Pink Love 13


When first he saw me, he gasped, “oh My Gawd! Has anyone ever told you you look Just. Like. Paris. Hilton!” After a slight pause, I thoughtfully replied, “why no. No one ever has told me that.” For a point of reference, I vaguely resemble Anita Ekberg, if she looked marginally Benetton and sported long frizzy black hair.

From that moment on, N., who ran around the whole week wearing a t-shirt with armholes cut all the way to the hem and magic markered, “I love Paris Hilton” on the front of the shirt, and “tori Amos” on the back (or visa versa, depending which way round he happened to put it that day), he began to offer me gifts. A bracelet – plastic beaded, like we make in theraputic recreation hour, with spelled out I LOVE PARIS HILTON, various heart beads, and a large translucent purple toto dog bead.  I wore it the rest of my stay till hegot irritated with me and said to take that off and never defile it again.

A symbolist painting, filled with cryptic symbols and masonic secrets. The painting I refused. He wouldnt speak to me for a day, then tried to make up by offering me a date to the secret naked masonic rites where Tori Amos and Paris Hilton would all be there naked and we could have an orgy. I tinformed N that there would be no such date, and I wouldnt entertain a little hustler like him. He shrieked and said, you know it, I am going right back out there on the street, but not if you would marry me! Then I’ll look you up on Santa Monica and Vine, was really all I culd say, right? He arched a blond eyebrow and got all sideways looking and whispered, how did you know? I said, Cause I know everything. That seemed satisfactory.

But lastly, N’s love letter, tightly folded, and pressed into my palm.



Be thy Lover           (to you love N—–)

Begun as the sun as mid-winter dream

               this testament of Old and New

Mary was your Magdallen name or heart of

                                                   silver now gold

Wed to me my dearest take this meat and


With Blew of candle middle path way a

          cherished catalyst of country


Test me now or forever hold my fate

                      this honor of madalion


Rose Rose Rose red as the set of sun

                          lust painfully as arms

                                            adiction to


                                                                      This willow

                                                                   This time

this compationate heart of thine is my kingdom

                                 I hope for pink chakra in hollow

                                             haunting suit of casper


Bekon my siren and let them curse as we

                                                               slice troats.

And when the mascarade settles and the party

      it chimes this deseart will fill from morrow

                                                          tart rhyme.


The Peeper Arrives

Lockdown. Day 2. The few words she uttered sounded like the cheeps of a dying baby bird. A tiny and inaudible the sound, with obscured content, spoken to her own collarbone as she curliqued inward upon her self, snaillike.

Her words were also baffled by oversized black hoodie, and black knit hat, the bill drawn down almost to her eyes. Everything about her convolved inward , like painfully ingrown toenails. Even  her white white hands repeated the motif, her babylike hands curled, clawlike, into decrepid hooks. Two black clad birdie legs stuck out the bottom in, spindly and teetering.

But her face. From under her cap, so tucked unto her sternum – only a few whispy curls dangling in front, and if one was unable to see anything else of her face than a tiny mouth, she might well’ve been mistaken for a minoan bulldancer in deep cover. 

But rather than backward elegant dardevil flipping over bulls,  she always rolled inward, occasionally rocking, balling up and rock rock rock, and turn to the wall. One the back of her enormous hoodie, 



Just Working Through It


Now on Ground Floor of the Big House. The bored floor manager walks me through.

This is the cafeteria, open between x and y hours.

The med window.

The outdoor patio. You smoke out there.

The phone. Any calls within the US are free. Remember to be courteous and limit your time to 15 minutes if others are waiting.

Here is your passcode. Any visitors or callers must provide these digits for us to even let you know they’ve made contact. This will always be your passcode number. It’s the last digits of your patient number. If you come back, your patient number is the same, and so your passcode will ALWAYS be the same.

Your room. And looks like your roommate is in –

The Floor Manager leads me from the hallway into an open door. All the other room have closed doors.

This is your roomate, Josey. 

Josey is face down on her mattress. I’m impressed by her ZOSO Led Zepplin board shorts.

Josey, this is Fleur.

Josey rolls over and sits up, showing a puffy face, pink and raw from hours of lying face ploughed into the sheets. Blotting her recent tears, the bedding leaves her looking slightly humid. Josey speaks slow, with slight mournful overtones, and an almost childlike with depth of sincerity.

nice to meet you, Fleur. i’m Josey

Good to meet you too, Josey.  

It is not good to meet her. I am not pleased. I do not want a nutty roommate.

Josey asks,

when’d you get here? 

I’m feeling matter of fact.

Just got out of [romantically named lockdown]. 

Josey nods, sympathetic.

Oh, that can be a hassle.

I follow up, obligatory –

Yeah. How bout you?

Oh me? Schizophrenia. 

She nods, prosaic.

I commiserate.

Yeah, that sounds like a drag.

We smile, then drift.

I search for more to say. I go to the doorway.

 Well, I’m going to go look around.

OK .

Josey lies down, turns back over to fall the wall. The Led Zepplin shorts again take center stage. I later discover that she too is amused by them.

But for now, I leave the room, closing the door behind me.

When I return, the door is open. Josey lies in the same place, facing the wall.  When I leave, I close the door behind me.

