There's bleeding hearts growing over the porch. I'm in the green and white chair- the one we have the unspoken smoking occupancy rotation over. I'm smoking, naturally. Wishing I could light one with another but all that's here is the little refried nothings. The pack I never wanted you to buy tonight is in your pocket. I feed the ashes through the cracks to what's beneath. I hear music, out the door or up the stairs or through floorboards. It's not entirely audible, but I don't think I can cry anymore tonight or even be angry with you- because that music- I think it's mine. And the barrel's almost empty baby because sometimes I want to- what did you say the other day- hibernate? Yea. You said "Are you hibernating?" and I don't even think I wanted to argue. I don't even think I cared to contest with all my physical maladies, most of them very real. Because even without a drop of fluid in my lungs I would've made myself into a down and jersey burrito. But the barrel I mentioned, it's not entirely empty yet. And just like I water down juice and, more recently- ginger ale to stretch it a little further, I want to dillute what's left in the barrel a bit. Just make enough of it to get through this week because the next one's gotta be better. I love you.

xoxo
Manda

A Thousand Things (a song)

You made your mark on me in clay
so that at your convenience
my tears would wash it away-
and there were a thousand things I could do...
Thats the ugly thing about being a beautiful fool.

Take your strides on me in boots
so you could see where you'd been if you needed to
and there were a thousand things I could say
That's the heaviest thing in the weight that you bear when you stay.

Take your liberties with my in quiet
because I'm so sedated in private.
A thousand things I could not see-
thank the selective insight in me.

365 or more
A phone call between former lovers- former lesser whores.
And thank you so much darling,
one-time everything,
but go back to sleep...
I'm home and content with the best permanent part of me.

Monday Song

I wake up pale
unstuck but still
I take up residence
in this koleidescope of nails.
Raped hillsides and dip-dyed skies
make all the difference.

I put my favorite finger on play
and add it to the thousandth mental mix-tape
I've made for you today.
One more tear slides through
alabaster haze
and one more time I say..
"It's not you"
Even if it feels that way.

And I mean it with all the color left in my eyes
I love the unfrozen photographs
that I'm scared to live in someday.

It's not the one before you-
before September-
there's scarcely sand from last December
It runs much deeper than all that.

I'm holding onto
afternoons in sheets
with my cold feet on you

And I embrace
every trace of concern
that plays on your face
when I blink too hard
and face the other way.
But tomorrow is always only hours away-
so I'm okay.

I swear it's not you...
Even if it feels that way.

Back in Time

I took it down
I fold it up
but I can't find a closet
big enough

it's all give-
no take
but can you see the inside celluloid
that keeps me awake?

reels from long before
I made it back to sit-
hands clenched in my lap.
my face for your face.

And Mary Jean-
is it too late to come clean?
I concede-
you're still the second greatest solace
that I need.

I know God was there
the night that we both couldn't breathe.
Are your people where you said they'd be?
Do I look any better from where you're
seeing me?

unfinished

That city boasts a poisoned well
that serves the monks and cartoons well
and the blazing double monikers
with no lights behind them

That place is a tapestry
with breweries coaxing mercedes-bred
pedigrees
because there's no other chemical left by 1 a.m.
to guide them

December finds me daydreaming in Starbucks

I want a lover like a hero.
One that writes poetry on napkins-
one who pretends his favorite film is soemthing noire-
like he gets it.
He can write perfect prose about the azure flush in my eyes-
my pout and pert ass.
He'll send me flowers-at work- on my birthday
tell his parents I'm a prodigy-
his friends I'm a perfect lay.

He dances like Fred Astaire
and quotes "Wonderful Tonight" by Clapton
He knows what I order at different places
and he never gets tired-or fired- or lockjaw,
just big raises (if ya know what I mean)
rents oldies and digs Jerry Lewis
and the smell of tobacco-
smokes it liberally
never chews it.

His brother thinks I'm almost as charming as he does
he has perfect hygiene
and gives great backrubs.
"Merry Christmas- here's a classic monogram Louis Vuitton barrel bag, sugar"
he'll say-
stamina like George Foreman-
y'know, in the ring-
I mean back in the day.

And while my chai cools
I give him a little facial hair
and a knack for holding booze.
Maybe fantastic taste in shoes.
That barrista wants my number-
maybe for right now he'll do.

Let me say just this one thing...

Don't say
the stronger you are
the quicker it all goes away.

Stom reminding me
that it happened to you
because it's not how it happened to me.

Lady- let me cry
just for the sake of crying
over something that was mine.

