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Thursday, May 15, 2003

white crisp linen
red soft roses
petals, leaves and
tracing the coffee stain
with my pinky

face buried in the pillow slip
the scent of your superiority
reminds me
man can stand on the moon
but he can't stand
being second

the coffee stains contained
by the pleat in the linen
my sighs contained
by the pressure
of your stare

smile, pretend
deny or believe
the thought's still there
the moment's passed
but the words
seared across the mind
like the black chargrill welts
on a flame grilled burger
and I knew
they'd repeat
like coleslaw





Wednesday, May 14, 2003

Get back to me on Tuesday
and the smiles a prisoner
captive instigator



John Candy played a round
or two, and the Sunday mail
flickered
the eggs were scrambled
like her brain
the chicken was fried
like her heart
kentucky fried love
stays in bed till 7pm Sunday


Try to remember not knowing
the face
not hearing the voice
but before is a blur
and there is no after
just now
here



The war had passed them by
they felt no shame
only disbelief
fucking, football,
clubbing and drinking
fuzzied the edges round
the outside world


They wakened on a Friday
in a bed somewhere between
his heaven and her hell
laughter is what lifes about
he said
and she laughed
at the egg
scrambled against his cheek
get back to me on Tuesday.

Dear Lisa,
I love you. I love you all the time, even when your screaming I hate you - your the worst mum in the world. You've no idea how beautiful you are, can't see the potential within yourself and I'm fighting hard to make sure that when you come out the other side of your teens you'll know. You'll know that your beautiful, intelligent and that a few spots can't ruin your life. I want to tell you that everything within you is special and precious and that you're unique. A one off. I want to tell you not to let anyone bite the cherry. That it's a precious gift and once you give it away you can never have it back to give to the special person that no doubt you wont meet until its way too late. The one that comes along after you've kissed what seems like a whole batch of last years murky tadpoles turned frogs. I want to tell you that whats inside your head and whats inside your heart might never walk the same path, but your heart is free - have the courage to follow it. I wonder if those words were ever spoken to William Wallace or were they just written by someone on the way towards his next block buster, whatever the case it's true - your heart is free, never let anyone tell you different. I want to warn you about the various different types of arsehole, wanker and general pisstaker, but I know I can't. The more I try to put you off the more you'd only need to find out for yourself. I want to give you all the best parts of life, love and laughter in the world in a box tied with a huge pink ribbon. But I can't. All I can do is watch and wait and hope that your journey takes you to five great highs for every low and that for every rainy day theres a glorious summer, that the wind is always at your back and that if nothing else, I can be your hammock.
Love Mum x

Tuesday, May 13, 2003

the porpoises are waving goodbye.

inner manner--
transparent irreversible objective self
lean forward!
the cries for your shadow
have overlapped time and restated the obvious
in sick whispers
that stick in the back of your coffee mug
and slow-crawl through your day
until their mere existence
is the damn of patience broken
and the villagers drowned by that shiver
that you made in my heart
and sent through the core of my spine
-i am the wrapper on nothing
-i am this close to appearing
but then there's this battle
between my dreams and days
and art and life and television
and sound and blinking and the scent on an elevator
that manufactures this sort of
stained-glass perception
-i am water left in water
now is the time
to wave goodbye to the porpoises
-i am strands of a thread's shadow
here where we should be allowed to unravel
i laid down on the time upon my chest
and said a prayer for the very thing
that was swallowing me.

Monday, May 12, 2003

i am the casualties of six am poetry--
i have all the blocked roads
and half-foamed ideas
of a uteral mulligan--
all these letters could've been yeatsian flowers
instead of mere bad jazz
or whatever it is that starts growing
on three day old coca cola
-i tell you, I have all the promise of a snow globe
my ideas come from the same dormant confetti
and erupt for an entire six seconds
before falling back into the same chair
-and hello television
where we all love lucy
and chevy chase is always there
to break your fall
and why--
isn't that the miller kid in the rose garden again?
i used to be the rose garden for a 7-11 in glen burnie
where all the highschool kids
bought shivering thank yous
for these bemused bombshells
who knew how to skip like you wouldn't believe--
why, even i used to be a merry
go round to every belle ringing
holding up a new life
until twilight's last glove slapped out our dreams
and made us all do homework assignments as if they were faustian pacts
and--
why are you looking at me with those rabbit eyes?
i have an expression for you, buddy!
this channel hasn't changed in a decade
but you seem to think
there's still some ineffable hope
in mid-season replacements--
wake up!
wake up and smell the plastic flowers!
tom arnold still has his own show
and america couldn't be fatter--
and you wanted to use the trumpet as a bong.

