Three.3.Three

I wear the same dress everyday
Stitched in pebbles, embroidered in grime.
It feels weightless
But one shift
and it's half up my thigh
catching y'all's eyes.

It's been ages since I wrote you a line
One that's not rooted in goodbye.
I just want to tell you
The sky looks dusty
and you remind me of a smokey bar.

The smokestacks are capped,
Suffocated.
They send no more of your letters.
Huffing and puffing is what I do
Now.

Monologue for Basquiat

It's nothing new when artists or figures of genius proportions are lauded, studied and replicated once they're dead.

I was at the museum last week. Mistakenly, I went on a Saturday. Even with high ceilings and central air, the place was a zoo. All types of sounds, smells and sights in housed in a space designed to crystallize genius immortality.

We all came to see this artist's exhibit. It doesn't matter who, because the point is, he's dead and more relevant than a god or terrorists. Which actually may be a better figure to worship...

His, the artist that is, his journal entries were on exhibit. His journals. Each page was torn out, probably with a laser, and then framed. Some were enclosed in Plexiglas, as if the fumes from his number two pencil needed to be protected by our raunchy breath. 

I'll tell you, I am no better than the people who were taking photos of his scribbles, doodles and smudges. I was there to ogle too. Maybe catch a whiff of whatever artistic genius that wasn't enclosed behind bullet proof glass.

It wasn't until I saw a framed composition notebook page that was only filled with three words:

1. milk
2. bread
3. ink

I got irrationally angry. So angry that I wanted to rip down the frames, punch the Plexiglas and steal each page from the walls, away from everyone's stoic gazes.

This man's grocery list is up for display along with the inner workings of years' worth of torment, glee, doubt and in this case, hunger. And it's all displayed neatly, cleanly, under high security cameras and fluorescent lab lighting; when I bet when these journals were alive,
they were run over,
stepped on
crinkled,
cut,
spat on,
ashed on,
burnt
and even drowned.

If I owned these pages, I'd be one of two things: pissed that my secrets are revealed, or piss drunk laughing at how my grocery list is framed, like I'm some god damn marvel of human nature.

Mono. 2

SpiNion

I just bought a new desk. It’s this modern – or, contemporary – piece. A desk. It’s asymmetrical, you know… the color blocking, on the leather, I mean. The top of it, where I write is divided into two. The left side is white and black is on the right. The white side is much smaller than the black..

So I try to write on the black side. You know, it won’t get as dirty with my smudges, being a leftie and all. But the white, it’s so beautiful, it’s not stark white, but it’s a warm white, if you know what I mean. I keep it pretty clean. I polish it every day. It’s the nicest piece of furniture I’ve ever owned. It was such a stark comparison this beautiful, polished, dignified desk floating in a room full of stained rugs, tattered ottomans, chipped coffee table. So I cleaned. Vacuumed, mopped, tsk, even steamed, everywhere   . The living room, the kitchen, my boudoir, bathroom. All of it.

Before I knew it I was done, wiping down that grimy bathroom mirror, and I saw myself. I mean crystal clear. And I looked like I just made love with the hero of my life. Hot cheeks, hazy eyes, sweaty brow, and the best, panting.

So ­­­E__, that’s what I’ve been up to.

Monologue No. 4

Hey, I know it’s late. I was selfishly hoping you’d be up right now about to go for a run or making a juice or something. I need someone to talk to. Well just you, actually. My ears are still ringing. The sun is almost up. I just got back from this party somewhere in deep Bushwick. You had to be invited or some shit like that. I can see why though, the music was unbelievable. House at its finest. Too good to be in public. It’s a good thing I wore sneakers because the dance floor was waxed and people were moon walking like they were dancing on butter. It was like high school in there. Balloons. A spiked punch bowl. And a buffet. Ha, kinda like adolescent heaven. You know, nostalgic and whatnot…

Listen, I’m not sure if what I’m gonna tell you won't surprise you or shock you. Either way, it’s fucked up. I was walking back through some crusty street back to the train. I turned the corner to see a dead man splayed on the ground. “Splayed.” That’s the only time I think I’ve used that word. “Splattered’s” drunk cousin. He was dead, Jo. Blood and everything. We even had a staring contest. Remember that Ginsberg poem? Something about Brooklyn. But I immediately thought of that line, “I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked..”

Shit. If I skipped that last butter dance that could’ve been me. Dead man in my path. Like some voodoo tarot shit. No one was around. And Jo, for the first time in my life, I felt this raw fear. I was surrounded by concrete, windowless blocks. It’s dead there. No life. I was in the void of the jungle. Not even rats hang here. And nothin’s more terrifying than being alone in a void where at any given moment, you’re the prey.

Anyway, I got my run for the day. The sun’s up. I’ll catch ya. Night.

Mono. 1

When are you really done? Is it after three days when your phone stops ringing? Is it when you find the job of your dreams? Is it after you cook that meal to sheer gastronomical perfection? Is it when you move to the city of your dreams? Is it after you ripped up the letters? You know, the ones that are now cigarette-soaked top soil in Steuben Park? Or is it when you start cleaning again? Polishing, scrubbing, perfuming… Are you really done once you walk from 1^st Avenue Loop up to to E. 60^th, and back? Are you done when you start dancing in the underground platforms, waiting for the G at 4:07 AM? Are you done after you had a spontaneous intimate relationship with the toilet bowl after Mr. Bullit told you to go fuck yourself? Are you done after riding a bike with a crooked wheel down an overlooked street? Or when you find a soul mate on the dance floor? Are you done when you stop questioning your logic? Or when you let your emotions sift through you to silently salt the sidewalk? I love sibilance. Or are you done when you fill up a page? Or 10? Or 20? Or a book. Or a magazine. Or an obituary? Are you done because you’re supposed to be done? Or are you just treading water until the Unrequited pays another visit?

Quickie in the Board Room

Spinion

please wipe that bored look off your face
as i can see
your mind, too, wanders 
off to sultry places

Play | She's Art

Spinion

| Incipiens |

sharpen this pen
coil strummed strings
around my teeth
as white as piano keys,
and play
to a beat
that is my own.

ladies. yes, ladies and gentlemen,
she's losing her hair,
and her eyes,
the color of violet rain.
and she's here
to shed her locks
and cry amuck,
while the grand folk
rattle luscious jewels,
suck on stringy baubles
and quizzically mutter,
she's art.