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So What?                       Kim Dot Dammit Live
30 August 2015 @ 07:54 pm

On the bright side here is a "selfie" of me doing one of the things I love doing best in life. RUNNING. You know, I have been running for 27 years. Note the happiness and freedom on my tired face.

I love running. It is the place where I unravel, set myself free of my stress, write poems in my head, and take crappy cell phone photos of my surroundings. Therefore I have started a new KDD Tag: Shit I Shoot While Running. Here are snapshots from tonight's run.

Still working seven days a week on big deadline, but the end is nigh. If all goes as planned, I will be done two weeks from tomorrow. Breathing. Breathing. Breathing.

Now I'm gonna go draw . . . and do laundry - SOML (Story Of My Life) which is what I call doing laundry around here.

So What?                       Kim Dot Dammit Live
28 August 2015 @ 09:18 pm

Moonrise over trailer park

Oh yeah. Another Friday night with the Girlets. Once again I went for a run through the Hood while they danced to hip hop in their dance class. So many great sights in the Hood. I love gritty Tucson so much better than Kokopeli Tucson.

Speaking of Gritty, last night I did Test Zumba in the Luxe Event Center on Grant. Don't let the name fool you. It is just a big cement floored room in a dive hotel across from the Skanky Waffle House.

We need to find a new Zumba class because kiddo has college classes now during our regular Monday and Wednesday class. Our teacher recommended this one, and it was a riot!

Total Zumba Anarchy! The guy who teaches it is a sinewy Mexican Hottie with tattoos galore. He was wearing a bright lemon yellow knit beanie and could swivel his hips better than any woman.

The women there are amazing. From 400 pounders to 90 year old Mexican grandmas to little girls running wildly in circles.

Men collect at the back of the room, mostly tattooed Mexican gangsta guys. They move with slow and fierce deliberation. They kick ass. I love them!

There was also a seven foot tall bearded gay guy.

If Donald Trump thinks he's kicking the Mexicans out of town, I got news for him. NOT OUT OF MY TOWN. If Tucson wasn't a border town, the place would be unbearable with its suffocating whiteness.

In other words Mexican Hood Anarchy Zumba ROCKED. We will be going back. Many times.

Moonrise over dirt yard

Now I'm heading out to take girls to see GHOST WORLD at the Late Night Classics at The Loft. Bean loves that movie.

I am crawling out of my pithole. I am having a paradigm shift in my life. Some really bad shit happened lately, but I think that's because I hit the end of the road, and now I flipped a U-Turn and heading NOWHERE BUT UP FROM HERE.

Off I go for my night with my kid. And tomorrow I'M GOING TO SLEEP IN REALLY LATE.

Life can't be too bad when the sky does this.

Note: These are all cell phone photos from tonight's Hood Run. I could smell weed wafting through the trailer park.

I forgot to mention my favorite quote of the night. Bean in regards to her 12 year old stalker girl from Rock Camp: "I am not a magical creature. I am a human being. I have boundaries. And she needs to back the fuck off."
So What?                       Kim Dot Dammit Live
26 August 2015 @ 08:10 pm

Storm Passing Through
So What?                       Kim Dot Dammit Live
25 August 2015 @ 11:29 pm

Dark Sky

This photo is a Double Entendre.
So What?                       Kim Dot Dammit Live
25 August 2015 @ 10:59 pm

Just back from running through the night listening to Bob Marley. The man was speaking my language. This train is bound for glory. And it is.

For reasons I don't want to explain, I can only think and write in poetry right now. So before I go to bed, I'll write a poem. Poetry is code. Poetry is language that escapes the confines of language. Poetry is montage of experience. There is a lot to find in my poems if you feel like looking. I'm not inclined to be very public right now. So I will speak in the language that brings me inner comfort. Broken language. Language of infinite possibility and u-turn meanings. I will turn the inside out and the outside in.
So What?                       Kim Dot Dammit Live
22 August 2015 @ 05:26 pm


