Now....

It's 93 degrees on my porch and one by one, I shear off the legs from a stack of hand me down levis... These are for Skinny, this pair for Kimbies, a ratty tatty pair for myself. I reach down and wind my hair up into a knot, thread a bic pen threw it to keep it off my neck. I'm melting. And I smile. The broken AC is paying for how may nights at the beach?

I lug a giant tupperware box into the kitchen and start tossing necessary evils into it....salt, pepper, a cork screw, the camera, sidewalk chalk, a flashlight, paper fortune tellers, packs of no name cigarettes. We go without eating at home, we won't need much food at the beach....And I smile.

I wander through the house with a Winn Dixie bag and a peace backpack chocking random things in at will....the last bikini's I'll ever wear, magic markers and paper, little Love postcards for playing Pixies. I wonder for the last time where I left my little suitcases...what rendevous I came home from bagless...and what priceless pair of old jeans were lost in the leaving. And I smile at my makeshift luggage.

Less than 48 hours....

And we'll all be home...

Meet me at the Sandbar

Midnight.

It wll be 7 days...
Until we've waited 365 days
to pull into the coquina drive way
and
be free...

7 days until
the hum of the dripping little air conditioner
lulls me to accidental sleep on the rare occassion I give up and give in to motel logic...
until we're pretend skating around the Tiki Bar...
Couples only...
Backward skate...
Until the sun rises 10 mornings in a row to smile at us...over a blue, blue endless highway, or playing peek~a~boo behind the pink clouds of a fickle morning...
Until Jimmy has to run to the corner store to stock up on Michelob Light...
Until we have no clocks, no rules, no barefoot boots and
we laugh at
everything
that landed us here
yet
again...

at the Love Fest....

Lying in a hammock tethered by heartstrings....

It doesn't matter whose child it is....

There were wires everywhere and the hum of soft shoes padding up and down the halls almost drove me mad. How could they be so quiet when my world was exploding? How could my heart pound louder than every machine they had plugged in, louder than the canned voice calling Dr. Kildare on the loud speaker? How could they not crumple, fall to their knees with me...and know....

Long before he stabilized they told me in a foreign antiseptic language..."we've done all we can do"... and then they scattered, pigeons on a highway dodging five o'clock traffic.

And then he lived.

They came back to pack him up, uninsured, in my little red car. Naked and broken. Nobody wished us well on the way out the door. They didn't call in the morning to check on him.

This time they kept him.

And for 72 hours someone will watch over my child. With the cheese curl toes. The homemade tattoo on his ankle. The blonde hair with the slightest red sunset. For 72 hours he will be mad, but he'll breathe.

And I'll cry,
But I'll sleep...

Because he'll be safe....

The Crying Moon

"Watch your step" he bellowed as I threw one clutsy foot out of the truck door...the second fringed moccasin hit the parking lot floor before I could quip over my shoulder "I know"....

Of course he knew I wouldn't remember to be careful...
couldn't,
it's not in my nature....
And before landing at our last stop,
I parachuted out the door
and landed in a pile of pick up sticks on the gravel driveway.

He cringed. I laughed. And we called it a night.

In the morning, black and blue, and hobbling yet again, I remembered falling in slow motion... the click clack of the door opening, the billowing waves of wind as my ruffled and crumpled skirt sailed behind me, the smile creeping up fast, frozen laughter captured in polaroid color, right before I hit the ground.

In the morning I remembered,
that sometimes,
I just like to fall....

Face first into the moment.
Kiss the gravel goodnight.
Take chances.

And sometimes,
I skin my knees.

It was a crying moon,
And I could have cried,
but it wasn't in my nature.....

I needed to save that for a day I was steady on my feet....

Butterflies and other True Stories...

She was a plain jane. Faded yellow with raggedy little wings, windswept,sidewalk scuffed, Cinderellish. But Oh God, could she dance....swirly twirls in the air, and head first dip~dives straight from the sky, barely missing her nose on the upturn. And she's lived to be a 100 years old or more....in Storyland...

