5.18.2007
Fleur-de-Lis
A border, a lining, a lattice-work screen of a knotting of flowers. A frontispiece, an introduction, the frame around a portrait, a pleasant decor. Drifting through a state of meandering contemplation in an enclosed garden. A turn of the page, and a brief trespassing scent of rosemary. Beyond these grounds lie the fallowed fields, silent for a millenia. Here, along forgotten paths, scythes rot in the shade, while flowers curl up along their souring blades, producing the most delicate and ephemeral of tapestries.
5.11.2007
Block and Tackle
Weight. The problem for an evening of thought of an Archimedian nature. Smithing it down into a question of what to devise.
Gravitas. A furrowed brow, a heavy heart, a heart of stone.
Lifting. With little effort. Minimal exertion. Spreading out the surface area, reducing the friction to a barely destructive warmth, a warmth initiated by an ambitious hand.
The pulley, the wheel, the alternation of direction to create effect. Down, up, the warmth, but never contact. Block and tackle, a distancing device, a dead erotic machine.
Colossal, the silken curve of the pillar, introducing weightless historical space between columns. Temple, an inhalation of mass in an atmosphere that is both sprightly and morbid.
Hook. A loose means of fixing the bulk. Arrogant and careless, the hook.
To whom do I assign the hand, the load, the block, the hook?
4.28.2007
Communiqués (with Squelch.)
Communication on the radio:
--"What's your location?"
--"Negative."
---"Say again? Negative? You don't know your location?"
--"No, I do know--I told you it's negative."
--[silence]
****
Intercepted Fragments heard in the background while talking on the telephone:
"until...[laughter]...what they said...[inaudible]...we could have...opening at..."[silence]
****
Briefly overheard while walking past:
#1: ...and then what happened?
#2: He tried to give himself an enema in his driveway.
#1: You fucking kidding? How did he do that?
#2: With some kind of lubricant and a garden hose, that's how. No fucking bullshit man.
#1: What the fuck. Who called the cops on him?
#2: His neighbour. I guess he kept getting his windows splashed by this guy, so he called....
****
Communications from watchtower, isolated location. No one receiving:
Fragment: ...new moon tonight. very dark. wind out of the northwest. ground temperatu...[static]...there are voices out in the surrounding woods. lit flares, no visual contact.
Fragment: five inches of snow in the night....sound of crackling fire...approximately four a.m. no voices...
Fragment: ...have received no response f....will abandon post in three more days. [static]...traveling southward along river bank during early morning hours. Should take approximately forty-eight hours on fo...
***
--"What's your location?"
--"Negative."
---"Say again? Negative? You don't know your location?"
--"No, I do know--I told you it's negative."
--[silence]
****
Intercepted Fragments heard in the background while talking on the telephone:
"until...[laughter]...what they said...[inaudible]...we could have...opening at..."[silence]
****
Briefly overheard while walking past:
#1: ...and then what happened?
#2: He tried to give himself an enema in his driveway.
#1: You fucking kidding? How did he do that?
#2: With some kind of lubricant and a garden hose, that's how. No fucking bullshit man.
#1: What the fuck. Who called the cops on him?
#2: His neighbour. I guess he kept getting his windows splashed by this guy, so he called....
****
Communications from watchtower, isolated location. No one receiving:
Fragment: ...new moon tonight. very dark. wind out of the northwest. ground temperatu...[static]...there are voices out in the surrounding woods. lit flares, no visual contact.
Fragment: five inches of snow in the night....sound of crackling fire...approximately four a.m. no voices...
Fragment: ...have received no response f....will abandon post in three more days. [static]...traveling southward along river bank during early morning hours. Should take approximately forty-eight hours on fo...
***
4.11.2007
4.10.2007
Referent.
