Lack of updates due to big projects and life progressions. The sort of dilly-dallying one might expect with the onset of colder months.
10-10
so
you
don't
sing
anymore?
why not, dear friend?
take that recorder out,
as bright and shiny,
dull or skyline grey--
we care, we care!
porch dreams should be
reiterated, planned sequencer--
this drug use, that we do,
denial and repression,
oh so sacred, yet we
want to sing!
10-11 - unedited version of a story
A Freshly Mulched Garden
“I never was very good at explaining our problems, Chris.” The domes on the ceiling noticeably flashed small bursts of light. They looked like fluttering eyes. They were eyes lacking lashes, eyes with pupils the size of dinner plates. His briefcase was propped against a dirty column several feet behind him. Several feet above, an advertisement recently posted, complained about a lost pet. Chris stared at the absence of light emanating from the tunnel.
He could hear the rustle of a train, but knew it was not his.
Days, days, days. The path to the office was so long. Why did I walk it? Did I mean to dirty my slacks? Soda’s gone stale by now. Must be in the briefcase with the red apple. Apples get moldy so fast. An apple a day makes one buy in bulk. The economics of the thing. Loved those times next to the newspaper office. Friendly communities, never got into fights. Never listened to anything but rap, jazz, blues. No not my music, not our music, their music.
Clicks against the concrete floor woke him up. They were sharp sounds that echoed through the interior space, which he shared comfortably. But he pretended not to notice. The unnatural breeze, the electric hum, the thoughts of billions of pounds of sheer weight above him. He searched his mind for a metaphor.
Chris felt like a fragment of glass.
Chris felt like a fragment of windshield.
Chris felt like grains of sand.
Chris felt like disjointed kernels.
Chris was uncomfortable.
The train is horrible at night. I should have walked. Just sacrifice the sleep. Much more distracting. Subways focus it all. Lighting changes minimal. Eyes are perfect. No, just present.
Back at the house, she was sleeping. He picked up White Nights and read for several pages. He preferred the movie version, and could never read more than a few pages before reminding himself. There were times when things were simple. Work never seemed to be a dominating factor, never seemed to be impossible, unbearable, unbearable, impossible. If I keep going to my job, I will find myself. This is what he told himself. In front of the mirror each morning never having had enough sleep. A routine eight hours, I will fall into a pattern.
No-no-no-no. Patterns do not exist, cannot. Not everybody can do this.
But the blue light of dawning sun would wake him each morning to a miserable condition. Chris did not drink, and neither did she. They slept soundly.
Did it really matter mentioning her name? It was not symbolic, maybe. It was the same as his mother’s. All the issues were not derived from their time in bed.
No, it was the lifelessness of it all. The power going out, the rain coming down in flaccid disappointment. The picture would get fuzzy every time they returned to their seats. From having fixed it the first time.
Psychologists talk a lot about projection. Feed me a psychologist. Give me my students back!
But whatever his students had told him to keep him afloat then, would never work as memories now. All Chris could do was cower in his own sweat. He was not a failure, he was just unstable. The word carries more meaning than the easy answer: underrated admission to the cosmos.
“I thought you would be back in before I went to sleep. Put some hot tea on the stove for you.”
Pause pause pause pause.
There was no denying the silence, and Chris was so aware, a blue emotion in a red room.
“Didn’t see it . . .”
“This is exactly what I’m talking about, Chris. You do not care. You never asked and I never asked myself. Getting a grip on the situation first requires acknowledging it.”
“But I didn’t . . .”
And of course this went on, days after days, until finally, Chris walked down to the beach. It was a beach in that he could see far, into the horizon, Poseidon’s mannequin strings forming crests and troughs—yaddayaddayadda. I’m here to redeem myself. Yeahyeahyeah. Play the part the way I always have. Be civil, agree—the storm can come and be ready, be ready, don your cape and your pushpins.
The junkyard, trashheap, funerary firepits, existing right before the eyes of a doomed sailor.
Should’ve gone to Iraq, would’ve been pleasanter there. Root of evil exists—no more than the desert sun looking at you with the weeping tears of dew struggling so hard to slide off such delicate petals in a freshly mulched garden . . . a horrid quote.
The journal entered the flames crisping, calling, screeching . . . now will I never miss such disappointment.
Before awakening, the dream felt like a tsunami of sweat to Chris as she stared at her husband several inches away, a red bed carrying blue emotions. The next day would be better for her. Her struggle was not over but was not impossible.
10-26 - story in progress
Part I
His phone was dead. That was the big problem. The battery the phone carried was not efficient. The battery was obsolete. When the phone was first purchased, the battery worked as a battery should. At that time it had been perfect. But now the battery was not working. The battery was not working at all. He would have to purchase a new battery. He would have to purchase a replacement.