I wake to signals
from the living and the

dead. I dream
of sleeping. Sleep
of dreaming. If only

sleep wasn’t so much
work. I speed
across town. Hug

mountains that eat
phone lines. Cut off
words. Connections drop

to silence. We wind
our way up the mountain. Pass
the place where butterflies

die and ladybugs
fly on the legs of five
year old girls. Lost

voices echo down
canyons. Static cracks
in thunderheads and electric

towers. The hum
of language under

language. Clouds stack
in repeating patterns.
Didn’t we see this one

yesterday or the day
before? Bob Dylan knocks
on heaven’s door and 24

hours feels like 24
days or 24 lifetimes. Mud
gutters hold memories

of rain. Amazing
how fast bad weather
evaporates. The body

of the hillside has
cracked. We climb

the steps of Prison
Camp. Chain gang
sweat turned to
state park. German

tourists take photos
and I crouch
behind a bush. Nostalgia

crumbles with loose
stones and dirt. Wildflowers
and beer cans. Dead
leaves and a river

of pee. Somewhere
over the mountains
a thousand miles and four

decades behind us, a girl
chews on pepperoni
pizza, slips a quarter

in the jukebox and sways
to her favorite song. Mama
wipe the blood from my face
I'm sick and tired

of the war
. Outside
a man’s torso is found
on the rocks by the beach.

Shark got him. The blurred
image of his headless
body bleeds ink onto

the front page. Socked
in with fog and pinched
tight with a rubber band.

He has no name but is simply
identified as the body. The girl
will never forget. My body

hovers somewhere between
today and yesterday. I
drive and pull knots
from my hair. I drive

and listen to news
on the radio. The Western
United States is
burning. In the Middle
East teenage girls are trained

suicide bombers. Minutes
ago we stopped on the slope
where people sled

in winter. I remember dog
piss and tree branches.
How fast snow gets

dirty. Mary may have had
a little lamb but nothing
is white as snow and snow
isn’t white in the first place.
On the way home I round

the bend and lose
all signals. I begin
the slow process of untangling
knots with my bare hands.

So What?                       Kim Dot Dammit Live
21 August 2015 @ 11:11 pm
I know I have been SO ABSENT, but I am working SO HARD. Four more weeks. And in between I've been looking for a new job, so there is just none of me left.

HOWEVER, today I took time to run, take in some clouds, spend some time with my kiddo, and, most importantly SMILE.

Check out this GENUINE KDD SMILE:

The highlight of my day besides remembering to stop and take in some clouds was spending the night with kiddo and her BFF. In fact, they are in the other room singing right now and it's making me so happy.

Earlier tonight, I ran miles through the Hood while the girls were at dance class. It is a seriously rough neighborhood where the dance studio is, but I feel I have street smarts. Nevertheless, a drug deal did go down right in front of me, and I did pretend I didn't know what was happening only later to run into drug dealer who joked me me about jogging. He said, "Jogging, huh? Or is that speed walking?" I said, "It's wogging." He laughed, and his teeth glinted entirely with metal just like the ones in TRUE DETECTIVE!

Nevertheless I did take some nice cloud photos during my jog:

After dance class, I took the girlets to the **GASP** mall, and committed multiple Faux Pas like singing along to "Baby I'm worth it" (BECAUSE I AM GODDAMMIT), but kiddo didn't appreciate my vocal accompaniment. I then redeemed myself by fetching matching shredded JAWS muscle shirts for the girls, which they are now wearing while listening the Beach Boys PET SOUNDS on VINYL in Bean's room on her record player while I cook pasta. I share this photo because note I am HAPPY. I like being a mom. Being a mom makes me HAPPY. And to quote my wise almost 17 year old daughter: "Mom, why would you do something that makes you unhappy?" I don't plan on doing things that make me unhappy anymore (when I have a choice). My therapist recently told me that being a mom is my most spectacular work of art. How about that? Well maybe not when I'm singing along to "Baby I'm Worth It" in the mall. Hahaha.

Apparently 53 year old moms shouldn't be singing this song in Forever 21:

I have so many things to write and say, but right now I'm going to go draw because it was literally prescribed to me. I seriously need some down time. Give me time. When I'm done with this work deadline, a whole lot of good shit is gonna hit the fan for me. And I will be WRITING UP A STORM because I am breaking through barriers.

I'll keep you posted.

