Excerpts/ All My Garmonbozia

sea foam isn’t really green

fucked off along the east coast all weekend

because sure.

all my fear and angst

under lights at the Barrymore Theatre

way to go, Biff

histrionic hyperbole in the east village till 5 in the goddamn morning

and not even the kitsch and revery of

an afternoon on Brighton Beach could cleanse the

fact that yes, 

even this friendship is changing

that very un-green sea foam

lapping frozen kisses up to my pointed ankles

where toddlers shrieked for less

I numbly plodded until my blood thickened and

nothing was that cold anymore

made me want to wade in up to my neck 

endure the fractured shit shells beneath my toes,

let them cut me

wondering how crayola could romanticize

something so sad

where was the blimp reminding us to enjoy?

the songs about coney island and mapplethorpe’s photographs?

too busy hoping to live inside those 

crystallized wet dreams of nostalgia to mask the schlep

and oh what a schlep it was boys,

the moment you know for sure it’ll never be as before

thank god we never wrote our names in the sand

or did we?

I think you see where I’m going with this

and why i like anchors, understand?

stay with me now

we’re both old enough to let go of the life raft

I’m swimming lake ontario for progress

stop treading water out there in the atlantic

and get moving before the

body of water between us gets bigger and

one day

I won’t swim back for you


scrubbing the grime from my shower

after 3 months it’s no wonder

i move silently through hotel lobbies

at least that often

my prostitution on parade

eternal revolving door of filth and cleansing

try as i might, i still leave

crumbs in the corner and lumps in the rug

rented sofas soiled with

semen in seven spots

by men calling me sorceress, succubus, 


no matter how sweetly i tiptoe over

streetcar tracks i still

get nailed in the knees

my boot knocks on wet pavement fuel my

hubris walking through the Annex

and the garish blinking lights of Honest Ed’s

take away my bourgeois ennui

not because i appreciate the aesthetic

but because i don’t shop there

the longer i do this, the more sounds

are familiar, blur together

there are no exotic foreign street signs

i see a black dog peering out between

the bars of a rooftop patio railing

opposites are we

when i looked up again he was gone

so we have more in common than i initially


and this sleepy dive restaurant is playing Glory Days

while my eyelids droop with guilt and apathy

i’m doing a great job

inspiring other people with my new age optimism

until there’s another mess to sweep up sloppily

don’t fuck with dee wallace

extra skin and

blackheads in high def

the performance of my year is

only half as great as it could be

I only want to watch

people make themselves unattractive by choice

(like Lillard in SLC, knowwhatimean?)

but can’t stand to watch myself

try to be beautiful 

and fail

I want no part of me

Why would I? When

I wouldn’t even buy the

meat I’m selling.
I’ve grabbed the brass ring, but

I can’t make it fit.

Oh, I’m over-sexualizing Medieval Times?

A martian wouldn’t say that.

mirror traffic

I love catching other people

singing in their cars

not so I can judge them

but so I don’t feel like

the only moron in LA

who belts to the Red Hot Chili Peppers

month to month

Fucking with both windows open and

Robes of slick sweat on

Feeling like a sausage too big for its case

But looking like some kind of 

Curvy toothpick or

Bony peacock, wow
Sluggish trips to a shrink on riverside

Teaching wrought iron self talk

And tipsy walks home with a

Belly full of squid ink and a

Smoke filled skull

Tiptoeing around my own silly sublet

So as not to disturb the ancient cat

Living 4 doors down and across the hall

None of this shit is mine, when they ask.

A vegan in leather with a dead

Bovine on my living room floor

Collecting quarters, not for meters


The palm trees mock me, why?

Don’t you jerks know I

Exalt you in writing no one will read?

Propping my starved ass on

Barstools I think I hope Bukowski

Himself stunk up with his great poetic rump

What else is there to do?

Some nights instead of wasting

Hours on Twin Peaks and

The Twilight Zone wishing

I were one of those vixens with 

Porcelain skin and black velvet eyes

I might let someone I don’t 

care about treat me like one

So even as I continue this

Schlep up Hillhurst

Down Hyperion

Across Sunset

Over Cahuenga

And back I might feel like I 

Shine beneath the sludge I

Covered myself in when I ran him 

over with my heart

And when belligerent folk singers 

Pick fights outside the Silverlake Lounge

My friends all fold in around me, but

I’m the one with my mace out

And anti-freeze pumping through my lungs

And in the morning

It’s not regret that leaves my

Mouth dry and my eyes crusty

But nostalgia

So I stand in line for 20 

Minutes and pay too much for

Decent coffee, all because in

A few months I’ll want to remember

That while I could, I did.

Allison Scagliotti is a Los Angeles-based actress; a singer and musician; a writer and Krav Maga-killer who is “plagued by the notion that Ted Danson will only ever be Ted Danson.”

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