The yellow butterfly of San Marino...

with her dirty little feet and freckled petticoat....
she's a gypsy.....
in her husky morning after voice,
she's a sunrise....

Counting days until we travel to her homeland again...
until she lands, teetering on wobbly show~girl legs, on the lip of my Michelob....
until she barrels in, Mardis Gras style, right before Santa Claus...
until she tickles my nose,
or my toes,
or my fancy...

And reminds me to laugh,
to live,
to dance at the very,very edge of the ocean...

I still believe in butterflies...

and peace
and love
and all that
hoo~hah....

The After Party

I don't do funerals. I don't like mourning and crying and reciting lives in ticker tape in front of crowds.

And so I didn't go. To the Last Night. The buy-one-get-three unexpected lemondrops-for free night. The night they stood the barstools upside down on the counter and threw them in the dumpster the next day. The night they said good~bye.

I couldn't. I had a cold, an old broken foot that came back to haunt me, a lover that deja-vued me, a crick in my neck, nothing to wear, no money to tip the bartender excessively. I had an excuse.

It was a lousy excuse, but I wore it well.

As Big Dad-O would say, "thats my story, and I'm sticking to it".....



Rest in peace little corner bar...

The Moon in My Arms

I've seen this moon only once before...

in a lifetime...

http://thehippieparade.blogspot.com/search?q=martini+moon

I remember the exact moment...

where I was,

where I was coming from and where I was going....

And then tonight...

there she was again...

The Martini Moon.....

with the glimmering olive on the rim....

And I remembered....

Yeah, baby....

Friday's are for dancin'....

Rock my Peace

She was so excited. Her chubby little 10 year old cheeks exploding in the "Mimi" grin...



Tiny chicklet "I'm gonna need braces" teeth on parade...
She was smiling....
This was what she picked out...
wrapped in newspaper....
A rusty ole word...

Peace....

She couldn't have been prouder....

And her smile was infectious. And I knew then what peace was. My blonde haired grandaughter with the hippie soul....whispering in my cobwebbed hair....."It's for you, Mimi! Peace......"

On the day after New Year's I came home to the front door wide open. The door we haven't opened in 17 years. Strangers ring that bell.

And the rusty little letters on my porch... splayed in half...

"Must have been the wind" they told me....

But I knew....

It's the year of ghosts....
And they've barged right in....
rocking my peace and rearranging it....

Sometimes we have to remember,
even in chaos....

Peace is spelled the same....

99 bottles of beer and a Butterfly, too!

I rolled out of five o'clock traffic, Stones blaring, and scooched into the faded little parking lot. No beer in the fridge and two cigarettes to my name. Stopping on my way home to stock up on a little peace and my everyday addictions. I thought about leaving my sunglasses on. Not to hide my identity, but because I looked so bad. Old. Tired. It happened overnight.

Instead, I followed the construction worker with the beautiful blue bandana on his head through the double doors and smiled as we clinked cooler doors together. He nodded. Five thirty etiquette at the corner store.

I was third in line. Right behind the man with the baseball cap. And the blue eyes.

He turned. We've met here before. In pajamas. I groaned. And laughed. Couldn't look any worse than the first time. He laughed, too, and then inched his way closer to being "next " in line.

He paid for my beer. Kissed me on the cheek and walked out the double doors.

The six people in line behind me and the girl behind the counter watched as he never looked back.

"A carton of Winston Ultra Light 100's, please" I asked as I balanced my Michs on the popsicle cooler. "Your neighbor?" she asks, pointing her head and every squiggly hair on her noggin' towards the door. "Nah".....

A murmer began behind me. And I smiled.

When I walked through the double doors, I smiled at the sunset. Seven people touched by the butterfly. Everyone making up different stories. Talking out loud....

"Her ex" the hippie in the blue bandana grumbled.

"Dude, wanna buy my beer?" the kid behind him asked.....

"I don't think she knows him" Leyla replied.....ringing up the hippie's beer....

And then I was out the door.....I didn't hear the telephone tag that passed through the line, but I smiled even bigger at the sunset.