Before I go, check out this big old guy I saw outside of Circle K today:

Also, for the record, it's radical to admit you go to Circle K and Forever 21 because that is the real life you are living.
So What?                       Kim Dot Dammit Live
17 August 2015 @ 10:03 pm

Sometimes I'd like to quit.
cheap ass ballpoint pen and india ink on paper

To keep the Dead Rock Stars momentum going while spending the next month working on a grueling work deadline, I've decided to do a series of medium sized portrait orientation drawings. Say hello to #1. I had to cut a little of her off in the scanner because I'm too lazy to do two scans and a photomerge. Come to my show at Beyond Baroque in Venice, CA to see the real thing. Opening is January 9, 2016. Cheers.
So What?                       Kim Dot Dammit Live
16 August 2015 @ 11:37 pm

It’s not quite midnight and I’m just back from a late night run. Six miles in the heat. 95 degrees at 11 pm. I was dead beat tired when I hit the road, but I knew I had to run. Because running gets me through the night. Because running helps me make sure I make it to tomorrow. Because I am running a marathon in my life right now that won’t end for over a month and I need to be able to see the light and I do that by running through the dark. Running and listening to music. Running while dogs bark. Running and dodging storm damage. Running with sweat dripping down my back.

I don’t know why a song by Yaz was my favorite song tonight, but it was. Maybe I was having a flashback. Maybe because I was thinking about how I have been running for 26 years and have no intention of ever stopping even though so many people want to lecture me about how running is bad for me. Wrong. It is good for me. Running literally keeps me alive. It has saved my life, kept me sober, kept me from doing desperate and horrible things.

My legs are like gear shifts. They start moving and I shift gears like that. Wham.

Running in the dark brings me to the light even when I am in the darkest of darks.

Midnight it's raining outside he must soaking wet
Everyone is sleeping tight
God knows I tried my best
Darling you know it looks bad
Just lost the best thing that I ever had

This song has been around for longer than I have been running. 1982. Holy shit did that year mark a paradigm shift in my life. Not thinking about that. I am moving forward into a new paradigm shift in my life. But the sentiment. The moment. The early dawning of the Reagan era. Anyone who lived through it and watched people die through it probably feels a bit like puking remembering it.

Spinning disco vodka balls.

The Doors’ Gloria could have been my favorite song tonight, but honesty I was listening to an extended uncut rare version and when Jim Morrison implored me to wrap my lips around his cock, I said “No thank you you arrogant prick.” (Pun intended.) I love the Doors, but Jim Morrison . . . what an ass.

I’m keeping up the fight. I’m pulling through. I am going to a new place. I feel it in my bones. So I better go to bed and rest them because I plan on still having quite a journey ahead of me in this life. And this body is going to take me there.
So What?                       Kim Dot Dammit Live
13 August 2015 @ 09:48 pm

Everything is Fucking

My daily I'm So Fucked Up Sketchbook therapy as prescribed. Punka was into it.

Today I had an emergency root canal. Writing Sugar Mountain either brought it on or foretold it. Going to go fall on my face. Bye.
So What?                       Kim Dot Dammit Live
12 August 2015 @ 11:05 pm

Let's Not Talk This To Death

graphite, cheap ass ballpoint pen and sharpie
in my I'M SO FUCKED UP Sketchbook

Following my prescription to draw daily for the length of an album side with my record player, my art cat Punka, and my pens. It's working.
So What?                       Kim Dot Dammit Live
12 August 2015 @ 09:23 pm

I was shoving french fries in my face while driving tonight. Stress eating. They’re gone. I wiped my mouth with a napkin. Now I’m sitting down to do some Memoir Free Writing.

I found this photo of me from May 1968. I'm with my brother Kim (yeah, long story) who was dressed to the nines for his first communion. Little did we know that the priest who would dish out the body of Christ to my brother would later be found to have a wife and seven kids. I lived in that kind of town at that kind of time.

I look at photos from my childhood, and I’m always kind of stunned at my facial expressions. They hurt to look at. Like this one. I am wearing my usual look of deep introspection coupled with wariness. I’m like the prey the predator has spotted, and I’m deciding what to do because I’m smart and I know I’m in danger. I know what to expect, but I’m a little kid so I’m trying to figure out what to do.

