Posted in Almost Dorothy

14 things I resolve to do for 2013 in no particular disorder

Saint Louis  Cemetery 1 | Photo by Neil de la Flor
Saint Louis Cemetery 1 | Photo by Neil de la Flor

1. I resolve to love ma more and everyone more even when I’m all monsters because when the room becomes a spectacle of neon madness hugs work like magic.

2. I resolve to have sex before my 14th birthday so that I will know for certain the meaning of sex and I resolve to determine my sex.

3. I resolve to set fire to the rain and prove that Adele ain’t all that.

4. I resolve to disorder the cosmos and create quantum singularities in specific locations around the universe so that no one, not even god or his gay disciples, will lose sight of the importance of quantum pluralities.

5. I resolve to rename Buddha, Ganesha and Shiva…Ernie, Bert and Oscar.

6. I resolve to get a full time job manufacturing light and laser beams.

7. I resolve to resolve things in my solemn prayers and to keep my mouth shut and slalom.

8. I resolve to lie more or less.

9. I resolve to be one with the universe and ma’s purse.

10. I resolve to be one with humanity; one with the plants & the animals; cars & trucks; shoes & socks; tears & laughter; the trees & the rocks; ghosts & ghouls; archangels & demons; vampires & thieves; doctors & shaman; nurses & gay men; the gods & one true(ish) God who stumbles across the cosmos in high heels and leggings in our (dis)honor. I swear.

11. I resolve to (dis)honor.

12. I resolve crash & burn & dance & sing & levitate in my most ridiculous elf outfit.

13. I resolve to be one with you and one with me so that there is no one and no thing left in the universe but us—that elusive cosmetic singularity where TWO will enfold into one embrace and never ever be alone again. Amen.

14. I resolve to prophecy.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Culture Clash

Ganesha

God Ganesha, Remover of Obstacles | 9th/10th Century, Java | Art Institute of Chicago

Somewhere between the Big Bang and the Big Gulp, the universe lives silent and cunning in her unstable mink suit. Somewhere between the atoms that create us and the atoms that will destroy us, the universe lives benignly unaware of our prayers and promises. Somewhere between the cosmos and the comic book store, the universe lives in the smile of a boy and/or a girl standing on the southwest corner of 42nd Street. In a blizzard. In awe of the universe. Wearing mittens and Long Johns. Somewhere between the crucible and the last dance, the universe lives in every elementary particle that powers every disco ballroom from Heaven to Las Vegas. Somewhere between the heavy elements and the light elements, the universe lives in our desire to be prepositioned for entry through the gates of heaven. Somewhere between heaven and hell, the universe lives free of sin and sorrow. Between Ganesha and Goliath, the universe lives in an elephant’s memory of blizzards. Between the belly button and the Achilles Heel, the universe lives with the secret that no one, not even God, can remove obstacles that do not exist in the physical world. Between the real universe and the imagined universe, humans live in a constant state of humming. In a constant state of ah-ha and oh-no and WTF. Between you and me, the universe lives in us. In every obstacle and wound. In every chant and bedroom. And even in the womb sealed tight from the light of the blue moon.

Posted in Almost Dorothy

No Light, No Light [after Florence + the Machine]

1. Last night ma renewed her faith in God. The One that lives inside Florence, she says. And tells her what to sing.

2. Ma raises her glass of beer to the cupboard and praises the hole in her head.

4. She sings: No light. Nude light. Lamp light. Some light. Fading light. Flash light. Lady bug light. I’m so light.  

5. Ma is playing with ghouls and demons. They shake a stick at her. She sticks a shake in them. It’s all done. Finished. The space between them is closer than ever, which means they are closer to peace than ever, which means I am closer to the ghouls and demons in ma’s bedhead.

