Black Liquor

Rosalie (Copyright Unlistedmuse, 2009)

*blows smoke*
Youth…what bullshit.
It doesn’t matter what age you are now, really.
Because you can always buy a younger face.
They name the price,
I can pay it.
*sips from her wine*
I was your age once.
And I bet I did it better than you.
These days it’s about sex.
I’ll let you in on a little secret…
It always is.
You want to know why his marriage is ending? (points to someone in the audience)
Sex, I’m telling you.
Either too much, not enough, or with the wrong chick.
I remember the first time.
I kind of wish I didn’t.
It’s never like the shows on TV
Movie stars don’t sweat.
Don’t deny it- we all know this.
He was 19
I was 17. They said I was a smart girl
I just knew how to play the system.
Wear your skirt the right length
and turn in your papers.
Anyone can do that.
Everyone had two sides-
the one we showed to our parents at dinner
and the after hours, side of the building, talking to the tight t-shirt james dean hair, smoke rings in your face
sideways smirk and upfront suggestions.
He had a yellow car.
Slick and smooth on the inside, all leather and hot.
Let me tell you, sometimes when a guy asks you-
do you wanna see the gear shift, it could mean anything.
It always ends the same though.
Skirt around your neck, hair touseled in your ears,
and sore legs in the morning.
*sips from wine*
You want tidy? Get a sandwich from the automat.
I loved those. Little square packets, like babies fresh from the hospital.
They never tasted like the ones your mother made.
My mother burnt everything she ever touched.
Figures.
We all turned out like shit. No wonder Denys is divorced.
I wonder if anyone expected Margret to be having an affair.
She always the goody two shoes.
That brat.
We all knew it’d end this way for me, not that they’d ever say it.
For broads like us- it’s not the age that really…
snatches your life away.
It’s the realisation that you’re all alone now,
you were alone then, really.
And that when you die, it’s just you and that bastard in the suit, waiting for you
to go, so he can sign the papers and start the next job.
A homeless man said to me once, “Hey Lady. Life’s a bitch. Spare a smoke?”
And I said, “I’ll give you a bitch- Get lost.”

You. There in the front row. Yeah, that’s right. Look away. Don’t make eyecontact with me. No- Squeeze the hand of the girl next to you. Her? You don’t know her. Well, the other one then. You’ll leave her in two months for her best friend.
She let go of your hand, didn’t she.

That’s life kiddo.
Them’s the break.
Because like I said,
It always comes down to that one thing.
Back to that one thing.
Sex.
That’s the real bitch.
You know in those reader digest books- they say “who would you like to meet, dead or alive.”
I want to meet Darwin. I want to meet him.
So I can punch that sucker.
Right in the dick.

 

A.N: Another one in my monologue series. Rosalie was originally an improvved character for a video-taped spur of the moment monologue. I was intrigued by her though, so I came back and decided to see how far I could take her.

Love,

Muse

Rip-wreck

Lola Come Home (Copyright UnlistedMuse, 2009)

Could you grab the door?
Thanks.

I guess you can say I was an accident.
When most people say “I was an accident” they chuckle and follow that with a remark like “They thought my Ma was sterile” or “The condom broke.” or “They

were messed up on cocaine and listening to Zappa.”
But no, I really was.
But it wasn’t in my creation. No not at all. But they sure screwed the rest up.

Some people live a lie- they grow up dressed in the wrong bones, the wrong sex, or in the wrong mind. Sometimes they get expensive operations, wind up on

graphic, reinacted prime-time telivision specials.

Not me.
I wound up in the pennysaver.

It was on the table with the Milk, two weeks ago.
Two fucking weeks.
Do you know how old I am?
28. I’m effing twenty eight. And they waited that long….
or it took that long for them to figure it out.
Figures.

All it said was “Lola Jones Come Home.”
Now…this could have meant anyone, really.
I mean, there are alot of Lolas in the world. Maybe not as many as Jessicas. Or Ashleys.
Oh, I hate that name. Never met a nice one…anyway, I digress.
I am a Lola- A Lola Jones to boot, and the paper, folded in two, on the damn table, was calling to me.
It was saying in a little 2D voice ‘Lolaaaa JONES Come Home’. I did pick up the thing to see if there was anything else with it, but no. Just a phone

number.
And what did I do with it?
Like an idiot, I dialed.

Do you know what gets me everytime?
The area code was the same. THE SAME.
28 years and we were living in the SAME TOWN.

He picked it up-and I swear it was like talking to a telivision set.
Please remember- there was no caption with this.
I don’t even know why I called- maybe it was what you’d call…Kismet? Karma? Fate? Bad shrimp?

The voice on the end of the phone was like paper- I don’t know what I was expecting…a radio announcer? An automated message.

“Hello?”
“Yes. Hi, Hello.”
“This is Lola.”
*Pause*
” Lola..Jones..From the. … I saw…the..your note. in the..the pennysaver.”
“Your birthday, please?”
“My…what?”
“Your…your birthday, young lady. what is it?”
“August 12th, why. Who is this? Why did you put my name in the paper?”
“Lola..I..well. We were looking for you.”
“…Hello?”
“Yes, I’m still here.”
“Who was looking for me?”
“Us. your parents. I’m your father.”
“But. What? I already have one!”
“I’ll give you our address. We’d like to meet you.”

