Ok, so am stranded in an airport for a while. I havent been blogging. (Is that what this is? blogging? not sure). Sorry if you missed some poetry! I’ve been moving around different cities, feeling very introverted in many ways, and yet surrounded by so many diverse people. Such great friends. I havent wanted to write poems on paper, or screens. They have been running around my brain cells, little words zinging through every subway ride, every tree I can stare at, the rainbow we saw over the Arizona desert yesterday, the calm really tall palm trees of Venice beach, the hustle and sway and jazz and hip hop of every moving body in Brooklyn, and the urban power that is Manhattan. Poems inside my head.

When I did finally sit down to write something, it was the silliest poem I ever wrote.

So, here you go, officially the silliest most random poem I ever wrote. Ever.

Well, many of my yearning lust-filled poems are silly, but this one takes the prize for silliness. I dont even celebrate xmas, dont really even believe in any religion, and I certainly dont believe in Santa 😛

I thought, in my delirious state in this stranded airport, this would be good to get out there.

Christmas wish list

Arizona, 25/8/2010

Dear Santa:

I am a reasonably good girl

-if we could perhaps gloss over the details of that

and get to it-

all I want

all I really want

all I want in this world is a big wooden hard closet

a space to spill over my woman parts

let all the consumer madness loose, a tumbled out feminine

planet of color and occult,

all the entangled belts and lipsticks,

shoes and more shoes and stringy objects he loves to peel off me

the blush and zip and powder of the witch inside

the garlands for elf ears and fairy ankles and

a shimmery waistline that loves to move can then

hang

oh the verb to hang hang

on a solid rack,

the musk and flap and flutter of all the fabric that rustles,

a closet,

a massive oversized giant of a closet to call my own,

shell of being and becoming and exiting

and entering the sleep worlds, draped in silk from shelves I painted,

with eye shadow and sequins and angel dust

and coconut butter

and pomengranate leftover essence,

a lavender dream in the trails I leave this earth behind me,

sleep, breathe, contained in a room, with a closet.

All I want is a closet.

All I want is a closet, because if I have to lug one more fucking

suitcase through another rainy European city

taxi

or American suburban forest,

SUV

from vehicle to vehicle to train to plane to dizzy bee

and back again, up the stairs, over the homeless

and through railway lines, late for

trips and stamps, and money and borderlines

the never finding your bra amongst the tumbleweeds of your possessions,

the losing the one face cream you need at 4 pm,

and the errant shoe found mysteriously under the towel beside the hair wax

and hat and hard whirring drives,

a flip flop chasing another, a little eruption, a rainbow

vomited into my room, through all the endless repetitive tucking, folding, picking, shipping,

the arnica oil you hope wont spill, to the aloe vera which might

just crack, the necessary fishnets (oh those legs, he moaned)

that get hooked onto

anything sharp and pokey in my

entangled little sharp and shiny microcosm of the irreverent world,

that shit is heavy,

heavy,

the three bottles of Korean wine rice you’ve been carrying around,

ginger candy lacing the thong you bought in a Manhattan lit sidewalk in

the rain, handcuffs and love on display through a hazy

lewd afternoon, rolling, shifting, lifting

the never ending lifting lifting lifting

drifting

all I want is a goddamn closet.

All I want is a closet, where shoes are under other clothes,

and bags fit all the way back, and I can hang a photo of my mother

beside the fuschia top, and maybe a picture of you,

tall, brown, topless,

looking at me,

dressed

naked

dancing

speaking and thinking, lipstick in hand, pen in another,

tequila wafting and

sound rhythm music life soul,

and no one else around. I want me a closet of my own.

All I want in this world is a

closet, to capture myself in its folds,

an amber laced mystery,

a jeweled night song from faraway,

an exposed thigh glistening in a hallway,

me and my huge, oversized, exuberant and playful closet.

Ps: I also want a phd, lots more music, green spaces inner and outer, feet that can dance, hands that type, two curly big eyed children and their laughter, a dark tall smiling man to tickle me, a German Shepard warrior who can run with us, half a million dollars at some point in the bank, a house by a small body of silver blue water, with a little flower flame inside, a bigger bust, a smaller waist, longer hair, five poetry books, three films, two novels, seven grandchildren, a motorcycle and the smell of coconut to accompany me all along the way, all the way.

Thank you.

The closet will do for this year.