He wants to find out how to extend the insult onto himself, keep the embarrassment going. Self-flagellation, he has discovered, is an enterprise he enjoys. It's raining hard outside, but he goes to the stationary shop, picks out some paper that, under normal circumstances, he would never buy. Practices a handwriting with an awkward opposing hand. But, despite his meagre tricks, he composes a letter that clarifies nothing; he tries to sound firm and carefree, but the sadness is at home in his hands. He reads it over, re-acknowledging the fact that the letter is a pathetic show of faux-intelligentsia iciness and disregard. He hates it, feels an awkward blush rise up in his stomach, but he drops it into the box.
Nervous, he sits up all night, and comes to the understanding that his identity has been emptied and delegated unwillingly into a mere referent, truly, in the linguistic sense. Everything in his body is pointing outward, that way, in the direction of the departing letter. He has transformed himself into a symbol representing the letter's recipient. He is no pining lover; rather, he is a pedagogical tool, with a co-opted value.
Nervous, he sits up all night, and comes to the understanding that his identity has been emptied and delegated unwillingly into a mere referent, truly, in the linguistic sense. Everything in his body is pointing outward, that way, in the direction of the departing letter. He has transformed himself into a symbol representing the letter's recipient. He is no pining lover; rather, he is a pedagogical tool, with a co-opted value.
4.08.2007
improv on resurrection / improv on three cheers for. . .
He sees a bucket in his hands and all he can do is watch the water coming in. This is the form of his dream, but the content is in the helplessness. In his fear, he is struck immobile, frozen, much in the same way that others are struck dumb in utter amazement. The fear is a fathomless, waging fear, seething at the boundaries of the sleeping and the waking. A sensation so grand that it pushes forward and overwhelms him, reversing subject and object. Who is the one experiencing the fear? "He is experiencing fear?" No: "The fear is experiencing him." And then, with little warning, he wakes, fear subsides, and the syntax of the universe relapses into its rightful order.
***
Three cheers for the corners of the room, where walls meet walls, what makes a room for us to live in and huddle together for our lives. Three cheers for the nerves and the sweaty palms and the uncomfortable deliberate stares. Three cheers for the luncheon platter with the delicious souffle brought out by the dead grandmothers who sing "Jungle Love" by The Steve Miller Band and show a bit too much leg. Three cheers for how the world works and steers, like a beautiful, swinging, psychopath schooner. Three cheers for low lights at night, dim shadows in the day, those little moments that maintain a shaky equilibrium between the blank void and the over-profusion of life. Three cheers for the neighbours I don't have, who stare at us through their windows and play harp and timpani naked on the lawn. Three cheers for walking down a street in a massive city at dusk with two bags of groceries and a light heart. Three cheers for the words "boulangerie", and "Salsbury" "poop-tin" (just made that one up) and the Middle English pronunciation of "night" and "smoke."
***
Sleep, that sweet mendicant, is begging for her alms.
Goodnight.
***
Three cheers for the corners of the room, where walls meet walls, what makes a room for us to live in and huddle together for our lives. Three cheers for the nerves and the sweaty palms and the uncomfortable deliberate stares. Three cheers for the luncheon platter with the delicious souffle brought out by the dead grandmothers who sing "Jungle Love" by The Steve Miller Band and show a bit too much leg. Three cheers for how the world works and steers, like a beautiful, swinging, psychopath schooner. Three cheers for low lights at night, dim shadows in the day, those little moments that maintain a shaky equilibrium between the blank void and the over-profusion of life. Three cheers for the neighbours I don't have, who stare at us through their windows and play harp and timpani naked on the lawn. Three cheers for walking down a street in a massive city at dusk with two bags of groceries and a light heart. Three cheers for the words "boulangerie", and "Salsbury" "poop-tin" (just made that one up) and the Middle English pronunciation of "night" and "smoke."
***
Sleep, that sweet mendicant, is begging for her alms.
Goodnight.
3.13.2007
Six Three-Line Improvisationals on Fire (Each Rotating on a Loose Translation)
Torque. Ribbons. Smoke. Lighting a fire.
Shouting out the Greek-- "Sarkophagos!": Flesh-eating.
Flesh eating tongues, licking raw.