But not now. No, at the present moment his eyes moved beyond the phone. He stared at the wall. Outside of his bedroom, he heard the cries. The high-pitched grunts of a dog. They spurted out. The dog was calling with high-pitched squeals. He heard the cries continue in bursts. The cries spurted out. Then he listened. He heard scratching. The sounds reminded him of nails scratching against wood. These sounds he heard. He thought of them endless. They disturbed him.
The dog wants to be let inside, he thought. But his house mate was not letting the dog in. The dog spurted out more cries. He listened. The wall was white and soft. The wall was cluttered with paper. He had posted these important documents some time ago. They did not seem important to him. The cries began to cease. They occurred less often. The scratching died down. He understood this. The dog was getting tired, he believed.
But the dog continued to scratch. The dog continued to cry, to call. Though less frequent, the dog wanted to be let in. His house mate was not letting him in. His house mate must be sleeping, he thought. He should call his house mate. He should wake him up. Then the dog could be let in. The door would not be scratched. The cries would continue.
He looked down at the desk. His phone was dead. The problem existed. His phone continued to bother him.
So he could not tell his house mate to let the dog in. But he listened. The dog has stopped scratching altogether. The dog had stopped scratching altogether. He moved his glance from the phone to the wall. The important documents appeared to have dust on them. Beneath one document there was a picture. He tilted his head to see beneath the important document. The picture was old. The image on the picture was faded. But he understood. He saw a picture of himself. He was with his younger sister and his mother. The picture was from a long time ago. They were all smiling in the picture. He wore a white sweater. His hair was short. His sister wore a green gown. His mother wore a red sweater. It was hard to believe. It was so old. The image was faded.
He heard the dog again. He listened to a new sound. The dog uttered a new type of cry. It seemed the dog was further away. But the dog's cry was just as loud. It was a different type of cry. The dog cried in desperation now. It was the dog's final cry. After it, the dog would stop. The dog would give up. The dog would go lie down somewhere. It would sleep, he thought.
The picture was so old. The sweater was so white. The gown was so green. The sweater was so red. Their smiles appeared sincere. He could make out each set of teeth. How strange, he thought. He felt drawn to his phone. He looked down at the phone on the desk. It was his phone. It was a black phone. The battery was black too. The battery was dead. That was the big problem. He would have to purchase a new battery. His phone was new. It was not shiny anymore. It had been shiny when he purchased it. Now it was not. It had scratch marks on the front of it. It had scratch marks on the back of it. The battery had scratch marks. He would have to purchase a new battery. Yes, he thought, he would purchase a new battery. The new battery would not have scratches on it. It would be shiny. It would be new. His phone was not shiny. He looked at the picture. The picture hid under all the important documents. He had to tilt his head to look at it.
He tilted his head. It was hard to believe. They were all smiling. The dog was silent. His phone was dead.
10-27
Sharks try this way,
seeing spots instead of waves,
shapes instead of designs,
the cloth not the fabric.
Bath scents fill air patiently,
a smooth ascend to breathing,
where chance and changelings
get along, along the path, and so.
Pressed tylenoal on tongue
waving buds like churning butter.
The lasting effect, wear a cartigan
and flame along the edges in red pen.
11-03
What is behind that curtain?
Oh the master's breath is fierce,
lit up by these cold nights,
the wind chilling and collected.
Woodblock pattern on the floor--
these sighing noises heard
clanking against the walls,
burrowing up from sight,
it's the time of mortal troups,
the guise of stepping plays,
matters big and small and the
chimes are porcelain, up, up!
Over the flames, bound together
we sit apart, spaced away
we latch to the same surface,
cold concrete with rugged tines--
movements the rain could slap
if only we had not hid so
far inwards, if only the thing
in its beauty would come forth.
The thing turning, making minds
matter more than stopped watches
and harpy cries over jagged rocks
waving, bound for a lighthouse,
and the keepers snore pleasantly
behind a closed storage bin
potent in its upkeep, and rolling,
grins in sleep move toward water.
11-16
Radiology
Darkness likes to bring
all the birds to their
hiding places,
branches warm in winter
notches black and porous
roots in nature won't be seen
Listen to the taps on wood
the light-hearted pecks
brown wings afluff
eyes broken beads
just confusion nothing
justified here, in this place
Conversation between beeps
just peeps and propels
through crazed windstorm
cyclone cries cryptic
stance an under-current
Old age the lingering
stasis we forgot about
Perfection is polled
by millions every day
in that slithering apathy
Antipathy as black-slap-stick
burdening boroughs
chances are the webbed feet
offer more than slick slices
-----
Not all the writing and not all the imaging, but a splattering manner, burst-bubble and bunion on the half-shell.
