Sep 292001
 

onto the bus and plugged myself in, going to the city, going downtown.
it’s not the same. not enough people, not enough soul blaring from the subway.
there’s still the man on the corner, hands out for the dollar, bottle of smirnoff tucked in coat pocket…

used to be a bag lady, books and leotards, capezios and tights, my copy of the free Village Voice. pass counters of chocolate in bloomingdale’s, groups of young fresh-faced girls, cameras in hand…

today plays like piano blues, minor chords accompany the sun peeking from behind big grey clouds. there’s a little bit of fear stuffed inside the goodies in the bag, there’s a little melancholy and no eye contact…

i’m holding onto the familiar myself, perhaps it’s a striped starred flag, what’s the harm in that? something to connect us besides the bus ride, something to console us in our anonymity…

cityfolk have their own way. it’s about the hustle, the moving on. unfazed at the ducks hanging in the window, we order the greasy egg roll. we wear the maxi leather coats and dodge the peta stares. we wear the army jackets, never knowing the man who sold it to secondhand…

it’s a little bit different. and i’m still a little scared…but the time is coming when that familiar skyline will be within my view…

Sep 282001
 

mom is sick. i could tell as soon as dad put her on the phone. she was busy pouring a bowl of cornflakes for dad. instead of milk, my dad pours his black coffee on, must be a Puerto Rican thingy…my mom likes to put cheddar cheese in coffee…?? she fishes for it just before it melts and, i have to admit, it does taste good…

of course she asks when i’m coming home…i tell her that i’m not sure, but then i say that i’m afraid of traveling through the Lincoln Tunnel…or taking metronorth under the Hudson River. sooner or later i’ll have to do it. i used to worry about it before this happened and now, well, i guess i don’t have to explain.

so both of my little nieces are sick with colds. little Jenna brings home colds now from school. i hear she loves to paint. i’m thinking for Christmas time i’ll get her some fingerpaints..(won’t my bro and sister-in-law love me?!) i loved to fingerpaint and heck, maybe i’ll buy some for me.

i can see your round little face

your china doll style

a smock put on backwards

with each brushstroke

a smile

mommi

 Uncategorized  Comments Off on mommi
Sep 282001
 

i miss my mom. there’s nothing like mom’s hugs and kisses. even as an adult, i always feel safer when i’m in my parents house. i think i’ll give her a call now…


Sep 262001
 

When are you going to show us your soft side? Your writing is always laced with sarcasm and constant belittling of people. Why waste all your energy on building up animosity towards people you don’t know? Ease up a little, okay?

signed unauthenticated

a comment left by someone whose courage fell short of leaving their name. it’s no matter, it provided me with a chuckle. obviously, i must have hit a nerve, perhaps it was the vagus…that’s a pretty important one…

it’s funny because this is one of two less than stellar comments i’ve received in all my days at deardiary, i’ve been here for about a year and a half.

i wasn’t aware that the audience was waiting for my soft side. i didn’t know you cared, to see low moonbeams shining through my hair…were you looking for smoothe rose petals to dance in the air? for me to toss the fancy, sprinkle it everywhere?

i can be as easy as a summer’s day, sleeping on a porch hammock, softened by scented love letters delivered through the hail…did you want to see the soft curves of my hips? the thoughtful side of my face? how long eyelashes balance pearl drop tears?

did you want to hear about the ever present blue? how it came in and set up camp, became a comfortable habit? or how i dodge the blacks, always at my tail? how i duck into dark corners, giving the slip to hell?

how i wake each morning with all the rest, how i pour my sugarless coffee, and search for apartment keys in vain, how i fumble with the iron and avoid cat furred black slacks, only to get the sticky roller to clean myself up again…

how i remembered the cackle of a laugh, how it flattened me a year ago today..how i loved it with all my heart, but it left me stranded in the dark…

i am as anonymous as you. my life a mere glimpse of what’s written here. and i am more than softness, more than hard edged stone…

i am the freaky lady, the anal sac expressing fingers. i can be as loud as medusa’s face, as quiet as a lamb. life isn’t all confetti, it isn’t all balloons. it’s also the gunshot in the backyard, the pauper wearing rags…

my inner voice is sometimes low. sometimes it’s screaming like a siren. but it always leaves a name. she calls herself jane.

Sep 242001
 

i’m an idealist?

or maybe just a fool.

i painted this for the annual

Amnesty greeting card campaign

only one was returned to me out

of about 10 and that one was from

Turkey. the rest of them got to where

they were going and hopefully served

a purpose. to let the recipients know we knew they

existed even though they were behind bars…