Let me ache all day
for something someone besides you
took away.

Let me grieve
for all the honey in the sieve-
it's too sweet to concern you anyway.

And now that it's empty
let me break
while it does piriouettes down the drain.

You made me-
but even if you were unlike you
you couldn't save me.

So let me feel this fall in my marrow
and wherever else it needs to go.

I'm begining to appreciate
that you'll always let me down
but dont throw me in hot water
if you don't intend to let me drown.

Untitled

You'd be sorry
and you'd say it loosely.
As if you felt too much
your sympathy might move me.

You'd be angry
at a catastrophic degree
and it would most likely be
directed at me-
as if you weren't the only one
I was much too open to-
Like explaining this in riddles is so easy.

6 days
shaking with the sheets
at my chin
and I was so shut down and condemned
but I left ever door open
in the hope that you'd come in.

I was lonely
even swimming in your sweater
the scent and sentiments gone from every fiber-
so it made me feel no better.

It makes NO DIFFERENCE
what shallow vices took precidence...

I gave it willingly and soberly
and out of something sacred.
You made it a novelty-
simply something best done naked.

And I'm sorry that I've talked so much
but only now can I tell you
you assisted a thief in the worst way-
and I cannot forgive you.

Le Matin Après

It was one macabre
Shade of purple
when I woke up

I start my day
in the usual way-
drinking cowboy coffee
from a much too empty cup.

Aquamarine on alabaster
Oh God the things I've seen
will kill me so much faster
than the truth I choke on now

But the things I didn't see
are the ones that
truly make me bleed.

Is there a doctor in the room-
Hiding in the stale smell of cigarettes
and the fog of impending doom?

Is there a doctor in the house-
The one I'll never pace the floor of
if I don't leave this fortress now?

Is there a surgeon in this town-
who can put back
what's been taken out?

It's only blood-
it cleans up.
And these are only bruises-
Where's my makeup?

Thoughts on self perception

This week, on "SURVIVOR- Mountain Town."....
I've used the expression "self-image holocaust" before, but back then I was speaking aesthetics. I've come to realize "Self-image" is something so much bigger than the glass perception of my calves in this pair of shoes or that, or fretting over unattractive too-small hands... that sort of thing. So what really makes for a distorted self image? Is it uber sensetive psychosis instilled by social interpretations or a lack of fatherly affection in childhood? OR is it the knowlege of one's own private undercurrents-the concealed or not-so-concealed wells of short-comings that we tell ourselves (and often rightly so) that only we can see? The personal first-hand understanding of our lacking virtues- the gouges and marrs in character and historical judgement are all the substance created by experience- Memories of doubt and weakness and error percieved and filed accordingly in a place deeper than blemishes and cellulite. We are visual creatures- and therefore we find an ease and even a macabre comfort in the disection and criticism of what is tangible and changable. Obviously this is considerably simpler and benign than the dig for-and adress of the true facets of our self-loathing; i.e., what we've done, what we've lived, and what we know. As a result of these things, we feel the weight of what we believe we are or are not capable of. But this excavation of personal skeletons is perhaps the most crucial step on the pathway to peace. I will myself every day lately to challenge my personal demons. In doing so, I've recovered charms and brief glimpses of confidence and self-worth I thought had completely disintegrated when I experienced the proverbial life shattering "IT". I have seen enough of myself to realize that more importantly than my tendency towards lapses in judgement- I have the capacity to survive anything. SO, my ass look horrendous in these pants... I'm still the fittest bitch I know.
xoxoManda

The Room

There is a room within
where favorite records play
where it smells like a seattle boutique
and your photos are displayed

There are no lingering spectators-
no lines or crowds or cliques-
no paparazzi flashbulbs
or snotty loitering kids

Even between numbers
you can only hear the street
but there's no horns or gritty engine noises
just the distant fall of feet

There are corners-liberally cushioned
where favorite books are read
and the thoughts that confuse and clutter
hit the paper- from my head

There are potted pants that I can't kill
they can sustain themselves.
They're right beside all my best-sellers
on well-dusted maple shelves.

One wall boasts a mirror
which displays my angelic pristine face
and a lean and supple body
decked in lingerie of utmost taste

Beside that there's a telephone
with a machine that always blinks
because Hollywood can't stop calling-
they say I'm perfect for the screen

And the sun reaches the left side first
so it's where I put my bed
with egyptian cotton sheets
and a dozen feather pillows at the head

And there's the box
that plays all my favorite films
in classic sepia tone-
But I'm moving out if you won't move in....
I'm sick of living here alone.