***
Crouched in the corner, cold, lighting the fire,
meagre inspirations flowing out of an impoverished chill.
Breath--steam and smoke, mingling, dissipating, burning out.
***
Shadows, one hand spread outward.
Umbrae, hiding under a rain of fire.
Fleeing through the dark alley with a burning umbrella.
***
L'amour, la mort, and the fire between.
The living heart, perfect bonfire.
Warming bare skin in another.
***
The old movie theatre was on fire.
We rushed to the river to watch. Behold!
This old world is crumbling before our eyes.
***
Tossing logs in the fire, heat trespassing,
darkening mirrors, rewriting poetry in reverse,
chanting metaphysical curses aimed at the heart.
***
good night.
Shouting out the Greek-- "Sarkophagos!": Flesh-eating.
Flesh eating tongues, licking raw.
***
Crouched in the corner, cold, lighting the fire,
meagre inspirations flowing out of an impoverished chill.
Breath--steam and smoke, mingling, dissipating, burning out.
***
Shadows, one hand spread outward.
Umbrae, hiding under a rain of fire.
Fleeing through the dark alley with a burning umbrella.
***
L'amour, la mort, and the fire between.
The living heart, perfect bonfire.
Warming bare skin in another.
***
The old movie theatre was on fire.
We rushed to the river to watch. Behold!
This old world is crumbling before our eyes.
***
Tossing logs in the fire, heat trespassing,
darkening mirrors, rewriting poetry in reverse,
chanting metaphysical curses aimed at the heart.
***
good night.
3.04.2007
the human being is ill.
sour. a human being that is ill. he stretches his spine back into the chair, turns on a lamp. he slides his fingers across the pages, barely reading, already aware of all the words anyway, taunting the sharp edge of the paper with exposed skin. this foolish behavior continues into the morning: teasing, playing, pointless play-acting, seeking the materialization of a wound. waiting for an apparition, wondering if it even matters. On the radio, static, voices that reverse themselves. the sunrise breaking across the barrier of his own windowsill, conversation devoid of phonetics. his desk drawers, dried pens. shuts off the lamp, watches his own hand reach, turn the switch. he brings his hand back. his very own hand. an illness that wants to summon back all the body's disparate spirits. alone, howls softly in his chair, seeking to exorcise the dread disappointment solidifying in his lung.
Finally, he breathes out fire with a gruesome scowl. The birds' morning chirping falls under the smoke alarms. He is his very own scourge. He excels at this exercise. his neighbours know this, see his lights on all night. they hear the alarms, never complain.
Finally, he breathes out fire with a gruesome scowl. The birds' morning chirping falls under the smoke alarms. He is his very own scourge. He excels at this exercise. his neighbours know this, see his lights on all night. they hear the alarms, never complain.
1.29.2007
The Sound on Top of the Sound
I ask you now to listen and observe the sound on top of the sound. Here we can discover new elocutions that can re-enlist the crumbling mythos of the tower of Babel. The vocalization of a name, the urging towards and inwards, the desire-phonetic. Mouth the lusty and moistened "O", taste the anticipatory "M", or bite back with the icy "S."
Watch the sound; slide two fingers along the throat, that cavernous oracle, to measure the vibration. How much knowledge can one acquire here? To master these mysteries, one must surrender oneself to the eloquent godhead of the tongue.
Here, at this temple, you must become the most dedicated disciple.
Watch the sound; slide two fingers along the throat, that cavernous oracle, to measure the vibration. How much knowledge can one acquire here? To master these mysteries, one must surrender oneself to the eloquent godhead of the tongue.
Here, at this temple, you must become the most dedicated disciple.
Quick Improv on a promotional flyer for Jean-Luc Godard's "Une Femme est une Femme"
In the stars of all waking moments there is the hand that holds you lifts you, sends you somewhere. The supportive hand, the balancing hand, the blind hands that make value judgements, the choices that must be made by those who must make them. The hand, lifted to the lips, the ensuing silence of a kiss.Riding a bicycle in the living room, cawing like a chicken, bonking my head against the wall to prove love, the yellow night sky the twinkling stars, the fire reversing with space, a night sky all ablaze with indecision.