The man who thinks he doesn't make a difference, doesn't have a clue. Seven people went home with a story. All different. All painted to match their imagination.

And imaginations grow....

Letters from Where We Left Off....

I remember as if it were yesterday, those fateful blue eyes.

Standing in my Sunday pajamas in the cold February wind....I slid the credit card through the "fill her up at the pump" slot. Nothing happened. I turned the card upside down and tried again. Nothing. I imagined the "E" glowing brighter on the dashboard. "Damn"!

I looked once. Both ways. No one else was in the parking lot or at the pumps. I bolted for the double doors. This is a really small town. Please God don't let anyone see me in my pajamas, with my "I've been up all night" face on! I'm not vain, but I had a hangover and it had been a long and sad 36 hours leading up to this moment....this I can't even coast home on hope moment.

Kimbies and Papa and I had spent the day before cleaning out Nadine's house. Selling a lifetime of love at a garage sale to benefit her children. Smiling at strangers while our hearts broke. And then we went out drinking. Big time. We laughed. We cried. We made new best friends. We kissed the nicotine stained Sky. Waved at Nadine up there! Over us, watching. And now it was the morning after.....

And I just wanted to go home.

I didn't see him bop through the side door. Full of himself, and Sunday Spirit. But I felt those eyes, those fateful blue eyes from heaven.....rap,tap,tapping on my new day. And so I turned just in time to catch his smile. His Mick Jagger smile.

And I laughed.

For the first time in forever.

And it wasn't long before I danced. For the first time in forever.

And lived. For the first time in forever.

Endings are sometimes beginnings. Beginnings are sometimes endings.

And sometimes the circle goes on and on and on.....

I should have known if I was going to be late for work this morning, I was going to be really late.

I felt that rap,tap,tapping on my new day....
Just before I saw those fateful blue eyes again.....

Pinnochio and other tell~tale stories

I was fat. A dumpling with cold black hair and an indian nose. I was a girl. Samalama Singleton. And my Father adored me.

He nub~nubbined my head, and pinched my nose, threw me in the air and caught me football style, just before I kissed the ground.

At four, my hair was blonde and he had squeezed my nose so many times, it had almost disappeared....

At ten, I ran face first into a concrete wall, sprinting out from under a Christmas tree....and set that nose straight again....broad and bumped...

And then I was 32. Exhausted. Sacked out on an empty living room floor. Two toddler loves waddling in circles around my head, little feet knotting my hair up in piles of angel speghetti on the Berber carpet. I closed my eyes. "Here we go round the merry go round, the merry go round, the merry go round".......

"Mama!" he said. A three year old's world breaking the rhyme. I opened my eyes just in time to see the bottom of his size four pretend Nike's leap in the air. I closed them right before all 38 pounds of Boy jumped in the air and landed on my face.

Broader and bumped again.

My nose grew and grew and grew.....

When my soldier left for war, I bit my bottom lip . I couldn't let him see me cry. Not out the airplane window. I waved and smiled. Turned. Ran.

I kissed the door head on. Knocked myself out silly.

Six months later, the black eyes faded....and the bump was all but gone. I had the most perfectly straight broken nose anyone had ever seen.

When I tell the story, sometimes people think I'm fibbing.....
But I'm not....
It's broken, always has been.

Only now I can crinkle it.
Wrinkle it.
Screw it up in a magical "I dream of Jeannie" spell....

If you don't believe me, ask Skinny....

I saw you ten years from now....

I was laughing. Fluffing ten layers of petticoats back into place and scooching my cowboy boots out of the way. Making way for the casual passer~by. We were being silly. All dressed up with no place to go.

And the night rolled on....

I pointed my toes and grafittied "Make Love not War" on the waiting wall with the chalky tips of my boots. I did shots. Lemon drops. And clinked Skinny and Curty Boy in tandem.

I sashayed out onto the floor for Rolling Stones in my bouffant dress and pretended I was having a blast.....

And I did. All dressed up in my make~believe world.