Oh and I went. I went alright, and they opened the door. These strange, quietly kind alien people, and put me in their parlour. And we sat and drank tea,

with milk. It smelled like bookends and tasted like laundry. It was that kind of house.
It was them too, Really. I knew I belonged to them. Knew it was the truth they were saying.
I couldn’t have looked more like another set of people if I’d morphed my face with a celebrity and made one of those baby print outs. My mom had my green

eyes. My dad plays the cello. They told me everything. And I wanted to hate them. I think they wanted me to as well.

When I was little, I fervently believed all those silly lies they tell people about childbirth. Cabbage patches, birds falling from the sky with bundles of

gurgly legs and dimples and shit. When my old…fake….other mom was pregnant I used to go out in the garden with a flashlight after she went to sleep to

look for the baby so I could watch it grow, emerge from underneath those giant, blue green, rubbery leaves. I kicked and screamed when dad found me and

dragged me back in. Lying in bed, sniffling, with my mud boots still on, my cheek smudged with snot and sandy dirt. I would think to myself…I wish someone

else had taken me out of the cabbage patch. I hate this family.
A girl at school said she heard about a boy raised by bears.
After I waited in the fort in the woods for four hours, but none of the animals would come out. I eventually threw a rock into the bushes and went home. My

mother sent me to my room and told me to “NEVER DO THAT AGAIN, LOLA JONES. OR YOU’LL WISH YOu’D NEVER BEEN BORN.”
I already did. I would have rather been a bear anyway.

I wondered if they had always somehow known. That they knew I was their little ugly black feathered changling. That they didn’t have to love me. I just wish

I had known. I would have gone back to the other ones. The …right ones? Tried at least. At least _I_ would have tried.

WHen you hear announcers on channel five talk about mis-identification of babies in hospitals and think…..is it really that hard? I mean, they label them,

don’t they?
You’d be suprised. All babies’ eyes are blue when they’re born. Two girls, right next to each other? TWelve hour shifts? Exhausted, infinitely patient

nurses, on shift change. They’re out of there like a rocket. And so was I. Lena James and Lola Jones.
I would have loved to be called Lena.
That was supposed to be me.
Lena for a Lola.
I went to the wrong parents. I was the wrong daughter.

What happened to the real Lena? I had asked.
Did she go home?

They had become quiet at this.
Car accident.

“What? You lost your old daughter so you thought you could just wrassle up the old one you accidentally LEFT AT THE HOSPITAL?”
It’s awkward to get lividly angry at strangers. Especially if you share their DNA. It’s not a situation that I feel that most people would often find

themselves in.
I wondered idly if a father under normal circumstances would have slapped me for my words.

“Do they know?” I had demanded.
“Who?” asked my green-eyed mother.
“My…the…her parents.”

The answer had been yes. They had been notified after the dental records confirmed a match, but not a DNA match to the parents.
I suddenly had felt ill.
I couldn’t spill my cookies on their rug.My…parents’rug. My mouth had tasted like rotten apples.

They hadn’t known for ever. My…Lena’s parents. They thought they had done something wrong. That I was just…different. I guess they had tried, in their

own way. Maybe a little Less after …the little brother was born.

My  real mother  had looked into my face and taken my chin in her hand.
How could we come to your door and tell you we had made a mistake?  Tell them? And that we had waited so long? We tried to love her, but when we found

out… We didn’t want to have been the ones who made this mistake. It was so….big and ..unerasable.

“Could you blame them?”
“YES!”

It was besides the point.
I had left that day. I don’t even remember what I said after that. To them. I had just backed out of my chair, down the hall, tripping over the rug by the

door. And out into th ecold, the sunshine bursting through my tightly squeezed eyelids. They had said I could come back.
To what? I didn’t even know. My brain just couldn’t hold it.
I sat on the bench by the bus and cried and stamped on dry leaves, and kicked the rungs of the bench and cursed the pennysaver. Cursed myself, the table,

the milk, the two sets of stupid, disgruntled, tragic parents. My parents.

And then I went home.
And baked a pie.
Played through an entire cello suite.
Drank 1/4 of a bottle of whiskey.
Time passed.

Two weeks. I just couldn’t throw it out.
So it just sat there.

And every time I got mail, it somehow sifted to the top.
Until today. Now it’s in my hand. Feeling brittle, cool to the touch.
And today maybe..I’ll put it away.
And throw out the milk.
I sit down slowly.

Because maybe…now..it’s…
time to go Home.

A.N:  First in a series of monologues/ short stories I’ve been working on during train trips.