1.13.2007
Mad Improv 3am Jan 13.
When the young ones ask me how I came to be a member of The Group, I am always unsure of where to begin. None of them comprehend electricity; nor have any of them seen a street light operate; even the asphault roads that were once so ubiquitous have long been ground up under the weight of the tanks and artillary transports. But they recognize the word "collision," understand how violent motion translates onto a human body.
"There was an automobile collision," I always begin, trying to keep the details as modern and simple as possible. Immediately, I notice the faces of the older teenagers tightening up; some of them are old enough to remember the first bombing raids twelve years ago.
****
At the end of another season, one of our patrols comes upon a small band of nomads. Their leader wears government issue leather boots; he carries a rifle with an ivory stock. They take us on several hunting expeditions and offer themselves as guides through the foothills. Better yet, when the wet season ends, and the raids once again begin anew, they lead us into their caverns for sanctuary and shade.
One time, I witnessed the leader of these nomads beat off an attacker with the butt of his rifle. Afterwards, he cleaned the blood off the ivory with a gritty tongue.
****
Two months into the rainy season, keeping watch through the night. In the puddles gathering in the ruts of the road, several reflections of the moon. Pieces of moon, crushed behind the treads of one of our tanks. I begin to feel ill, try my best not to remember the people I loved who are now dead.
"There was an automobile collision," I always begin, trying to keep the details as modern and simple as possible. Immediately, I notice the faces of the older teenagers tightening up; some of them are old enough to remember the first bombing raids twelve years ago.
****
At the end of another season, one of our patrols comes upon a small band of nomads. Their leader wears government issue leather boots; he carries a rifle with an ivory stock. They take us on several hunting expeditions and offer themselves as guides through the foothills. Better yet, when the wet season ends, and the raids once again begin anew, they lead us into their caverns for sanctuary and shade.
One time, I witnessed the leader of these nomads beat off an attacker with the butt of his rifle. Afterwards, he cleaned the blood off the ivory with a gritty tongue.
****
Two months into the rainy season, keeping watch through the night. In the puddles gathering in the ruts of the road, several reflections of the moon. Pieces of moon, crushed behind the treads of one of our tanks. I begin to feel ill, try my best not to remember the people I loved who are now dead.
12.09.2006
Quick Improv on Theft (Before I Go To Sleep).
Hand. This is a hand and this is what it can do:
Modify appearance into disappearance. Move objects as if opening gaps where they shouldn't belong.
Ultimately, a thief converts his/her own body into a void, surrending the strict delineations of the body, wiping them out to appease nagging desires or needs. A thief is all boundaries scraped bare. Only the hands and eyes survive. In this way, a thief barters with death (or perhaps immortality). Everytime something is stolen, mortality is expended.
Thievery is the subversive metaphysics.
%^%^%^%^%^%^%^%^%^%^%^%^%^%^%^%^
Modify appearance into disappearance. Move objects as if opening gaps where they shouldn't belong.
Ultimately, a thief converts his/her own body into a void, surrending the strict delineations of the body, wiping them out to appease nagging desires or needs. A thief is all boundaries scraped bare. Only the hands and eyes survive. In this way, a thief barters with death (or perhaps immortality). Everytime something is stolen, mortality is expended.
Thievery is the subversive metaphysics.
%^%^%^%^%^%^%^%^%^%^%^%^%^%^%^%^
11.20.2006
An Improv on sand.
Suddenly wide awake as the wind blows in, sand dusting the hollows of my ears. How deep do these caverns go? I can shut out the choking cyclones only for a moment with a finger. The curve of the ear, the delicate desire of the tempting lobe. Nothing: gone. Now my own, invaded by sand, itching in a way I don't like. Will this storm bury us all tonight? A whole party made smooth by minute rubbings during the night? Nothing--not a half-sunk visage, nor remnants of a colossal wreck. We would be silenced in a great sand. Ears, mouths, full, bulked with sand. Voided out entirely, into a greater mass.