I don't know who took the photo. It was probably my dad because I look like I'm expecting the whole world to come crashing down on me and like I'm ready to turn around and run as fast as I can. I'm both frozen and ready for flight. Deer in the headlights facing down the barrel of a rifle. I've spent a lot of my life looking like this. Dodging bullets. Taking blows.

The fact is that the whole world was crashing down in May 1968. Revolution was an everyday word. But I was five years and ten months old, so I wasn’t highly educated in riots and uprisings. The only revolution I was going through was the one inside my head. The one in which I knew my world wasn’t right, but I also accepted it because it was the only one I knew. Later I would find ways to revolt. I'm still finding ways. Inside and out.

Really what I was thinking when I sat down to write this blog entry was about those French fries I shoved in my face 30 minutes ago. French fries aren’t made of sugar, but I am.

I’ve had this thing since I was a little girl where I sleep walk in the middle of the night and eat sugar. When I was a kid, I’d go to the kitchen, grab the box of C&H brown sugar, shove spoonfuls into my mouth and feel the brown granules melt on my tongue. Then I’d make my way back to bed.

Except usually I didn’t make it. I’d always wake up at the landing on the top of the stairs. Disoriented and frozen in fear. The front door faced me down one flight of stairs. The kitchen door gaped to my left. The hall that led to my parent’s bedroom was socked in darkness on my left.

My dad’s snores echoed down the hall. I stood frozen. His snores would hitch like he was ready to wake. My stomach churned. I couldn’t move my feet. I licked sugar from my lips. I never remembered how I got to the landing. I smelled like brown sugar.

I usually had to pee but didn’t want to risk waking anyone up. I tiptoed back to my bedroom, the wooden floorboards squeaking under my feet.

I climbed in bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. Eventually I drifted back to sleep forgetting the pressure of my bladder.

I often dreamed of shoes because I was born with club feet. My feet were literally turned backwards and curled into balls. So I spent my first two years in braces, and then I had to wear hideous therapeutic shoes.

There was nothing I wanted more than black patent leather shoes with bows and a pair of white Go-Go boots. I didn’t get them, so I dreamed about them.

One night I dreamed that my whole closet was full of new shoes. My dad surprised me and bought me so many beautiful shoes. All shiny and new and girly. Like a candy shop made of shoes. I got out of bed and walked into my closet to touch them.

I got lost in the clothes dangling from hangers. I fought them off like monsters. I was screaming as I fought my way deeper and deeper into the closet.

My dad burst through the door of my bedroom and yelled: “Kimberley Marie! What the hell are you doing in your closet?”

He was six foot four inches tall and naked. His fury radiated off the folds of flesh hanging off his giant frame.

I opened my mouth. “Shoes.” I said. “Get your ass back in bed,” he said.

I went back to bed. Fell asleep to the sounds of cats fighting on the hillside.

In the morning I checked my closet. One pair of white saddle shoes. One pair of Keds sneakers. No patent leather.

I am 53 years old now. At times of great stress I still walk in my sleep and eat sugar. My daughter tells me that I just appear from the bedroom in a daze. I head for the kitchen, grab what sugar I can find, put it in my mouth, and walk back into my bedroom. I often have no recollection of this other than the sweet taste in my mouth when I wake up in the morning.

I have four cavities that need to be filled right now. I’m sure it’s from night sugar eating.

I read recently that this is a syndrome. It’s very complicated. It has something to do with the fact that I grew up in a home where I always felt like I was in danger so my body’s natural sleep chemicals stopped working right. I sleep walk and eat sugar in an attempt to produce a chemical effect that will allow me to sleep. My brain chemistry is fucked from years of trauma, and my body has forgotten how to sleep.

When I do sleep, I end up getting up and walking and finding sugar to eat. It’s unconscious. It’s biochemical. It’s weird. It’s just the reality of my sleep life.

Back in May 1968 when this photo was taken, my babysitter Peggy was a pure stoner hippie. She’d babysit and scarf all the sugar in the house. She didn’t have a syndrome. She had the munchies.

