mutiny

my body is a 
shipwreck, dashed against the rocks
maritime debris

and my heart was full

i attended prince's rally 4 peace concert in baltimore this past sunday.  i'm attempting to quantify this experience, but first i have to qualify it:

- it was a benefit, at least partially, and a rally for a hurting city

- it was an event thrown together within days

that said, and taken into consideration, i rate this concert a very good on a scale of poor to excellent.

but that's almost not fair, because it doesn't encapsulate magic.

i've been a fan for a long time.  i want to say lifelong, but i can't.  i do believe i became aware of and attracted to prince and his music when i was 12 and mtv showed me a sexy little man on a smoky stage who spoke straight to my soul and imprinted upon me.  it's a heady age and he came into my life at the right time - adolescence is hard, and mine was harder than average. 

(insert purple rain frenzy here)

prince saved me in ways he'll never know.  i'm not here to argue how healthy it was; it just was, and is. he's the longest relationship i've ever had.

the concert this past sunday was very good, but i was too far away.  he came to my side of the stage a few times.  he connected, as i'm sure one is aware one must when performing.  there was no real eye contact, though.  not like i've experienced before.

my first concert was the lovesexy tour.  that was BIG scale, with a car that drove onstage; a basketball hoop for fun, a swing, a bed for business.  it was a huge show, and the internet tells me tickets were in the $20 range back then.  it tickled most senses on most levels.  after the show, with new friends, i found out where prince was (a private club: the black banana), talked my underage self in (literally said "we're with prince"), and found out he was tucked away in a corner.  i saw him try to slink out (difficult as the club was nearly empty) and tiptoed down the steps behind him a few paces back.  he helped cat into the tour van, and looked at me, feet away, frozen.  we made eye contact and he waited for a second, waited... for what?  whatever the opportunity, i was so stunned and starstruck that words would not form.  i couldn't speak.  he stepped in the van.  and that's my memory of prince and me on a deserted sidewalk in philadelphia at 2AM, when supernatural things happen.  the imprint was deep and permanent.

understand the lovesexy experience may be the scale on which i grade every prince experience and because it is mine, it is fair.

(i made many fan connections then, visited another country to meet them, became involved in his official fan magazine, traded records and bootlegs and unreleased tracks and videos.  it's been a lifestyle.)

i saw him next at a love 4 one another show.  great seats, good show, lot of material i didn't know by heart.  my interest in the fine details waned after lovesexy; what can i say?  i'm a revolution fan.  but i was close, and it was enough fuel for me.  as i was growing and changing, obsession eased its grip on me.

the next show was musicology.  i took my sister and we had amazing floor seats.  the band entered the stage from our row, and i was able to high five them on the way.  they were wheeling a magical equipment trunk which i tapped gently because i knew prince was inside, and that was how he was transported to the stage.  i was that.close.  we were sitting in front of the sound board, and i knew girls were selected to go onstage during "u got the look".  so i talked to someone (who i think was the tour manager) and asked how girls were selected.  "no jeans" i was told, sadly, so i forced my smaller sister to trade pants with me in the mens' room, but we were too late - they had already been chosen.  it was still a fantastic show, i was close, and my heart was full.

it seems it takes a lot to get me out of the house these days (i have a lot of creature comforts) but prince will always do it.  especially on mothers' day, when the intention is to be treated.  so i got tickets; pricey tickets, compared to the other shows i've seen.  but these are part of the experiences that shape me, and i've been imprinted upon, so i go.

back to the very good, the technicalities:

-the show felt like a small venue show.  in a small venue, i think, it would've been perfect.  there were no props, no sets, just a projection behind him that could have been running on power point.

-i was in the 200s.  as close to the stage as i could be in the 200s, but still, 200s.

-the air was very close, damp and hot.  i couldn't wait to fill my lungs with fresh air.

-the sound was not great.  i couldn't make out the words to "baltimore", the song specifically recorded for the event and the events leading up to the event - the deaths of freddy gray and mike brown.

-the house lights never went up when he said "turn the house lights up".

