addicted to crack

broken hearted

why

you can't sing anymore

nobody hears you

there is a crack

it gapes

it grows

it's familiar

the severed

skin

the heavy

heart

the wine

the whisky

the

same old song

you sing

static

Does the fact that I started listening to commercial radio
mean I'm brain dead
or wanting to be brain dead?

It all started when I became a commuter this year
in my mini van
with an old cassette player
and not much else

I ALWAYS listen to KDNK
public radio
community access
volunteer deejays
National Public Radio news
All Things Considered
Democracy Now
All that shit
on the "far left" of the dial
in all ways
I love it
I went to Washington D.C.
because of it
to protest the war
because I heard the voices
the stories
the madness of it all

everyday
in the morning
afternoon
and night

public radio and me


Then I started driving
I got impatient
distracted
unconcerned with anything outside
my bubble
Amy Goodman's "War and Peace report" made me want to scream
it doesn't go with driving
up and down valley

and

I wanted to sing along
as loud as I could


So I changed the channel
seek-seek-seek-seek
KCUF, KAJX, KJYE, KKCH "The Choice",
KMTS, KSNO, KSPN,
Jack FM "We Play What WE Want"

What what what

Two of hearts Two hearts that beat as one Two of hearts I need you, I need you...
You got the right stuff, baby, Love the way you turn me on
Chaka, Chaka, Chaka, Chaka Khan Chaka Khan, Chaka Khan, Chaka Khan Chaka Khan,
let me rock youLet me rock you
Drinking my vodka and lime, I look around,
Leaves are brown, And the sky is a hazy shade of winter.
Sweet dreams are made of this Who am I to disagree? I travel the world And the seven seas--Everybody's looking for something.
Anything you want You got it Anything you need You got it Anything at all You got it Baby
People are people so why should it be You and I should get along so awfully So we're different colours And we're different creeds And different people have different needs It's obvious you hate me Though I've done nothing wrong I never even met you So what could I have done I can't understand What makes a man Hate another man Help me understand
Oh no We gonna rock down to Electric Avenue And then we'll take it higher Oh
Six o' clock already I was just in the middle of a dream I was kissin' Valentino By a crystal blue Italian stream But I can't be late Cause then I guess I just won't get paid These are the days When you wish your bed was already made It's just another manic Monday
She's got a smile that it seems to me Reminds me of childhood memories Where everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky Now and then when I see her face She takes me away to that special place And if I stared too long I'd probably break down and cry
Sweet child o' mine Sweet love of mine
Burning the ground I break from the crowd I'm on the hunt I'm after you I smell like I sound I'm lost and I'm found and I'm hungry like the wolf
Come over here All you got is this moment The twenty-first century's yesterday You can care all you want Everybody does yeah that's okay So slide over here And give me a moment Your moves are so raw I've got to let you know I've got to let you know You're one of my kind
My my my music hits me so hard Makes me say "Oh my Lord" Thank you for blessing me With a mind to rhyme and two hype feet It feels good when you know you're down A super dope homeboy from the Oaktown And I'm known as such And this is a beat uh you can't touch
I swear I won't tease you Won't tell you no lies I don't need no bible Just look in my eyes I've waited so long baby Now that we're friends Every man's got his patience And here's where my ends I want your sex
I want your.....sex

noise noise noise

fills up the empty space and I sing along at the top of my lungs.
I seek.
I scan.
I avoid all I can: the commercials, the news, the world wide web of problems and bombings and recessions and foreclosures and death and dying and liars and leaders and injustice and hope and conservative talk show hosts.

Commercial radio numbs the brain with constant noise
but its got a beat

"We can dance if you want to," he sings. " We can leave your friends behind cause your friends don't dance and if they don't dance well they're no friends of mine..."

It makes you want to dance
and sing
instead of
rage
against
the
machine.

Doo-wap a doo-wap

Welcome to the jungle, baby
Watch it bring you to your shun n,n,n,n,,n,n,,n,n,n,,n,n,,n
knees,
knees

I wanna watch you bleed.