When my dad came home from work and found out all the cookies were gone, he beat our asses for eating them. Peggy was fucked up. She may have ended up at Altamont Pass. Her sister Sandy died of Elephantiasis. She was my age. She just disappeared one day and never came back until her face appeared in the local paper about the girl who died from a terrible and rare disease. Her body became monstrous. Like I said, things were weird.

Sometimes I dreamed Sandy was in my closet. When I stepped on her body, she felt like roasted marshmallows and stuck to my feet.

Truth of the matter is that the missing sugar wasn’t entirely Peggy’s fault. I probably ate a lot of cookies in the middle of the night, and I wasn’t even a stoner. Yet.

My daughter has grown up with a sleep walking sugar eating mom. She thinks it’s funny. She also just knows it’s me. It’s just how it is. At some point we have to accept the terms of my life and how they manifest in our everyday reality. Like the fact that my daughter has a somnambulist sugar eating mom.

I make promises to myself that I’ll do something like keep apple slices next to the bed. It doesn’t work.

The deeper the stress, the more I walk in my sleep and the more sugar I consume.

These days I buy local honey. I stick a big spoon in the jar and suck on gobs of mesquite honey. That’s my favorite because it’s thick and granular.

My teeth are paying the price. A lifetime of sugar eating sleep walking will catch up with you. I need $4,000 of dental work. No lie. The price of trauma.

It’s weird getting older when my childhood appears on my body. Like the cancer on my nose from my summers at lake Berryessa. Like I can never quite leave everything behind because it resurfaces on my actual body, as part of my physiology and biology. It’s not all about mental states. The emotional has permanent effects on the physical. That can be upsetting. Or I can just accept it and move on.

I could say I’m not going to keep any sugar in the house, but that makes me panic. Next thing I know, I’ll be driving in my sleep to WalMart at 3 a.m. Probably better to keep a stash around.

Maybe I need to start a revolution in my head. Maybe I need to move to Sugar Mountain.

So What?                       Kim Dot Dammit Live
11 August 2015 @ 11:25 pm

What if I'm still in that basement?
What if I died there?

Another very rapid fire B-side vinyl drawing in my I'm So Fucked Up Sketchbook.
So What?                       Kim Dot Dammit Live
11 August 2015 @ 11:56 am
COMPLETELY BURIED AT DAY JOB, so taking 30 minute break to free write wtih some clouds. There is A LOT crammed into this post, so take it for what it is. Bits and pieces.

The swings are crazy. The hands of the clock spin. Another day dissolves into another day and another day. Storms move in and move out. They sky is blue. The sky is black. I put bags of garbage on the driveway and leave them. Think there isn't a chance for rain. It rains four inches while I'm gone. The garbage sits in a soggy pile. I can't touch it.

Inside the Cat Wars continue. The new cat Fleur tries to stake her place in a house of three other girl cats. Girls can be brutal. The cats are proving it. They are literally tearing at each others' throats, and the fur is flying.


There were some bad days. Times when I couldn't tell if I was bringing on the storms myself. Life under capitalism is a never ending storm. When I say I am fighting to make ends meet, I mean I am fighting.

Sometimes I think I am just fighting to bring on the end. Because the end means there will be a new beginning.

I go outside to go for a walk because I think it's safe. Two miles from shelter, and the winds kicks in. The clouds come on and dump buckets of rain on me.

I am wearing sandles and can't stand the feel of soggy feet and wet gravel between my toes. Such is life.

Dark cluster over my head. My clothes are soaked, plastered to my body.

Lightning flashes so fast I think I'm caught in gunfire. And I am. Gunfire of shit hitting the fan because shit can feel like bullets when it comes at just the right angle.

The storm moves to the west and hangs over the mountains. My hair dribbles down my head in wet strings, straight and black as the rain falling on the horizon.

I finally make it home. My daughter is smiling. Punka is curled up with a pile of black ballpoint pens. This is joy. Me and my kid drive to Dairy Queen. I ask for a Blizzard with hot fudge. It takes them four times to figure it out. I feel like Jack Nicholson in FIVE EASY PIECES. Finally I just say, FINE. JUST GIVE ME THE BLIZZARD AND A SIDE OF HOT FUDGE! CAN YOU DO THAT? They do it.