BUT

there was a beautiful piano segment, and when i heard the beginning of "the beautiful ones", i died a little bit, and it all came rushing back, and i was reborn, and he was facing me and singing to me.  we sang "how come u don't call me anymore" together, i fingersnapped on the 2 and 4, and i realized we've been in this thing a long damn time and i really do love it.  

and my heart was full.

no god there only science

remember when you lived here
the land was lush
lubricated and fresh
things were wet;
yes, that's the best way to say it.

wet.

fertile, thriving hills
and valleys
what a beautiful landscape,
you said.

remember when you moved.

the trees, fallen
trunks decayed
the carbon stopped long ago.
nothing squirms
occasional weed, broken glass, bones
bleached from the sun
barren.

you tried pouring whisky on it once and made it worse.
drier, even.

i wonder what you do in a desert; maybe pray for rain.

see how that works.

welcome to freshmen orientation. parking that way.

he is dancing, bare feet
(which i hate)
with the joy of a dozen toddlers
a baby's gurgling laugh
he is dancing in the street, on the pavement
in the rain
he looks absolutely ridiculous
and completely carefree
in a rain slicker
with fogged glasses
and red hair
he is dancing in the street
with bare feet
no ego
and no tip jar.

siren calling

my best friend, my constant companion:

look up

published on metazen

it's called crazy horse, this leather, and i show you my clogs. they are brand new, but appear old and worn in; the more you beat them up, the better they look. more things should be made of crazy horse.

how to waste your lunch hour

published on metazen

the latest in a how-to series

i never feel guilty until i get caught

i am spending the night at kim's house whose family are jehovah's witnesses like mine. we are a clique of weird outsiders in high school: no birthday celebrations, no holidays, no unchaperoned dating and no "worldliness" (my dad even gets mad at my mom for reading cosmopolitan magazine because "it literally means 'worldly'"). we are somehow in this world but not of it and i am kind of afraid of dying in armageddon.

how to fill a hole

a hole is a hole, empty, nothing.

my skin was brûlée

this is where we loved

the solar system is in jeopardy

published on metazen



we shook her ashes toward the ocean

stompin' on bricks

shoes don't fit feet made of bricks. i trudge store to store, tracking clay dust across the carpet and the most eager salesmen usher me straight out the door. what about commission? is it just an hourly wage these days? i feel discrimination in my bones. they express emotion: sad when it's going to rain; angry informs me of arthritis. they've been feeling like rain for months and i expect it any moment and should probably get my bricks inside before they become soaked and trail rust everywhere. i'm going to write a complaint about this mistreatment.

the missive forms in the weeks it takes to get home and bang up the steps to my apartment, which i discover half empty. i sink a few inches, stumble flailing in a cloud of dust and gaze down upon fleshy toes. testing them, i tiptoe to the icebox, remove a frozen pizza, fire up the oven and wait for the rain.

grow up

cut from my belly; torn from my womb
you and i were in distress
you weren't breathing so i stopped, too
strapped down, crucified by restraints
even the doctor seemed panicked
rushing precisely with a scalpel
bloody rags on the floor
please breathe
finally, a tiny cry that swelled my heart
my guts on the outside were tucked and sewn back in
thank god you were okay
but what do you mean you don't feel like cleaning your room

what you get

it killed her to watch her child board the bus every day. actors' daughters do NOT attend public school, she'd later rage to her older, heavier reflection. she'd planned to be married and divorced by now, cushioned by alimony and child support payments. support in fact was unreliable and paltry, an embarrassment when she did receive it. she mourned her lost 20s.

velvet ropes used to part for her, offering rich fat fruit for plucking. athletes with expensive cars wore the finest clothing but rarely condoms; musicians were a gamble either way. the handsome, recurring character whose face was now reflected in her daughter's evidently did not, but she couldn’t really remember that night. she sipped coffee and browsed through her closet, past the sweatsuits and mom clothes, blazers and comfortable shoes. black stilettos, black slipdress. artifacts. but there was a basketball game later that evening and a pair of spanx in her top drawer.

yule see

eggnog is for christmas parties and this one has to be perfect, she says. pick up some and a box of crackers on your way home.  she cares what our friends think, even though our friends are stupid and want to watch the big chill every year and get high.

the year end wrap up editions slump in the magazine racks along the checkout line.  i notice them when i look away from the blinding holiday sweater in front of me with jingling bells on the shoulder.  is that all you have, the sweater turns and asks, just the two things?  i nod at the eggnog and crackers in my hands.  she waves me in front of her.  you go ahead.  she smells like old lady perfume, the kind my mother would spritz to cover the alcohol on her breath and in her pores.


thank you, i reply.  i place my items on the belt and grab a bottle out of the impulse fridge.  i twist the cap off and soda sprays everywhere, a forceful bubbly jetstream that covers both of us.  the wide eyed cashier slowly calls for a cleanup at her register.  i apologize to everyone for choosing the wrong soda and purchase the sticky items.  i apologize to the sweater but not the perfume.