What was the point of this journey? Seeking tombs only to find my own? In the gaps of the rock, sticking a probing finger. No point of lighting a lamp now. Used to the dark, can write at night, finding the lines with a fool's instinct. I can even decipher these pitiful scuffles in the morning. At dusk I am happiest, the white tents glowing from their interior lights, blurring their edges in the sand. I think about the warmth of my hearth in my faraway home. Much of it is lost to distracted memory--I can't quite remember all the details. Where does the hall meet the dining room? Is my bedroom door on the left or right? As I try to recall the floorplan of my old home, I forget my worries with my favourite evening hobby:
I write in the dark: the lights on my street are probably flickering on right this instant.
By morning, the wind has left us. My tent has acquired an odd lean: sand lies heavy on one side. I push off the odd weight from the inside of my tent wall like a light corpse.
What was the point of this journey? Seeking tombs only to find my own? In the gaps of the rock, sticking a probing finger. No point of lighting a lamp now. Used to the dark, can write at night, finding the lines with a fool's instinct. I can even decipher these pitiful scuffles in the morning. At dusk I am happiest, the white tents glowing from their interior lights, blurring their edges in the sand. I think about the warmth of my hearth in my faraway home. Much of it is lost to distracted memory--I can't quite remember all the details. Where does the hall meet the dining room? Is my bedroom door on the left or right? As I try to recall the floorplan of my old home, I forget my worries with my favourite evening hobby:
I write in the dark: the lights on my street are probably flickering on right this instant.
By morning, the wind has left us. My tent has acquired an odd lean: sand lies heavy on one side. I push off the odd weight from the inside of my tent wall like a light corpse.
10.18.2006
50 Curses
1. May your telephone never ring except to speak to you of doubt.
2. May the transitional seasons of spring and fall make you uneasy.
3. May you always prefer to stand in the shadows.
4. May your nights and your days never correspond.
5. May you never learn the true value of heartbreak.
6. May your touch leave behind the faint scent of imperviousness.
7. May all your guests keep looking at the clock.
8. May all the books fall off your shelves, and may they henceforth be forever blank.
9. May watching clouds drift in the sky be as dull to you as the most tedious chore.
10. May you never hear the sound of the breeze on a July evening.
11. May all your compassion dry up.
12. May the ocean never surprise or inspire you.
13. May all your questions be already answered.
14. May your guilty pleasures no longer feel guilty.
15. May all your attempts at sensuality fail.
16. May the sight of a frozen river never make you feel lonely.
17. May the sound of your own breath startle you in its apparent desperation.
18. May your romantic notions of life give way to relentless cynicism.
19. May you never understand the value of art.
20. May you never enjoy walking down a busy city sidewalk in winter.
21. May you always resist temptation.
22. May you hear Chopin's Nocturnes and not be moved.
23. May thoughts of the absurdity of the world keep you from rising in the morning.
24. May the flowers you planted grow wild and unmangeable; may they entangle you and never let you go.
25. May you touch a streetlight some evening and insistantly whisper to yourself "I am here now."
26. May you lose yourself in a language that no one wants to understand.
27. May you be forever trapped in the confines of "what if."
28. May your bus be late. May it never remember the way.
29. May you enjoy watching television. May you have time to watch it.
30. May your confidence leave you in the middle of the night, not even leaving a note.
31. May sunlight never pass through your windows.
32. May no one ever trace a line from your throat to your belly button with desiring fingers.
33. May you lose your umbrella somewhere in the library, and may you never recover it.
34. May the principles of mathematics remind you that time is running out.
35. May the pen become foreign to your hand.
36. May entropy always rule over your kitchen.
37. May the glow of candles never remind you of poetry.
38. May the geography of home suddenly become foreign and unwelcome.
39.May the moon haunt you.
40.May strangers be your guides upon your ascent of the mountain that you keep hidden from view.
