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Friday, April 11, 2003 you find yourself swatting black bugs up
against the white walls of a room you never painted... a room you've never considered painting... but these insects... very tiny moth-likes... are dusty black and dot the wall... not pale... quarter inch body prints here... and there... smudged life... make something of that... you poet... you lout you weren't ready for
permission... had expected a grim... a quick... shake of the head... these paintings have such rich
color... they could not agree... and the flowers seem so life-like... touch the surface... they dissemble... they shiver in chilly spring pigment... ask for the secret of such light... they pull from dirt... all this beauty comes
from stumbling among roots and worms... tiny white bugs in the damp dark... heat... and desire... blind enough... for the brush Thursday, April 10, 2003 when a public signal calls us to the square
and the band enters before the dignitaries, we remember what
we had forgotten at home... some part of the whole is easier
to retrieve... some whole more convincing than any part... the
guns, the flags, the tears... a sublime "let's pretend"
settles over the crowd... we have nothing better to do... some
day we'll all be dead and then it will be too late... they say...
but we had other work... somebody had to sweep the streets, wash
windows, take out the trash his manners were appropriate...
the women smiled... still something ragged around the corners of his certainty jumped out front of the carriage of respectability... he laughed when the doctor called for a month's rest... "do nothing, sir... or risk the most dire consequence" a nineteenth century figure... swoops up from some synapse... no memory... no history... no reason... he will step his own
path Wednesday, April 09, 2003 suppose you got a good deal on this picture and you called me up to ask for some background but i wasn't home so you got my machine but it wasn't working right and only caught every fifth word... so i heard... this....has... century... quick... in... damn... figure... still... just... you... thing... and so on... this would be our platonic cave wherein all rests unglued... separated from our bellies and hands... parts here and there... us scratching our chins while bats scurry out to the humid night we sat around laughing
at utopia's funny story while a light rain fell into our coffee
and tea... everyone knew this would be the last day... we were
making the most of it... a servant rushed in to complain about
the brimstone... we ignored him as best we could... but a crack
shivered into our faces ran down our necks divided our chests
and so on down to each leg and the thick calloused soles... so
we parted... waving thin fingers into the formless night Tuesday, April 08, 2003 never enough light, oregano calls it... i
had to pretend a bit longer... still we never expected this chill... this
cartoon with our faces attached to gray bubbles spewing black clouds of serenity through unknowing grins coughing demands that
you spend a day in france where angels lift heavy boxes... for germany... this is not political... this is a surprise beneath your bed just a celebration between the wooden slats... where justice, for once, has enough to do... and peace flatters itself into believing the press... when suddenly a kid turns on the lights and we scatter to dust here in a dark place...
all the books are closed and cats wander with intent toward cold walls... here you can taste the bitter white flowers springing like beetles from the floor... here is a deep pagoda... speak up... your friends will answer... each with a kind and courageous figure... elliptical... or sudden
Monday, April 07, 2003 tell me more.. did it move when you kicked
it... did it let out a pathetic sigh and slide over like a woolybooger... we need to know... our minister of finance has a report to file... these things must be dead or alive... they mustn't hover willy-nilly over the edge of some possibility... there is no category for such behavior... did it hiss a little when you prodded its snout with your
boot hurry up... there's
a cat in the dungeon deep... there's a small chance... a subtle hope... time crushes all defeats and victories... look to the desert sand mirrors... our faces have a terrible shadow there... hurry up... it's almost time... for the equestrian gods to stumble past... you wouldn't want to miss them Sunday, April 06, 2003 no beginning and no end... something stays caught like a silk scarf always blown up against a rough fencepost... a romantic present... not this one some other one... where three or four dancers consider the floor... imagine the lantern light... imagine the stiff instructions... the mistakes of the audience whose performance never apologizes we like to think they
speed up to some mountain top or oak branch at least... where
like gentle alternating breezes... circuitous... they mumble
incoherently to each other... some we think might slither down to the roots of plants...
down further to underground rivers and black silence... but we are sure they are not here anymore... their hats hang
musty or fill boxes... their toys coagulate in the sun... their
papers do not shine Saturday, April 05, 2003 an alphabet strings us along... promising more than any magic mirror... watch three birds become irritable parents... the kids are always late... turns us into careful people... precise with our utensils our borders... our destinations... an alphabet degrades the landscape... takes us aside to point out the annotated rivers and shrubs... stands with its back to the lake this will not do. you
can't appeal to their sense of justice because their eyes are
not open. you can't demand that they turn back because they are
golden orbs, pure light. everything hangs in the balance. your
breath. your skin. your perfect ideas. so stay here. sit still unsafe inside and wait. when they
arrive accept their arrival with a nod. behind these doors. offer
them your books. raise your paper hands in peace. inadequate is unfortunate
enough... but inadequacy moulders under old lumber like a wave
of fire... coming to eat... coming to swipe the small intentions
of your daily life... to swallow them down... not trying too
hard... not concerned about choking or stumbling onto some hard
irreducible bit... inadequacy hands him "the crusty brown
loaf" and he's pleased to take it... and live in the moment
like a street rat or a hesitant virus back to finish your phrase currently  |