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Friday, June 13, 2003 porcelain tubs... crazed... with feet... a thousand in an open field... trees remember how in summer they tottered over lakes... stumbled into their own shadows... now a thousand crazy tubs have come... with feet... open... clean... inviting... sleep "... and yet
when Polo began to talk about how life must be in those places,
day after day, evening after evening, words failed him, and little
by little, he went back to relying on gestures, grimaces, glances." from Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino, trans. William
Weaver Thursday, June 12, 2003 what creeps into saying... has always been
there hanging around in the day's mess... pretending it had some target other than this... shape who is this? did it
rain for you as it did for me? who is this? a string of slightly worn coffee beans? who is standing under these words? exposed... after a while everything
is a fortune cookie... turn on the light... open a book... read it like some oracle... then listen... can you hear an engine... gas-powered... ripping down the world... then listen... footsteps moving off... so significant... a sign of what you wanted just before rising troubling certainty...
you said... it had to be finished by today... and still we dig deeper dirt... fingernails black as the lessons we gave... night truths blending forward to rise... beside the morning window... minor fears pushed off... remembering... an absolute... always finishing again Wednesday, June 11, 2003 write around the stump... new air booms... a head trip... fresh sap delivers as promised... tomorrow when the big trucks come... hauling our autobiography down the dark trail you haven't gotten
tired... given up... yet... the funny lines... the applause... up in your head... remembers books and books of fun... why not go outside... smell them... smell them all green and... a small riot in bugland... make room for everyone else in the box a stone
relaxes... all good boys and girls pretend... we have read everything... we remember something grey and warm... announcing the end of a regular service... in a cold box the red heart smiles... at last an excuse... a pretty... certain entertainment for children and parents alike... they're taking the
trees away... today... send us all away... into the pages of books we love... birds and bugs jump out to the next street... milder weather on the acropolis... something in those creators... folds our morning into quarters... and he waits on the lawn... as egypt... as china written carefully... once... a black brown green... lightly gone Tuesday, June 10, 2003 the shell... secreted... from a yearning... goes past ghosts... words... clothing... odors... beyond rooms full of personal stuff... houses and streets... the noises we make in them... mark us... mollusk mouth down... beaming in our new circumstances... finally owning the world we pretended to be and then pretentiously
enough he says you have to see it to believe it... that most
ordinary lie as if the seeing could stand and command... everything...
must fall... ... eyes always have it... save my sight... there's minor
music in an electric fan complaining... or birdsong announcing...
simple body noises... you have to see it to believe it... broken
at last... and very very quiet what's there turns into a new street and parks itself under
the broadest shadiest tree... the neighborhood has changed...
the neighbors replaced... houses and yards shining silver Monday, June 09, 2003 stand down... avoid the wild children... tend your garden... dig darker... metallic song... for shovel... we start to fall apart...
cell from cell... not like trees in autumn... sure... but the harder we try to keep saying the farther go words...
away... this is not a love pome... there's no you in we... tell me
about a dream... catching small angels by wingtips... listen to
them cuss... then you bury something in brown dirt... walk into a book... i wanted to say... this is cool... but bit my tongue and bled Sunday, June 08, 2003 excluded... a boy staring at wall shadows... painted light... perfectly alone and... but listening for a whirr... some scraping... to bring it back... look mommy what i found... nothing happened... talking and doing came to matter in every day's open space... arriving gaily leaving with the light... things to do... put yourself away for now... left out... trying hard to understand...
but air rushes in to take place... removing what stood... certainly... always a day later... after the neighbors moved out i'd find some little broken thing... a plastic knob... a rusted gear... how they mocked me... you will never know... never know... what we do when all exits have been blocked achilles lays down
again... just a green bush listening... hard plans blooming in a skull pot... tearing the world to bits... he's a tough guy with fingers for eyes... undone he's a mask of certainty... still... like the last wave worn back to a hardness in the sun Saturday, June 07, 2003 talking unsettles... ideas everywhere like
flies and dust... bedside tales... any color in the night sky will tell... darkbirds warble old punk songs to sundown... cancel the guitars... free the horns... beat on the brat... let all the boys dance crazy in their feathers... to dawn organize history...
get the words on time... tidy up the basement... who brought the music... totem bulbs... garlic fetish... rest in a wicker bed... sharpen pencils... ready now... for the next test... under your breath... gut deep resistance to any steady satisfaction... tossed up... he just wanna have something to do... tonight back to finish your phrase currently  |