41.May a photograph of yourself never look you in the eye.
42.May your voice open upon a new continent but yet keep it frustratingly obscured.
43.May the light never go out at night. May it whisper your name until dawn.
44.May that beer that you're drinking invite you to question your motives.
45.May your record skip, lose sight of the notes' composition, and surrender in disgust.
46.May the sound of a passing train always make you silent and introspective and no fun at parties.
47.May the birds outside your window have a scolding look for you.
48.May the falling rain always forget your name when it greets you in the street.
49.May your nights be sleepless and may the woes of your days be not dispersed by the closing of your eyes, or the softening of light.
50.May the world be your oyster. May your passage be inspiring. May you find joy in abundance. May you always be safe.
2. May the transitional seasons of spring and fall make you uneasy.
3. May you always prefer to stand in the shadows.
4. May your nights and your days never correspond.
5. May you never learn the true value of heartbreak.
6. May your touch leave behind the faint scent of imperviousness.
7. May all your guests keep looking at the clock.
8. May all the books fall off your shelves, and may they henceforth be forever blank.
9. May watching clouds drift in the sky be as dull to you as the most tedious chore.
10. May you never hear the sound of the breeze on a July evening.
11. May all your compassion dry up.
12. May the ocean never surprise or inspire you.
13. May all your questions be already answered.
14. May your guilty pleasures no longer feel guilty.
15. May all your attempts at sensuality fail.
16. May the sight of a frozen river never make you feel lonely.
17. May the sound of your own breath startle you in its apparent desperation.
18. May your romantic notions of life give way to relentless cynicism.
19. May you never understand the value of art.
20. May you never enjoy walking down a busy city sidewalk in winter.
21. May you always resist temptation.
22. May you hear Chopin's Nocturnes and not be moved.
23. May thoughts of the absurdity of the world keep you from rising in the morning.
24. May the flowers you planted grow wild and unmangeable; may they entangle you and never let you go.
25. May you touch a streetlight some evening and insistantly whisper to yourself "I am here now."
26. May you lose yourself in a language that no one wants to understand.
27. May you be forever trapped in the confines of "what if."
28. May your bus be late. May it never remember the way.
29. May you enjoy watching television. May you have time to watch it.
30. May your confidence leave you in the middle of the night, not even leaving a note.
31. May sunlight never pass through your windows.
32. May no one ever trace a line from your throat to your belly button with desiring fingers.
33. May you lose your umbrella somewhere in the library, and may you never recover it.
34. May the principles of mathematics remind you that time is running out.
35. May the pen become foreign to your hand.
36. May entropy always rule over your kitchen.
37. May the glow of candles never remind you of poetry.
38. May the geography of home suddenly become foreign and unwelcome.
39.May the moon haunt you.
40.May strangers be your guides upon your ascent of the mountain that you keep hidden from view.
41.May a photograph of yourself never look you in the eye.
42.May your voice open upon a new continent but yet keep it frustratingly obscured.
43.May the light never go out at night. May it whisper your name until dawn.
44.May that beer that you're drinking invite you to question your motives.
45.May your record skip, lose sight of the notes' composition, and surrender in disgust.
46.May the sound of a passing train always make you silent and introspective and no fun at parties.
47.May the birds outside your window have a scolding look for you.
48.May the falling rain always forget your name when it greets you in the street.
49.May your nights be sleepless and may the woes of your days be not dispersed by the closing of your eyes, or the softening of light.
50.May the world be your oyster. May your passage be inspiring. May you find joy in abundance. May you always be safe.
10.14.2006
10.13.2006
night. the chill is asking for a home.
Let's play a game this evening. I'll compose the rules. Only you must listen carefully. Lay your head on the pillow as i explain. Not a battle for conquest, not a contest of wits. We are all on the same side, moving together as a single matter. The silence here is pleasurable, representing a perfect coalescence, not a disassociation. The boundaries of restriction do not exist as we play, there is no monitor on watch tonight. These rules are palatable; no board to upset, no pieces to organize, define, modify: instead we do this to the very air we breathe. We do this with our unified skin--the body that curves like the globe.