My kid laughs and says how funny I am. I confide that I was a Stoner, and once a stoner always a stoner, and I WANT MY HOT FUDGE. She's old enough now that I can tell her these things.

We drive home singing Tom Jones' "It's Not Unusual" in Ethel Merman voices and then Cowardly Lion voices. We are laughing so hard.

It is these moments that get me through dark nights.

Sunday night I count the minutes to TRUE DETECTIVE SEASON 2 season finale. I am hooked on this show like a drug. I have watched every episode at least four times. It's about fucked up people in a fucked up world. I know about that.

I realize that I am obsessed at watching Bezzerides because she is me. I am her. We are so much alike. I stare at the TV like a mirror. I can't stop watching. The end comes on with Fury. I start from the beginning, knowing what I know. Knowing what I have always known. This is how life is. Full of fucked up people, corruption, money, and desperate and/or bad sex. Life.

I segment myself. I say this chapter will be over soon. Or I tell myself that if I put parts of myself away, life will have less conflict. Fuck that. I'm sick of being segmented.


I laugh at how ridiculous I am. I drive to work. I get a lot done.

On the way home from Zumba with my kiddo, I stop at Sprouts to buy fish to cook for dinner. The sky looks magnificent again. I thank it because at times I think the clouds are literally saving my life. They are my new drug. I buy ahi tuna steaks and go home and cook them. I yawn and say I AM SO TIRED. Kiddo says, "You should rest, Mom. You're almost there. You're going to make it." I lie down and fall asleep to Episode 5 of TRUE DETECTIVE for the fifth time.

The end of my street. The sky reminds me that there are other places than this. Other times than this time. That if I hadn't made it, I wouldn't have been able to sing Tom Jones in Ethel Merman voices with my kid.

I go home and give her a gift from a friend. Brian Wilson's unreleased Beach Boys tracks. We listen to the magic of his original vision of Good Vibrations and I soak it all in. This girl, my daughter, she is everything that makes life worth living. And the clouds too.

So What?                       Kim Dot Dammit Live
08 August 2015 @ 08:14 pm

I just want to be a good man.
Well you're doing it all wrong.

graphite, cheap ass ballpoint pen, and sharpie in the I'm So Fucked Up Sketchbook.

Drawn to the duration of the A side of Joy Division Closer on Vinyl. Punka licked herself furiously. We are self-regulating together.

So What?                       Kim Dot Dammit Live
07 August 2015 @ 11:41 am

Well, this is embarrassing. I was at the gym last night, and this song came on my iPod. I don't even know how it got there! And I found it so damn catchy and TRUE. I mean, songs are written about shit like this because life IS like this. We think we are so smart and above it all, but people are inherently fucked up and inherently fucked up towards each other. They have their good points. And people can be good. But generally we all suck. So it's okay to hate Kanye and like this song since hate is as much of a human reality as love and as heartbreak and disillusionment. Let me get out my shades and duck behind dark lenses.
So What?                       Kim Dot Dammit Live
06 August 2015 @ 11:12 pm

I'm so fucked up.
I'm so fucked up.
I waited my whole life for this.

graphite, cheap ass ballpoint pen, and sharpie
on cheap ass paper that can't withstand the violence of my pens.

I created a sketchbook to get myself through the next month of all consuming work deadlines. In which I draw fast and hard and don't give a living fuck.

I drew so hard on this one that I ripped right through the paper and had to tape it back together. I guess that will be one of the "traits" of the I'm So Fucked Up Sketchbook.

I listened to Joy Division on vinyl. It filled my house with joy. It is the music of my daughter's childhood, Punka's life, and  my art brain.

Punka was so happy that I was drawing that she couldn't even sit still.

The first person to identify the quote in the drawing title gets a surprise prize! I need to keep things lively. I need to keep going.