6. It’s shake-n-bake and taco night.All you can eat.

7. Ma is alert to the possibility of heaven, the possibility of ghosts.

8. A revelation is a way to feel elated, ma says, and a way to see blind.

9. The horse draggin’ ma around is really a mouse.

10. It is really a horse dressed as a mouse, a rude mouse, the kind that inhabits ma’s wil-da’-beast imagination.

11. Ma loves potato chips and pumpkin pie. Salvation Army and the army. Office supplies and herbs.

12. No light, ma says, means it is all dark. 

13. That’s obvious, I tell ma. There’s never light in the dark. 

14. Obviously, ma says, you have no faith in hope.

Posted in Almost Dorothy

Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for Strings in C Major, Op. 48

All Saints Episcopal Church

Last night ma and I went to see Seraphic Fire at the All Saints Episcopal Church off Las Olas in Fort Lauderdale. Ma wanted to go cause she thought there would be saints and fire. There was no fire, no smoke, and the only saint she recognized was the one that slides down chimneys like an old pervert. There are no chimneys in Florida, ma said. I’m not sure how this old perv breaks into houses without getting arrested. No response. Ma drank the holy water during intermission. There was no intermission.

We sat and watched a firebrand orchestra from the church balcony. Last row. Ma said she would jump. I encouraged her. No luck. Instead ma fidgeted and chewed gum. Then she stuck her gum beneath the seat and scrawled profanities on the podium next to her. God is a woman!, she wrote. And so am I, more or less! Meanwhile the orchestra played string instruments and fiddled away to lullabies composed by some foreign gay guys named Tchaikovsky (Serenade for Strings in C Major, Op. 48), Mendelssohn (String Symphony No. 8 in D Major),and Mozart (Divertimento in D Major, K. 136). I asked ma which was her favorite part of the performance and ma said she loved the ending. You mean Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for Srings in C Major, I asked. No, she said. When we left.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Squinny

Almost Dorothy Sits On Poems

My BFF Squinny made me real. Not sure how but she did. Not sure why but she said don’t ask cause I won’t tell. Not sure if I’ll last but she said nothing lasts forever. Not even Santa or our relationship, she said, will last forever ever. I figulated that since Squinny rose from the dead she must be smart and can probably make me real. I imagine anything is possible when I’m with Squinny. That’s why I enrolled in a literature class instead of the Fashion Police Academy. Watch out Joan Rivers. I’m gonna learn how to dungeon dragon you like Nicki Minaj.

Almost Dorothy | First Day of School | Photo by Neil de la Flor

Ma told me we’re going to therapy but she dumped me off at school instead. I was pissed because I’m in love with my therapist. He’s gay. Anyway, on the first day of class my teacher asked us a stupid question. What is a poem? I told her, “I am a poem.” She called me a jerk and told me God would punish me. In the meantime, she said, sit here. So I did.

What is a poem? | Photo by Neil de la Flor

My teacher said that Jericho Brown said “words manipulated into music make a poem.” Then she said Sandra Simonds said “a song is where every beat is perfectly measured—a poem that is perfectly timed and counted like clockwork—this is not for me because I am already aware of time—I am already running but I don’t want to let it run me.” I told the teacher that Simonds and Brown must be high or hijinkers or meat heads or liars. I am a poem, I said, again. Enough said.

Almost Dorothy |Essay | Photo by Neil de la Flor

The teacher said we had to write an essay. The guy behind me was like WTF is up with my horns. I told her I had to pee super hard and was about to wet my skirt. She gave me permission and said I could go. So I did. I sat on the sink and tried to pee real hard. But I don’t have any plumbing. Not even a hole.

Almost Dorothy | Sink | Photo by Neil de la Flor

When I got back to class, everyone was quiet and writing like mad crack head matters. They wrote as if their life depends on poetry. Wrote as if the words they put down would save them from something super supernatural. I just sat at watched the other students write. Write and write. I watched the big boys and girls manipulate words into music. Sonoic boom. I watched them write essays where every beat is perfectly measured—every sentence perfectly timed and counted. I counted their strokes like clockwork oranges. I watched them run their hands across the page like deranged tarantulas.

Almost Dorothy | Sits on Poetry| Photo by Neil de la Flor

This is not for me, I thought, because I am already aware of time, of the orange clock ticking. Tock. Tock. I am already running but I don’t want to let it run me anymore. So I sat on my ass and let the bullet trains run on time.