Limousine Girl, 1989

Sweat-drenched, once again,
her body became
the rain to the bed,
her sudden nightly windshield.
Engine starting,
she stretched to rise,
holding her racing head,
shifting into
her fake-tan,
fake-nail,
fake-face role
with vehicles, run sheets, and chauffeurs,
and she was never anything more
than a stuck car door,
and she was never anything more
than a stay-at-home groupie.
Fifteen, going on twenty-seven,
she arranged rides
for businessmen and stars,
making sure the drivers
remembered the ice,
watching her pager
vibrate and flash,
later collecting backstage cash,
shaking hands with managers,
when they had no idea
that Mom was her ride that day,
when she nodded, frowned,
and made a note of it
when the man in shades,
the big-toothed contact,
mentioned that one car
didn't have the right juice.

C.A. MacConnell

P.S. Today, I saw a hawk fighting a crow in the air. The hawk seemed to win. I admit I was cheering for him.

Photos.

 

C.A. MacConnell

Photos.

 

C.A. MacConnell

Photo.

 

C.A. MacConnell

P.S. One of the photos that inspired The House of Anchor -- my second book. THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR is a fast-paced, intense, literary mystery set in Seattle in the nineties. Sometimes dangerous and often humorous, this novel is a deep, epic adventure packed with vivid dialogue. The slick use of voice is fresh, addictive, and engaging; it'll stick with you. Skaters, hippies, musicians, grunge, scheming, street life -- it's all there. :) Check it out! <3 C.A.

Happy Holidays!

 

This is what I'll probably be doing. Ha. 
Love, C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Short Vine, Nineties.

 

C.A. MacConnell

Story of You

Hiya. Just wrote this right now, actually. Fresh from my tricky brain. Deep little sucker. Actually made me choke up a little. Hope you like it, C.A.

Story of You

In silence, in mystery, in between music notes, buried within
crafted, poetic lines, resting inside the space, the air filling
the collective movement of a tragic or comic dance, smashed

underneath the colors of a gifted paintbrush, life takes a turn,
becoming divine. Some say, rather delusional. All around,
scattered humans interrupt the quiet, making hell-noise,

wishing on sharp or smooth tongues, making gaping holes
with open lips -- sweaty, dripping, steamy ones and twos,
kneeling down or cursing, shouting or rejoicing within each

personal scene, whether magnificent or miniscule, harrowing
or revered, and then, suddenly, waking to the damp, cardboard
box. But no matter the time of day or scene of place, no matter

if the dogs stop fighting, or if the tree is obese, emaciated,
twisted, or hollow, eventually, any bullied child breaks free,
and no matter how flawless or wrecked a talker's skin seems,

the instantaneous, painfully awaited flash, the careful angle,
the shot, the strange oils blending, turning into legendary
faces, the perfectly executed succession of movement,

the instant when a voice halts, changing tone, the space
hidden inside these mathematic, infantile, godly lines,
the gap between canines and leaves, and the discreet story

of you and me, lives forever.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Reporter

 

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Relentless.

 

C.A. MacConnell

Photos: Rain Walk

 

C.A. MacConnell

Photos.

 

C.A. MacConnell

Photos: Parade Girl.

 

C.A. MacConnell

Joanna at the Waffle House

Coffee or tea? You're lucky, see --
some nights, the blackest alleys
still reach for me. See, they want me
back. Mornings -- blinding, man,
And the bottle was the place
that I called home. When I woke,
sometimes I found strange blankets,
or maybe a brand new bruise.
Some girl was always askin' T-bird
who she fucked last night. Shit,
never talked to that kind. I traced
my way somewhere safe. Thick,
fast, mean love shook me loose,
like a wicked cough, like a wheeze,
making my chest push and pull
within the hours, when I felt
the noise of everything close.
Maybe it was even you. Hell,
I remember the slick, nasty streets --
the muggers, and the dope boys,
and the Lusty Lady strippers.
Outside smokin', they wore nothing
but red robes. I remember the punk
kids, the snapping, the slapping,
and the cracking. Everywhere,
smiles held gaping holes. Back
there, in the box, a baby. You need
more time? You're lucky, see.
Some nights, the blackest alleys
still reach for me, 'cause back there,
in the box, that baby was mine.
Maybe it was even you.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo.

 

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Untitled.

 

C.A. MacConnell

Horse Sense.

Mornings, I look out my window
For the orange and black
Stray cats,
For all of the colors, and the
Noise,
For the tumultuous
Weather,
For a rest from my racing brain,
For the time of
Day, and the hawks,
Even though
It's not their season.
Sometimes I wonder about
Heaven --
If it lives and breathes
Within an ear,
A tail,
A claw, or maybe inside the
Darkest aisle.
When I was sixteen, my bay horse
Was simply,
God.
There were the others,
And then there was him.
I guess
I know these panes.
I guess I know that he was.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Meet Here.

 

C.A. MacConnell

P.S. This photo was taken when I was doing research for THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR...my second book, a novel set in Seattle in the nineties. It's a mystery, and it's a wild ride. Secret:  this book was so much fun for me to write. The dialogue is so slick. Check it out here.

24 yrs today.

Love, C.A.

Photo: Mechanic.

 

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Girl, Sayler Park.

 

C.A. MacConnell

Hollywood Morning.

1
Around eleven a.m., she rises,
leaving the covers. Right on
schedule, she creeps away
to the kitchen. First time
making pancakes. Wrapped
up tight, he is still half-

2
awake, bedroom resting.
He hears the batter hit
the frying pan. He hears
her swear at the spill.
He hears the hot surface
spit and settle. He smells
the slight, accidental burn.

3
Soon, he stretches, facing
her buttered meal, her test,
her syrup, her small spoons
and dull forks, and under
the blinding table lights,
they echo-chew. Sometimes,

4
fights happen. Voices carry
over hardwood floors,
but after the silence, later,
someone or the world
gives in. Pulling his robe
close, he thinks hard-fast,
trying to focus, bringing back

5
details. Last night, she whitened
her teeth and slept like a baby.
Garbage night. Like always,
when she rested her head
on the pillow, he kissed her
first. He is the quiet type.

C.A. MacConnell

Holding.

In loving, some say I travel
Off-road. Maybe it's my job
To hitch far, leaving the Earth.

Holding.

Maybe I'm a violet, lone guest
In a starched-white, rich diner
Made for the others -- the lucky --

Unattached,

Searching for the last, yellow
and crimson Roman Café.
I could make more muscles,

Or zero-slim down, posing
For the always-perfect shot,
Eating and living and moving

Solely

Through the elusive curvature
Of light. Someone stuck sideways,
Happily lost, hiding here. Someone

Big

Like you.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Kid, Skate

 

C.A. MacConnell