smile wide like a chipper horse
Perhaps she wishes someone had put me under (sweet anesthesia)
So that I might wake with men over my face
Plying me open with latex gloves (singing hymns)
Wrestling in my mouth for power
As they place metal between my candy cavities (to fix me)
But I am a crooked girl
With decaying teeth and no smile (oh no)
An imposter of a human
Mad for straightness (ha!)
But falling ten teeth short every time
So tell me mother dear: (do not)
How can I rectify?
And what of my contorted heart—
Will you straighten it with metal too?
At ten minutes past the witching hour of October 4th, these words were spoken...
“Peggy, give me a hit, man. The session was good, but tough; I gotta come down.”
“No. You're clean. Don't screw it up.”
“Listen, I know where you got it and who you got it from. I can do the same thing you did.”
“Then do it. It's not coming from me.”
Slam went the door of Room 103 at the Landmark Hotel, Hollywood. Minutes later, bang went the back passenger door of a limo, its tires squealing onto Franklin Avenue, the black beast headed for the corner of North Sycamore and Hollywood Boulevard. The land-yacht parked just shy of the intersection, the passenger forced to get out and walk, for there could be no overt meeting, no limos, and no celebrity scene of any kind, if the deal was to go down.
Feet from the Bougainvillea bushes and wild ivy where the dealer stood, pacing back and forth, he himself jonesin' for a fix, a marketer's cart stood on the sidewalk, a pleasant-looking obstacle situated between reality and chemical escape.
Stopping in her tracks, as if she wasn’t in a complete hurry, the bubbly chick lowered her rose-colored shades and said, “Hey, man, what you sellin'?”
The marketer, sporting a white cap and a blue-and-white striped apron, looked up, smiled and said, “Pies, miss. I sell pies.”
A flip-top head laugh erupted. “Here? You sell pies here? You get a lot of pie biz on the Boulevard?”
“Many people who get high, ponder pie, yes. I do a decent biz. Would you like one of my pies to take home with you?”
“Oh, hey, I ain't out here for no pie. I'm here for another treat,” laughing, winking, with a childlike grin. The rock star started off, pondered the possibility, and returned to the cart. “Do you have peach pies? My mom used to make a mean one back in Port Arthur. Man, do I miss my mom.”
“I'm fresh out of peach, but I do have this lovely cream pie — fresh coconut, real whipped cream, with a dash of Eternal Youth spice.”
“Eternal Youth!” said the 27 year-old woman, a big belly laugh this time, her long, wild hair flicking, her beaded necklaces jangling, her movements always hyper when sobriety sat too long and the need was there.
“That pie got a name? Is it popular?”
“Monterey Pop Pie. I only offer it to special customers.”
“Oh, like who? Anybody I'd know?”
“Well, recently, Rudy Lewis from The Drifters and Frankie Lymon from The Teenagers.”
“Hey, they’re all musicians, man, and they copped it from heroin OD.”
“Yes, that's correct.”
“So, your Eternal Youth pie didn't work. It ain't worth shit.”
“Oh, it would have worked, had they accepted my offer. So, can I tempt you?”
“Uh, no way, man, why do I want to be young forever? I've lived a thousand lifetimes already, and most of them looking through the bottom of a bourbon bottle.”
“Suit yourself,” the marketer said, shrugging his shoulders and throwing a wink to the amused but confused woman who bedecked in tie-dye as a living. and, Breathing kaleidoscope, she sauntered down the street in search of her dealer.
The marketer drew down the blinds on his stall, the cart rhythmically squeaking as it rolled out of sight.
~~~
“Hey, what's with all the lights and sirens?” said a man, dressed in a white cap and striped apron, standing on the sidewalk at 7047 Franklin.
“Overdose, groupies are saying. Some say it's Room 105. That's where she was stayin', man.”
“Dead?”
“Yeah, man, Janis. Stone cold dead.”
“Hey, kid, you a rocker?
“Yeah, my name's Brian, Brian Cole, from The Association. Me and my guys just got back from a gig up at Monterey.”
“Do you feel like pie?”