Selfish and Single...guiltfree

the mother who's lips don't stop flapping about counting yer pennies, work for the man, buy a house, get some insurance, suck suck suck, give give give into fear fear fear. You cannot understand the mindset of my soveriegn ways
the sister oh a supposed sister who drugs and drugs and drugs her days, and yells and screams to get her way and all of a sudden after 50K a drop in the bucket ok, oh how she expects everyone to drop to the ground and give her 500 pushups, "jump cuz I say." And yells at me. she thinks I will give in to her ways.
the gal she had her baby, it's babytime and baby days, i'm supposed to call and wish her well, and be her support, be her support. suck me dry the postmortem wanna. i have nothing to give
no ear to listen to postmortem viagra.
I am the auntie with a gift, then I leave, selfish and single. No apologies. oh oh oh. Get it right.

White Puffy Clouds

The toxic winds of the hot weather and the night and the wine

and not enough song writing and guitar playing in these days 

of falling in love

and obliterated sundays spent in psychedelic haze

and the beautiful voices of ladies singing in my hear, earphones

no more a season of illusions that I cherish my happiness and freedom and freedom and happiness

she has gone so far away and we no longer dream of her thank god, she was lost and lonely

not a happy mother no happy baby, she is no longer a child or a liar or a thief or a user or a pain causing selfish lady, hopefully

we don't really, no we never feared those qualities, cut-throat in her own ways, does it make me sick?

She does love.  I know this.  I tell myself, and know that the love is a mirror image reflecting back at she. She does love even though she loves herself first.  She loves him and her and she and he. I know. for she is me and it's not an empty street.  

It's a Saturday night and the heat lingers while her voice pounds  in my ears, so beautiful and peaceful. Comforting. Wine moisturizes my heart and I'm filled with puffy white clouds.  

slowing down of service

the tiring of the apocalyptic service taken away by the handy dandy people

wow, why isn't everyone just so handy dandy and there are so many ideas flourishing

but my skirt hasn't gone well above the knee, and the fragrances haven't wafted up into my nose

like they used to my dear

and my fishnet stockings wrapped around my legs wrapped around your legs with your heavy jacket, gloves, hats, scarves and boots damn the summer and the chatter

for they have been replaced with

north hollywood dance parties quinceneras and such and their music wafting in the neighborhood, way after hours and I always wake up to the Mariachi

always waking up to the Mariachi

laughing my head off

laughing my head off

why don't I always feel this happy?

why do i sometimes feel so angry?

why can't I just listen to you and be happy even when I am so damn groggy

"it's nothing a full nights rest won't cure,"

I can't even get myself to attend any of the functions I normally would

and I have only myself to blame for we do what we want

and you do what I want, within reason

don't be a bitch Motor Wilson

you're just tiring of the jeans and the jeans and the blue blue jeans

and you just need some sleep

and of course you have slowed down quite a bit