I am continuing my recorded poetry series with another poem that was originally published in Wildflower Muse. Heather put out a submission call for work related to the theme of music, and “Little House (for Kat)” was what came from the inspiration of that theme. Music has always been a big part of my life. I grew up in 2 musical households. My parents were both musicians and my brother, sister and I all inherited that love for music. Music was also a big part of the longest and closest friendship of my life. If you would like to read the published version of the poem, you can do so here. You can also subscribe to my YouTube channel, if you’d like to hear more poetry.
You were 19 and I was 20,
living in a one bedroom apartment,
learning how to be inventive with top ramen.
We drank jugs of cheap wine,
chain smoked a grown up brand of cigarettes
and watched Little House on the Prairie re-runs.
My favorite were the seasons of Mary’s blindness.
We agreed it would be better to be blind than deaf,
long before I knew I was treading on Mary’s heels.
It was impossible to imagine living without the
chaotic rhythms and lilting tones of sorrow
that shaped our friendship.
You worked long days in a record store,
brought home shopping bags filled with
bootlegs and coveted early copies of new releases.
We crept around Los Angeles in your old red car,
memorizing the lyrics to Sinead’s new songs,
thinking up cool band names and
talking about affairs with older men.
You introduced me to Concrete Blonde,
got me hooked on Mary’s Danish and
spoon fed me Thelonious Monster.
You were with me in my first mosh pit,
where I was lifted out over the crowd
and lost my china doll shoes.
After seeing bands in the back rooms of
neighborhood guitar stores,
we spent hours in all night coffee shops.
You liked your coffee sweet, mine was always black.
I wrote bad song lyrics on napkins and
you created fortresses from salt shakers and creamer packets.
We made plans for the band we’d start some day.
Our life was marked by a sound track
of frenzy and shadows, a language
that brought us together,
but the blues crept up my back and
tore me away from our bastion
of skyways and melancholy.
Almost 30 years later, the record shop is gone
and you have moved across the ocean,
but the songs that conjure up our time together
will always send me reeling back to nightclub jitters.
I was lucky to grow up in 2 musical households. My Mom was taught, by her professional jazz musician father, to play the piano at age 4. My Dad played the guitar and was always singing. He has a song for every occasion, big or small. Random songs often pop into his head and he’ll start singing, no matter where we are. He has a good voice. You’d think by now I would have heard all the songs he has to offer, but he is still surprising me with new ones. Continue reading “Stuck in My Head”
I fell a few weeks ago, on the sidewalk, while gawking at another new group of hideous town houses that are being built in our neighborhood. When I fell, I cried, not because it hurt, but because I felt humiliated, broken, slapped in the face yet again by RP. My depression and self loathing voices took center stage and told me I was useless and really shouldn’t even be outside if I can’t manage to walk a block without falling down and scraping my knees. I wanted to hide, from the RP and the day and the world. I wanted to hide from myself, pretend I was graceful, dream I could float. My sadness turned to anger and I stumbled home, terrified that every step may be the one to send me back into the unwelcome embrace of the pavement. Until very recently, this had been my usual response to falling.
Continue reading “Eating Barbequed Iguana”