Drive while you can

Max tells me
"drive while you can"
after he tells me he's seen my van
parked at the yoga studio dayafterdayafterday.

It is probably six blocks away from my bed,
the studio,
just far enough to fire an engine and bring
some pistons
an air filter
exhaust
transmission
ball bearings
brakes
and the like

to life.

With what?

OIL, of course.
Marvelous, wondrous, viscous
OIL


I love it, when it comes in convenient packages, like lip balm
lotion
even clothes,
like fleece.

You know we are surrounded by oil
products derived from oil
from shoes to flooring
we would be
could be
nearly naked
without it.

OIL
OBSESSION

Start the car
heat the house
wash the clothes
fuel the factories
the food
the farms
even

until it's all gone
or too expensive to buy
to drive six blocks when
you could walk
or ride
a bike

BIKE
OBSESSION

coming soon.

But for now, Max says
"drive while you can."

So, anyone want a ride?

except

Nothing to write about
except
that my husband
Spencer
is not a dirtbag.
I told him it was a compliment,
that I said that.
Dirt bag
dirt bag
dirt bag.
MMmmm, makes me hot,
just thinking about a guy who could give a shit,
who showers less than once a day
who is wonderful and marvelous
and under appreciated by a society of
Gucci-Glam-Gorgeous
guys
who wear loafers
and couldn't survive in the woods for one
second
while Spencer,
who really is a dirt-bag hero,
Kung-foo kills a vicious micro biotic malady with his pocket-sized water filter
quenches his thirst and then
fights off a bear
with his hands
and then cracks a beer and a smile
popping up his two-person dome tent
as the sun sets
the sky turns pink
and the rocks glow
all around
he waits for the girl of his dreams to walk right into his life/
tent

which she does

and she always takes off her shoes before she crawls in

because even dirt-bags
have some standards
to live by

usually quite high
and mighty
and completely different
than what you might think

beer 2 yoga 0

It's a tough choice
between what seems to be
immediate
relaxation
of the mind
and and and
whatever you call
that total relaxation of the mind body spirit
thing
I think it's yoga
it always wins

but not tonight

beer 2
yoga 0

It's going to be a total shutout tonight
the crowd goes wild

La luna llena

The full moon penetrates
swollen like an overdue pregnant belly
the orb pushes through the fabric of the grey-blue sky

Stars disappear in her wake
she radiates

women from Rome to Moscow
feel the pull in their belly
right above their legs

it pulls
screams

howls.

what's your husband worth? (a true story)

"My husband is worth... 22 million," this lady whispers to me, after asking, "Where do people with money like to go out to eat in Aspen?"

She is what we call the nouveau rich, married into it, late in life, third husband is the charm.
My dad always told me "It's just as easy to fall in love with a rich guy," I tell this lady, who is so visibly pleased to be joining the upper crust. "But I never found that to be true," I say recalling all of my dirt-bag-mountain-climber-river-rafting partners.

She is getting her first massage, ever
because now she has money.
Woo-hoo.
"What do I do?" she asks me as she looks at the table.
I tell her to take off all her clothes, lay down and shut up (not quite like that).
She compiles.

Once down, she settles in quite quick and starts telling me all about her life.
Grrreat!
She was once a dental hygienist, she's got some kids, she lives in a Huuuge house on the California coast, she really thinks she ought to try doing yoga, maybe even hire a personal trainer, and, "this massage feels so good," she says, "I think I'll get my own massage therapist!" She even confesses, as if I care, that she used to ride "clipless" pedals when she dated an actual real bonafide ski bum from Breckenridge in the 1980s and she smoked pot all the time.
"I was so crazy then," she recalled.

"So crazy," I think wondering if she's gotten a boob job and Botox yet or if the marriage and money is still as fresh and new as she makes it seem.

"Now, I don't have to worry about money," she says again, "should I get the cellulite scrub?" she asks.

"It couldn't hurt," I reply checking out her thighs.

She is really loving the massage, commenting over and over and over again how it is so marvelous and wonderful and the like.
She asks, "How often do people with money get massages?"
I tell her she should get one everyday.
Job security for me, and she must be a good tipper, I think.
At the end, she says, "That was unbelievable," as I walk out the door.
Before she leaves the spa, she whispers, "I left something on the bed for you, sweetie."