And then I saw you. Ten years from now. Hair a little thinner. Arms a little skinnier and silly little six pack tummy, a little plumper. There, over there, in the shadows, sipping bud lights and staring at the band. I stopped mid sentence, mid Pink Cadillac. But you didn't see me. I smiled, but like 99 cent a bottle bubbles, the magic was gone before it reached you.... And your eyes passed right through me, dreamy and lost on the shadows behind me.

I watched you in slow black and white motion...crooked smile growing each time the double doors opened. You're head tilting back, waiting to laugh ....Remembering....

I watched you until you stopped watching the door. Until the buxom brunette grabbed your hand and whisked you out on the dancefloor. Until you gave in, and just called it another Friday night at a lonely bar.

You didn't see me, head thrown back, laughing at yesterday. Skinny legs tucked into dusty kick~your~butt boots. You didn't notice me, next to you, eyes closed, dancing to the music not the crowds. You didn't hear me when I said good night, and left.....

Life is short.

And I was only visiting....

"You can't preach peace...."

he said. Pacing across my living floor. Soft shoes padding over the dirty leopard skin rug.

Arms up, he did a 180 and turned, sighing, Counselor at law, giving up on his client.... Muttering under his breath...

"and live like this?"

Arms waving now, casting a shadow over my world....

Cats on the bartop, disco light flickering, chewed up flip flops on the floor.....

Cellphone chiming....1-800 messages waiting...

Dirty clothes spilling out of the bathroom closet, the sunshine only shines when I'm not home....

And then he rested his case with Perry Mason words...

"Chaos is not a peaceful place"......





"Choose your peace, friend" I whispered to his shadow.....

I was only Dreaming

I rolled over....Kicked the paisley orange sheets off the bed, wiggled my toes and stretched. The sun tickled my nose. Morning. Nudging me forward. I stood up and moaned. A little jooking pain in my right foot made me pause barefooted on the fake wood floor. "Shake it off" I murmered in morning breaths.

I added 3 scoops of new coffee to the 5 scoops of left over coffee and waited for magic.

And then it happened.

The Awakening.....

The Jolt....

No wonder I'm tired. I'm old. And I must have been dreaming. I missed the part where everything changed. Catnapped through the shift in gears. Eraser smudged the difference between 16 and 46. Swirled and twirled the years into a grapevine wreath, an endless circle....

And then these damned contacts brought it all home again.

Don't mix coffee and mirrors unless you want to face the truth....

On Friday, I'm leaving my eyes at home....
and
Dancing like there's no tomorrow.....

The Wrecking Ball

The windows were painted in reverse. Too many fingerprints had touched them and they bled with sunlight. The coffee table was covered in beer rings and cigarette burns and the occasional "I can't believe you just did that" carved grafitti...

It was Christian's house....

The psychedelic tub was 3/4 full of tepid water, and we all pretended the fish were still alive. Yeah, a pump would have been helpful....

We drank beer through Deep Purple, dangled skinny legs over the balcony and sang to the moon with Joni Mitchell scratching on the eight track. And then it began. The last dance. David Bowie....

I climbed on the coffee table. Barefooted and bell bottomed and one beer, or five, too many... but I knew the words... And he hummed them.

And swayed.

And I danced....

He grabbed me. Unexpectedly. But not.

And we were there again, the same music, the same shadowed faces, the same Friday night on re~run, but I was full of it. The hissy fit. The "not now", "not again"...

And he held me tighter. ..

You don't always get a second chance...

Dance.....

The Wrath of Love....

It's five o'clock. Midgit cars zig~zag through the traffic train, dodging 18 wheelers. A mid~life crisis hovers next to me, engine idling, vinyl topped dream come true, naked to the sky. He winks when I notice him. A southern pick~up truck revs his engine. Any minute he's gonna climb over my hatch~back and ride right over me. I know it.

I turn the radio up. Dig to the bottom of my purse and find the last piece of gum. Smack it. Smoke another cigarette. Hang my left arm out the window and pretend I'm a seagull.....
flying.....