I dare not call this a pastime. There is nothing agreeable about the passing of time: this play of ours brings us closer to death, leaves us in a vulnerable posture. No way to cover up our defects--that's where it always gets in. There are dice involved in this game, of course, but none of the players can operate them. We can hear the sound of them falling, scuttling, again and again. This unseen hand throws well. Is there any reason why you should raise your head from your pillow now?
Deviation: who gives a fuck for this game? I know its in the closet, but i'll be damned if i'm gonna pull it out anytime soon. That silence will have its time soon enough. So, come on.
*********
Something's pressing on my walls, painting the edges of my doors in capillary strokes that give way in the breeze, alive. Damn the sunlight, over and over again.
**********
Ending with a:
Curse: May the forest take you, may you be transformed into a deep, green silence.
I dare not call this a pastime. There is nothing agreeable about the passing of time: this play of ours brings us closer to death, leaves us in a vulnerable posture. No way to cover up our defects--that's where it always gets in. There are dice involved in this game, of course, but none of the players can operate them. We can hear the sound of them falling, scuttling, again and again. This unseen hand throws well. Is there any reason why you should raise your head from your pillow now?
Deviation: who gives a fuck for this game? I know its in the closet, but i'll be damned if i'm gonna pull it out anytime soon. That silence will have its time soon enough. So, come on.
*********
Something's pressing on my walls, painting the edges of my doors in capillary strokes that give way in the breeze, alive. Damn the sunlight, over and over again.
**********
Ending with a:
Curse: May the forest take you, may you be transformed into a deep, green silence.
October 13th
accolades and tricks sour notes and ambitions, the slash of the pen, the chamber of the page, the turn of the key. To what extent am I a human being? Can a voice with my name matter, be heard, express the ineffable?
10.03.2006
Early October, noting the changes.
Taking note of how differently the sun sets as it drifts further away every night. Wishing for the whole world to be enclosed in a bank of snow, just for a while, just to get it out of my face, if just a little.
Imagining a white tent, lit brightly from within, overlooking a city that, for once, is peaceful. Warmth eminates from the glow. Taking a photograph, it only looks more magical. Wanting to hear Ginsburg's "Howl"again, to remember what it once felt like.
How wide off the mark am I?
October is the first month denoting a tangable shift in tone. Scenery drops to a lower frequency; you can hear it in the wind. A red leaf is blown against my side, and I savour the touch; I gently drop it into the current. Watching it go: up up. I love how life moves like this.
Sizing it up. Seeing the white glow at the top of the hill that isn't there, that overlooks a city that marks its territory in my imagination.
The sun sets in a way it never has before. I'm getting tired of surprises.
Imagining a white tent, lit brightly from within, overlooking a city that, for once, is peaceful. Warmth eminates from the glow. Taking a photograph, it only looks more magical. Wanting to hear Ginsburg's "Howl"again, to remember what it once felt like.
How wide off the mark am I?
October is the first month denoting a tangable shift in tone. Scenery drops to a lower frequency; you can hear it in the wind. A red leaf is blown against my side, and I savour the touch; I gently drop it into the current. Watching it go: up up. I love how life moves like this.
Sizing it up. Seeing the white glow at the top of the hill that isn't there, that overlooks a city that marks its territory in my imagination.
The sun sets in a way it never has before. I'm getting tired of surprises.
9.21.2006
Thursday Sept. 21 12:18 am
Looking upward, finding orange light and a monolith of cloud that speaks of weight.
I cannot pierce the fundamentals, nor repair this tear across the sky.
I cannot pierce the fundamentals, nor repair this tear across the sky.
9.15.2006
Sept. 15th Friday.
Here's small cheer for the waking light. A gentle loathing and sharpening teeth of ambition. The pale blue sun in my eyes. Crucified across a solar cross. I lift this page over my head for refuge.
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