"Cool," I thought, "a tip from someone who knows what its like NOT to be rich."

And then there I see it, a crumpled $10 bill lying on the bed. "Ewww, I felt so used."
How quickly the nouveau rich forget what it is like to be on the other side of the divide.

My dad was wrong, it's not just as easy to fall in love with a rich guy. Rich guys attract chicks like this, not people like me.
Money is wasted on the rich. The upper crusty fuckers who can't even peel more than ten bucks out of thier tight wadded fingers for the best and only full body bliss they ever had.
I'll take my bearded, PBR drinkin', debt-ridden dude any day over a stuffed gut $22-million-dollar-man. And I'll give that ten bucks to the next waitress that serves me a plate, even if it only costs $1.99.
Share the wealth while you can, the recession of the century is coming soon to a country near you, ready to strip us all down, til we're all buck naked and broke.
I know how to dance like that,
do you?

Ripple

There is this girl
who lives inside
her eyes were blue-green
her skin fair
while I am dark and tan
eyes like night.
She was my sister
gone before me
her name is my name,
now.
I carry her with me
everyday,
giving her a chance to live,
to be more than five-years-old.
To be wild
out-of-control
exuberant
broken
nasty
bitchy
radiant
a teacher
a writer
a friend
drunk
stoned
clear-headed
focused
loved

alive.

I found these pants
today
in my closet
that I wore to Glen's funeral
not so many years ago.
He was an activist
a pilot
a father
husband
friend

When I fly through the sky
I think he's there,
out there,
and when I think i am small
insignificant
I think of him,
his life,
so short, but strong.
His light
lives on.

Russel and Damon,
I feel you in the waves,
the water,
the roaring currents that push towards the sea.
That unrelenting force
of the rivers
that lives within me,
in that, I feel your hearts beat,
your spirits sing
again and again.

Those who have come and gone
the energy of life continues
every
day
all over
in water
in blood
in miracles
in lessons
in understanding
in my life
in yours.

Always
a pulse

a ripple

Roses

The butcher's wife
is living alone,
after more than
fifty years

of caring
of sharing

of being a wife
a mother .

Now,

she sits alone
at the window
looking out
to the garden...

She misses him,
everyday.

"Daddy", she called him,
and she needed him
to take care of her

she thought.

The roses
are blooming now
her friends are calling
her family visits.
She still loves to dance
and play games
and get out
into the sun,
the pool.
She knows everyone
around
and talks
and talks and
talks
as she walks.

She is living alone,
now

he's gone.

She is still the butcher's wife

but still so full of life.

What next?

Then you look into her eyes and notice
there is
something there
that draws you in;
it's a song,
emanating from the doorway,
like smoke.

It speaks to you.

It's so late;
everyone
else
is going home.
You don't even notice the formality of goodbye -
walking in,
blind,
to see
where it is coming from:

whose lungs

whose heart

whose eyes

sparkling from the deep
with a reckless belief
that there is hope.

There is life.
There is love.

Here

Now

Come in.