And there, in the pretend sky, I fall to my knees. I should have scooped him up. The dragonfly on the sidewalk. I touched him. And he hummed. Fluttered his wings....just a little. I scooched him. Just a little. And he hummed in pain. I fetched a paper towel and a red cup and tried to pick him up, and I swear he sang to me....in sad operatic wails. And then I left him there. Wings fluttering in the breeze. Smack in the middle of the sidewalk where some busybody in the morning will kick him with their "I'm late, I'm late for a very important date" high heels. Left him there, with his wings fluttering from the "It's a cold snap" breeze. Because I didn't have the nerve to cause him anymore pain. To move him to the safety of the nondescript cool mulch where he could have died in peace.

And now,
frozen in the five o'clock gridlock,
I realize....
I should have just stayed with him....
Plopped down on the sidewalk and listened to the heartbeat of his wings...
Because
even if he wouldn't let me touch him...

He touched me....

The Purple Stapler

I woke up almost late. Not quite. But not early enough to lounge in my jammies. Have two cups of coffee and daydream.

And so I rebelled.

I camped out on the porch smoking cigarettes and sipping one cup of coffee, coloring tiny matchbook size scraps of paper, watching the sun rise. From where I parked my fanny I couldn't see the only clock in the house on the near~right time. I could only kinda tell the time by the world around me...The footsteps of the lanky 9 year old across the street, running, book bag heavy, chasing the dotted lines on the street. The tires of the bus grinding to an unexpected halt. "Yeah, he made it Dad!" Three little birds dumpster diving in my garbage cans, splashing in the unexpected puddle on the lids. The cats, stretching, raking their little paws on the screens....fingernails on a chalkboard Monday through Friday, but ahhhh, if it's Saturday, we're just stretching....

And then....

I raced....

Jumped in the shower...

Left with wet hair.

Rat packed into the city...did the nine to five plus some...and played bumper car home.

I yanked open the screen door and there on the worn out carpet ,tossed carelessly, lay the teeny weeny little matchbook size scribbles of the morning. I stepped over the color and went to fetch the stapler. All I needed was the little purple stapler and walah! somethin' out of an accidental nothin'... a teeny weeny notebook....

But it wasn't where it was supposed to be. It wasn't in the kitchen cabinets. Under the couch. It wasn't in the bathroom. The pass the trash Christmas Closet. It wasn't in my underwear drawer or the guest bedroom. It wasn't in little house or the laundrey room. It wasn't with the pots and pans or the kitty litter. It wasn't anywhere.

I pulled out the flashlight and looked in corners, emptied drawers, tumped out boxes....

But it wasn't anywhere...

And I cried.

I could go without making my house payment, skip breakfast and dinner, wear clothes still wet from the line...
but I needed that little purple stapler....

to make
something
outa
nothing....

Funny, but it was the laughter I remember....
And I miss that.....

"It is what it is...."

And it's hot. Steamy. Not the romantic, sizzling, bacon kinda steamy. The "Oh my God, I'm so f'n hot", dripping, melting, Florida kinda hot. I jump up every 15 minutes or so and wander down the hall to slam the thermostat down another notch.

And then I remember.

It went out with a boom.

The AC.

Nadah.

I twirl my hair up and shove a pencil into my crown, crossways. 1950's style. "How long until winter?" I wonder. Dreading those gray days as I utter the words. I love the heat. The sun blistering my cheeks. Ice cold beer melting, daring you to drink it before it warms in your hands. But I don't wanna be hot at night. I don't like to camp out.....

I'm whining. Pop open the windows and a cold beer. And then I smell it. The faint reminder of 1976. Wild honeysuckle on a fence, my jeans tearing as I clear the pickets. Lights flashing. Giggling. And then 1977, gagging, fumes intoxicating us. "Open the damned window!" And three of us falling into a heap on the floor....the newly painted claw footed psychedelic aquarium air drying.....home to stray fish for twenty something years after....As we gasped for fresh air ....giggling even in death.... with the honeysuckle winding her way through the dirty screen, saving us from certain tragedy....

And now....

Drenched in Monday night sweat. Waiting on winter.

Accidental perfume.

The perfect gift.....