So What?                       Kim Dot Dammit Live
04 August 2015 @ 10:49 pm

I was going to call it snowbunny. But what does that mean really? Something cute and soft that lives in a bed of ice. What about the soft squishy bed that lives in a body of ice? I was going to call it slow thaw, and maybe that is what it is. Goddamn this thaw is slow. Bit by bit a piece surfaces. I flip through pages. Piles of torn sheets litter the floor. I stop and pet the cat. She licks herself. Self-regulating. Cats are good at that. I sift through faces. Places. Snip them out of memory with a small pair of sharp scissors. I am shuffling the deck inside my head. Playing solitaire with the random. Have you ever seen the way the inside of a glacier glows blue as it drips to its slow and inevitable death? How beautiful it is in its state of near stasis. Frozen, but not frozen enough. Once at Lake Tahoe, they found an eight year old girl under 20 feet of snow. She had lost a mitten and walked through the woods to look for it. The fingers of her right hand were missing. Chewed off or frost bite. She could only count to five. Backwards. To zero. After the melt, there are bones. A piece of pink fabric that was her downtown dress. She shouldn’t have been wearing a dress in the snowstorm anyway. In the snow thaw, the slow thaw, the snowbunny landscape. Nothing is predictable yet everything is predetermined. You will find certain things. You will or will not grow old. Evidence says we will all drown in a flood. There are no more forests to build arks. Grab a paddle and start rowing. Grab a plastic garbage bag and sled downhill as fast as you can. Before the thaw catches you. Before there are no more bunnies that are really bunnies. Before you lose your mittens and forget how to count to zero.

So What?                       Kim Dot Dammit Live
02 August 2015 @ 06:43 pm


Why do I spend so much time
with my head in the clouds? My eyes
to the sky? It is the top floor.
The penthouse without

baggage. The room with no
walls. No
stairwell. No button
on the elevator.
No mirrors lined
with cocaine and dollar
bills that stink. Men
scratching balls cause
they are itching for
something. Money.
Drugs. Girls. It’s been years

since they looked at
clouds. Even longer
since I looked at
them. I have no
ticket to ride. I’m
not waiting for
the train. You don’t
have to take me
to the station. I

I lift myself out of here
every day inside these gifts
that float up from the gulf
of Mexico or swoop down
from some storm in
Alaska. I’ve never been. I’d
like to go before the whole

place melts or drowns
in an oil slick. Float
on an ice sheet and watch
the night sky become
a rainbow. Clouds

fly untethered. No one
ties them down. They
don’t sleep. Don’t
wake. Don’t keep
time or count. They have
no phones or vocabulary.
They skirt the planet

in a parade of play. Dissolve.
Billow. Evaporate without
regret or remorse. Clouds don’t
die. They become

moisture on my upper
lip. Sweat on my forehead while
I dream of the Rocky
Mountains. That day
when I actually touched
a cloud. I was

seventeen years and
hitchhiking to a place
I never got to. Picked
up by a man in a truck
that sucked shit
from porta potties. This
could be a metaphor. But it is

literal. He dropped me
in a canyon
where I drank black
coffee with a man
who lived in a cave by the train
tracks. He pointed to a cloud
caught on a rock. Told me

I could touch it if I wanted.
I was so high.7,000
feet. The cloud
was farther than I thought.
I climbed two hours. Maybe
more. When I reached

the cloud I walked
right through it. The man
with the black
face and black
coffee laughed. How
was it? He asked. I said

I think I touched a miracle.
When I got back home
someone ripped
my door off its
hinges. Tore the pages

from my diary and threw them
out the window. Men
gathered in fields. They
read my words and
sneered. I
wish. I wish. I
wish. I stopped
wishing. The human

species is not
kind. If I believed
in wishes, I’d wish I was
a kite. I’d set myself
flying and cut
the strings that
bind. Blow
in the wind. Become

something that loses
all weight. I’d empty
my eyes and rain
a landscape. You would be
stunned with its beauty
or broken with its pain. I am

a mixed bag. I
draw a smiley
face on one side and a sad
face on the other. But
the real face is the empty
space inside. The gap

between the front
and back. The place
where I straddle
railroad tracks at night. Watch
the moon bleed yellow
into a layer of clouds.
One headlamp moves

toward me in the distance.
The engine cuts
through the night. Boxcars
carry heavy loads
of crap to be sold. Sometimes

dolls. Sometimes
animals. Sometimes
people. Life is an
auction. What we sell.
What we keep. The price
of living. Clouds
have none of that.
They come and
go and don’t even care
about Michelangelo.