I want to dance like a Dominican

This guy tells me, as he’s laying down naked in front of me,
"Americans live to work, Dominicans work to live."
"Americans are so boring," he continues as I rub my hands up his leg,
"They go to sleep just as we would be heading out on the town.
We stay up til three in the morning dancing."
After I finish him off, I say, "I think you’re right. Americans are pretty boring."
Then I leave.
After working more than five hours straight doing massage, I’m exhausted.
It’s New Years Eve and I can’t even be sure I’ll make it out tonight.
Sleep sounds good.
I’ve been working a lot lately.
That was Juan, from the Dominican Republic, just one of about 40 Dominicans visiting Snowmass over the holidays. I rubbed a bunch of them and noticed - from Maria, the mom who could care less about skiing, but was having a ball, to Martin, the mammoth mass of flesh who was so excited he woke up yesterday on the beach and today was in the snow - that Dominicans seemed pretty stoked on life.
"We are basically a happy people," explained Jose, a long, lanky, hairy man with a kind face and lots of questions.
I work my fingers up and down his neck. He smiles.
"To really understand the attitude of my people you have to go back in history," he says when I inquire why it is that these islanders seem to be so contented.
"We’ve had a difficult history, with a lot of struggles. So we appreciate where we are. And the people are mainly a mix of Spanish, White and Black," he says referring to what he called the Mulatto mix of a majority of Dominicans, making them an attractive light-brown-colored people.
"Because of our history, and the mixed race of the people and the climate, I think people are very accepting of what comes," he explained.
I wondered if we would be happier, more content, in America, if we were a majority Mulatto. The issue of race certainly wouldn’t be such an issue.
Imagine in Carbondale if we were all mixed; instead of saying the elementary school is 80% Latino and 20% Anglo, it would just be 100% kiddos who all need and deserve a good education. Just a thought. But what language would they speak?
I digress.
Jose runs a hotel in the Dominican Republic, on the beach, of course.
His skin is tan, that makes him seem healthy. It reminds me of my recent trip to Hawaii where I was sporting such a deep dark tan from my days on the beach.
That made me happy.
Jose seemed happy, too. Not to mention friendly, but not too friendly if you know what I mean. Just nice.
Happy.
But, the climate, the history, the race, that’s the formula to this generally gleeful group of guests?
Hmmm, I thought, is that all? I dug my elbow into Jose’s hamstrings.
Jose speaks on, muffled by the face rest where his head is supported.
"And the music. Anywhere you go in the Dominican Republic, if people hear the music - the Salsa, the Merengue - they stop what they’re doing and they start dancing," he says and I can tell he’s smiling by the tone of his voice.
"They can be working in the hotel and if the music comes on they drop everything.
The music is inside of them. They have to dance."
That’s it. The music. They dance all night. They stop work; they dance.
I’m sure if they are having an argument, after 20 years of marriage and three boys left home and off in college and money is tight, mama and papa Dominican can make up with a simple "step-touch-step", and a swing of the hips. It brings their bodies together and brings them right back to the day they met, in the hotel. She was a maid, he was a waiter, who cares how many beds to make, orders to take; the music is on. They feel it in their bones. She is wrapped up in him, just for a moment... then, the beds, the food.
People who work to live, will live.
People who live to work, will work.
"Living" is optional.
I want to learn to dance like a Dominican.
Anybody care to dance?

Rollin' in the XLT

Yo Yo

Rollin in my XLT
that's the extended version,
like an extra long BLT,
but better.
My ride is green like choco mint ice cream
she screams
up and down that valley highway
82
me and my crew.
It's Chachi and Zorro
Black and white bitches
sucking air out the window
they've got me in stitches.
I laugh when I see their lips flapping,
nostrils flaring
all the Audi, Benz and Volvo moms are glaring
cuz i drive real slow
watching the clouds float by, you know
as I roll in my XLT,
up and down this valley wide
the time I have just seems to slide
listening to public radio
or maybe even an old school cassette
playing with my phone, fumbling with a barrette
nothing works right
the van is a fright
"Kids don't look, the windows are tinted"
"And I can tell the drivers' eyes are squinted!"
Nothing but trouble
extended version and in the bubble
Nowadays I ride to and fro
earning my means
in a car that screams,
"I don't give a shit about the car I drive, dude!"
"Please don't stare it is so rude!"
I'm just hoping to survive this rush hour madness
and not give into the sadness
as I see each and every lonely soul
with all their gadgets
trying so hard to look cool.
I'm so far from that,
just me and the dogs, maybe a cat
cruising in the XLT,
for all to see.
Official Forest Service green
she is (We got such a deal!)
a lean, mean machine
charging through the snow
making people laugh
and smile

Yo YO

I think she'll be around a while.

Write more

Write more
think less
worry more
about nothing
worry less
about her
him
think less
waste away
the best you can
wish more
create more
be more
store more
bring blood
to your brain
wash
think more
heavy now
be more
bore less
create more
be more

for
me.