Love,

Muse

Banana Bus

Repart

when I’m  not
there
I
am
lost and wandering.

down the corridors I
search
for the closet that
holds your coat

In the wind I
sniff for
your winter smell
like trees
skin
and late afternoons

I catch the
whisper of a
song that only
you hum
when you’re
not thinking about
particular things
vulnerable in the shower
washing
or content

because it’s like the
radio knows that
a train took me
away.

and is planting seeds
so I remember to
come back

I water them
with the morning coffee
that I leave waiting
in the sink

so  I can bring you
back a cup full

of
my postponed
love.

because I didn’t
forget
and leave us at the
station

or on a stamped envelope
in the wrong slot.

we’re just waiting
like the rotating doors
to pass again.

and when
it’s back
there will be
a
fire
and I’ll kiss the sparks.

 

Love,

Muse

Home Despot

 Repair Job

how to fix?
directions here:

take the glue
carefully compress tube
with thumb and forefinger

Squeeze out in a thin line
to the surface,

realign the
shattered beige shards, bits of which
are floating around
this room

take first shard
place carefully
back in its spot

press til dry
wipe away excess
grab box of tissues
sit
wait

view  in the mirror
and examine the handywork.
everything back in place
except for
a tiny bit
just behind her ear
dark, no one will miss
that little piece
as long as nothing comes out

you can barely see the lines
the fault scarce
on that patch to her cheek
light enough to take
for shadow unless you had
a flashlight

a Note:
avoid direct sunlight
and low temperatures
for at least a
year

should be repaired
and as good as new
by then.

at least on the outside,
anyway.

Love,

Muse

Any Direction

The True Calling

what does it
mean to
be a fixer
a healer a
helper

in my
own words
what does it
say that
the ways I fix
are unknown and
magic

in the beat
of a drum that
is daily

a song that falls
from my lips
because I put it
there with a
smile and
the right way
to guide
and move
them towards their
light

ironic that
I fix without
direction
with my
gut

but sometimes
can’t even
tape my
own rips
as fast as
you
them
the world
tears and
asks.

Love,

Muse

Rest Assured

After The Past

It was said once:
love the flaws.

I read:
No one is flawless.

I woke:
Realized I was lost.

Wondered…where
is this coming from

Suddenly restless with
my feet full of sparks

When the Kiss wasn’t
enough

Because I haven’t
wandered far

Over the ground, today
Or looked at the moon.

And up to
the sky I turned my face

As the cold brushed
and pressed my face with
sharp little nails

It was contemplated
Are there ruts?

Or just a grooved, loved trail
showing you where you want to
should
go.

Love,

Muse

To Life

Clairvoyant

two plus the decade and
you’ve got my eyes.

across the table
I am
sharing blood with
the same stranger
who shared the womb
almost all years apart

maybe I broke
the rules because I was
the second one
but now
the same age
in my mind
dwelling tandem in the
realm of
The Adults

When you get older
we’re all
the same category
“Grown”

yet
what do I do
{we do}
when They’re
no longer the wise?

when we reverse
and time speeds up again
where They play
the children
and us the confused
semi-orphaned
parent.

without the manual
and a thousand bills.

Love,

Muse

Like Poo

Every

the stench
not quite
masked by coffee,
crumbles of leftover muffin
and barely-there perfume
is what sifts
in and out
of my waking walk
between the droplets
and over half rotten, slimy leaves

tucked deep
into the burnt-orange scarf
I, the  covert agent
notingthe
running sneaker
against crisp pin stripes
thick tights with a token skirt
the clockwork inevitable shorts-wearer
flip-flop sporter
and school girls
who give me additional, internal chills

and  later,as I wait,
dodging the wayward napkin
made pushy
and persistent by the wind
that seems intent on embracing
the very toe
of my shoe…

half-circles form
in the sticky styrofoam
of the morning cup against
my fingers
again
and again
as the bus is late
just for me.

Love,

Muse

Let Me In, It’s Cold

An Education

it’s the shaky edge
of my too-full throat

flush of red
on my sleepy cheeks

the  over-education
of an un-plunged mind

beautiful burden
of a wrinkled coat

and the smell of
a stuffed subway

on every morning
of other people’s lives.

those strangers who
make my eyes

plus the trying words
that I can’t share

and the paper envelopes
that are sent to its heart

the shackles
of my  utterly confusing art.

Love,

Muse

If You Dug it Up

Residue

Lie to me
I want you to say that
the world is beautiful
that the haze
shifting slowly over the streets
is just a mist of
virtues
good deeds
the wishes of small happy children
that the dampness on the road
is not blood
that the grass is always
the pure shade of green
in golf magazines

if you need to pat my hand
and say
‘everyone can walk on water’
I’ll believe you
because I need to
if the pope is a purple reptile
that fact
is fantastic
and much more desirable
than the weather in new york
or the oil prices in Massachusetts
or the kidnapping in Manitoba

assuming there is one
for the posterity
of the written Art

and if I need to close my eyes
and shut my face
draw my arms in
and roll around in the corner
you must turn away
watch tv
drink some milk
and wait for me to
redress in my human suit

and when the sky is falling
and the moon drops, scattering stars
in a messy display
tell me its summer
and that the golden dew
will only kiss people who
stay up
too late.

Love,

Muse

A.N: I know it has been a while. Things have been chaotic around here.