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Musical Ear Syndrome - How is It?

Late night playlists of music, poetry I wrote and forgot. sentimentality of another occasion when you should have been with me, I wonder…how easy could it have been  ... Does your record player scratch where I tune in?  ... Are you left empty?  ... Do you create sound, hearing loss? Playing our song, over and over again off a distant frequency that is just sensory deprivation, confabulatory the harmony we once had into deaf ears, ringing and ringing again- no answer.  ... Hangs up.  ... Pathology follow me syndrome, leads nowhere and I am leaning against a wall, standing alone.  ... Tell me, how is it, you lack necessity, leave the signal so low, the radio fades in and out no station, no definition.  ... How is it you left me behind, while I still look forward to finding you?

Just who we are

Emptiness picks up strangers like jacks,
I loved you with a mother’s heart, with a wife’s devotion, with the idea we shared blood.
You bait, I hook. You betray, I cower.
What will you die of alone? Who will bury our bones? Shoe boxes of dust, what did you ever want from me?
Stop making mention, letting go of you, the persona, the dream, the reality – burying hatchets, bad dreams, unkindness, stifling tears, suffocating screams, crossing my arms so tightly I can barely breathe.
Just how broken did you think I was? I came home and couldn’t knock on your door.
Every birthday candle. Every eyelash. Each shooting star in every sky. You were in every wish and I was at your command.What happened?

Destination - Unknown

The vantage point, my perspective then, now – harbors ships, captains, detailed maps, curses, sentiment and superstitions, icons, charms and faith guiding familiar.
This is where cargo has been left at the dock, passengers have stowed-away, and never been accounted for again.

This place writes postcards that get lost in the wind, ink smears in the rain, moments stain the card, post-mark the stamp and destinations are left behind – at depots, on courtesy notepads with new phone numbers, in homes where feng shui trinkets, are catalogued, encased and collect dust –
This place is captured in pictures, That fade, curl and get caught in between furniture, only to be found much later in life dirty and hard to remember –
This is the capitol to the place you visited where one never recalls the clothing, the date, the reason for documenting – film andthe edges become greasy.
This place envelopes the letters written that become lost at sea, in a bottle from which I am drinking, in a …

Gold Brick

You ring, always urgent. I listen despite myself. My finger twirls around the cigarette smoke like a phone cord, words attach to my lips, form pouts and hush before sound makes its way.Just this once, you won’t ask again, you need me, can’t do this without me, promise, this time is the last.
You compel my deepest weakness (his). You transmit, helpless, pistol whip the sky with blood orange flares streaking down the midnight darkness. I believe you when you say, only I.
I find you irresistible.I’ve always been a sucker for a good con or a hustle.(it’s well known) Tell me my bit part and I will play the role, it captivates me every single time, trust me. I’ve been understudy for so long, I think, finally, it’s my turn to recite the lines, convince an audience, that I deserve this more than ever or anyone else.
Drinks on the rocks. Turn me on. I am on the table.You illustrate the best way in, the only way out. The risk, you whisper, is worth it. I am all in, poker, chips, and face…

The Dungeon

One step for man kind closer to giving fucks, and not caring much. Comfortable in the role of the understudy, I’ll stand back stage and cue you, ready?
Stuck in bar hop stumbles intertwined through last call to the keyhole miss of whiskey dick affection, I understand, I have patience beyond the concept of virtue.
Suffering minimalist attention span and lackluster sentimentalism, I am lost, among the dust, collected and passing through the wind, among the low, sinking in regret, the less than anyone else in passing.
On the spot, in the moment, and certainly, at the time, I was there.
Which were you? Drunk dialed, in need of safety, come-down comfort, withdrawal nurse, hurt, con-man in denial? I’ve open the latch to the door reluctantly for you all.

Book Relase - Trail Her Trash

Lola Nation is an established writer and poet from Venice Beach, California, who now resides in Kansas City, Missouri.Her first publication of poetry sold at the Boardwalk for $5 donations.She supplemented her poetry income with a job at a Hemp Stand working for Jack Herrer (The Emperor Wears no Clothes), often spending earnings buying books directly from Matt Groenng (the Simpons) when he would hang out at Small World Books (Venice, CA).She was the youngest poetry open mic host in Los Angeles in the 1990s at the Motor on Inn which were held monthly.
She has studied under the likes of Tom Robbins (Even Cowgirls Get the Blues) and Allen Ginsberg (Howl) and has written poetry and been an active part of the community for 20 years.She has also hosted podcasts for Write the Future, featuring poets such as Buddy Wakefield.  
Her first book of poetry is now being released “Trail Her Trash” this April (2018).

ISBN: 978-0-9997138-1-5 LOC:2018938596 Paypal Lola Nation …

Corner Man

The scabs fell off, scratched raw, again.
How rapidly you disappeared.
You lied to me. You promised me.
I went round for round for you.
You said you’d always be in my corner.
I’m cut man, Second!
Wait a second, I’ve got second? Damn it man, Where are you?
I am bleeding in the ring, bells rung.I waited for your attention, thirsty.
I lose my footing, scramble to stay up.I see her face in the audience, she bet the other way and you set me up.
I am unconscious on the floor only to realize later, you hit me. I can hear someone counting, I pull myself to my feet.It can’t go down like this.
Vaseline slick, you slide off of me and into another.I have been hit! You take the towel and leave.
When I sit down, they tell me, “You were suppose to throw the fight.” But I wanted to win I say. Now there’s no one here. Empty chairs, litter, bright lights. No one to help me disrobe or tend to my wounds – I was a shadow In the perfect boxing match up.
I wanted to have the prize. I wanted you to be…