Next time I walk by, the door: wide open. All casual, I close it and keep walking.

For Christsake, when returning, the damn door is open again.

I step in. Josey, face down on the bed again, sobbing. Huge, drenched in salt water and snot sobs.

i pause, considering a course of action.

josey? is there anything a can do for you?

She, thru the sobs.

It’s ok. I’m just workin thru it.

What can I say?

~well, you let me know

ok. thanks

Suddenly my heart hurts. Open door it is. What do I have to keep secret here? Besides, we cant lock it.

Moonage Daydream

Moving deeper into the Grounds of one of the best Facilities around. (Thank goodness for health insurance.) My guide, a petite blond, leads me to a cabin, sunken deep into the darkness of the night. She looks like an escapee from a Perry Ellis ad, all slender khakis and pink cashmere sweater. She mechanically rambles about the hundred year history of the facility, I dutifully trudge behind her on the path. Then! We move beyond the grove, and the waxing silvery moon glow exposes a woodland park of unearthly in it’s fairytale proportions.

A nightingale trills above (I kid you not), and for a split second, just a second, mind you, I feel the urge to kick off my sandals and run to the center of the glimmering green lawn, spinning, arms out to the sky – for just a moment. After all, I now wear two hospital gowns so as to be modest in both front and back. Nothing to complain about in the fashion department, so how quixotic could this impulse be?

In that split second, imagining my dance in the moonlight like some Maeve or whoever she was that those victorians blathered on about, and the rosy tipped fingers of dawn kissed the sky, I knew my day tomorrow would be filled with sunshine and laughter.

Croquet Romantique

Tomorrow morn, I might stroll round the grounds, surveying the lay of the land, pausing a moment, notebook and conte in hand to watch the giant koi drift through lily pad ponds, or reflect life’s mystery under a weeping willow. Perhaps settle, to rest by the cherubim encrusted fountain, it’s sweet soothing burble in perfect harmony with the rustle of the tall Lebanese cedars. I sip Earl Grey in Blue Willow off a silver salver nestled on a wicker stand until sated with said sedentary acts. (The prior are, after all, a hellish chain of precise and stylised activities. Especially that tea part.)

But Now – Onwards! With a swish of white linen skirt and slight twirl of tatted parasol, I notice the croquet green. The other players – charming, and eccentric. Amusement for now, and jolly good fun for later remembrance.

Later, exhausted from bearing up under the pressure of stiff competition, the taxing senatus consultum of the double diamond or singular focus demanded by the “cut throat” (no pun intended!). A change of scenery might be just the needed respite.

And lo! Behold, a great glass hot house, it’s door yawning open, beckoning to venture in. A mossy sour smell drifts on warm moist waves, the with intensely dark sweet orchids. To meander the tropical rows of verdancy and rotten orchids, to feel at one with exotica in nature -albeit a conterfeit nature – this jungle brought to life in the desert through man’s clever 19th century sense of bending nature to his will… And the nightingale.

Hang on one gosh darn second.

I walk behind Pink Sweater. The grass still looks magical, but no, the dance in the moonlight is not such a good idea.

Even mentioning the idea might somehow rattle the cage that closes around me.

Unsolved Mysteries Of Croquet

Recipe 1: Perhaps it’s time to return?

Lately, I’d definitely had the sense that we are all simply a lovely, lacy compendium of chemicals. These chemicals, these scientific wonders – they brightly tarantelle across our synapses, seething over and sputtering out of the retched potboiler of my proverbial melting pot, and, like a cheap fondue, congeal into the semblance of a brain chemistry.

I could refer to this process as “my personality”.

ok., but, whoa, what? Is this me, or is this the oh so delicately strung together yet gruesome pharmacological mulligan, thrilling to be made over- Beautified, touched up, refined, and now we can all get along type person. The trajectory of the day seems to dictate the current locomotion as Pressing OnWard, my stripling, and soon you will feel yourself again. Why, if you dont try, how can you possibly know? And keep the chin up, old girl, it’s not so bad, I assure you from the bottom of my bleak bleak heart.

So. The docket as it stands (though keep in mind these are subject to the whims of  unquiet dreams or restless legs): synesthesia auto-correction, scottish hydropathic mixed with thalassotherapy (all the way from the Sea of Lot or Yam ha-Melah, or al-Bahr al-Mayyit, as is your preference), a sulcus rubdown with tincture of  killdeer (Charadrius vociferus) effluvia, the choroid plexus of yak, a dot of cadmium red, sulphurous chalcedony, and camphor – melted together in beeswax and petroleum .

A true vacay, I’m assured. Especially when halcyon days of winter seem upon us, or at least, look on the sunny side, it’s easy to do, especially in the Land Of Eternal Sunshine. But thats from the account by Pseudo-Apollodurus, and with a name like that, who can take him seriously? But seriously, a holiday! In a land I’ve lived before, carefree, doted upon, bloblularizing into the couch, no time, no nature, no structure, nothing but plastic beads and spinning eyes, and the repetition of “How are you feeling ?” from a baker’s dozen of here fore to unseen humans, only familiar by the omnipresent clipboard in tow.

Perhaps it’s time to return for a holiday – and this time, maybe I can even pack for the trip.