Thursday, May 01, 2003

the diary of a storm

Thursday, May 1, 2003

Today I learned there is a dog named Storm. Now, that would not be of much interest to most people, but Storm is not your usual dog. He is currently experiencing unemployment and will, most likely, never work again. His owner has expressed some desire to have him adopted. I have expressed a reciprocal desire to adopt him. If his owner finds me suitable. If Storm finds me suitable. I will let you know how that turns out, but today I want to tell you what I know about him.

Storm is a trained 'search and rescue' dog. It seems even in the canine world there is career specialization. He was trained to find survivors. His job was to go into to burned out or collapsed buildings, or caved in caves and dig among the rubble to sniff out survivors. His first big assignment was in New York City, at the site now known as Ground Zero. He was sent from Louisiana to find survivors.

And he failed. He looked. He dug until his paws were burned and continued to dig. He dug until his stomach was burned and continued to dig. He became desperate and despondent because there were no survivors for him to find. Only cadavers. He was not trained to find cadavers. Other dogs were trained for that.

When the burns became too painful to look at, and hope of finding anyone alive was exhausted, Storm was sent home to his trainer. He arrived home discouraged and with a real sense of failure. He had not been able to do his job. He had not been successful. He had been taught that if he did what he was trained to do he would find someone alive. And he failed to do that. Dogs thus trained want nothing more than to please their trainers, to do the job they were trained to do so they can wag their tail at the end of the day and know they deserve that pat on the head.

Storm was unable to wag. His trainer hoped he would recover with time and special care, but he has not. Two and a half years later, Storm appears to suffer from something similar to "failure to thrive." He is not dying, but he cannot maintain a healthy weight. He continues to be despondent and unsuitable for work. He is loved by his trainer, but living in a kennel where dogs are trained to assist in search and rescue is not the same as living as a family pet. It is hoped that if he finds the love of a family he will recover his love of life.

Moose the beagle, expert at "licking the love back into ya,'" and I hope we are found to be suitable. However, if a family can be found with little children abounding with glee, I will be just as happy for Storm to be with them. I only know that I cannot let him stay in the kennel. With all the sadness he has inside.

I will keep you posted on the outcome.

the lifespan of the human eye

Someone I didn't see raised the blind of the window across the street and I saw a large, blue balloon that seemed to float on its own, untouched by hand or string or ceiling in the middle of a small, empty room. There was something about the balloon that reminded me of a gesture that I had taken part in so many years ago when I noticed such things and became involved in them through no fault or credit of my own.

I was reading on the metro and a family of tourists sat a few seats in front of me. I noticed the daughter, who was probably a few years younger than I was at the time, and I thought that she noticed me too. Nothing was said, but when we exited the metro and the family went their way and I went my way, separated by the distance of a large parking lot, I turned around to see that the girl had turned around also and we waved to each other. Certainly I would never see her again and if I had at any point in my life since then, I had no knowledge of it.

I refocused and inconsequential though it was to my existence, I sat in an unfolded chair with my back straight and both feet on the ground. The night before I pondered and commented out loud on the infantocratic regime of the neighbors below. No one listened. And yet I felt dazzled at the prospect that a day later I had the pleasure of being circumspect about something that I had said the night before. Circumspection was my bon-bon and I treated it to myself only on the rarest of occasions.

I meant to spend my day jotting down some notes on the word 'distend' and how it fabricated a sort of credibility to any given thesis it was used in. A fabrication of credibility was no doubt an illusion, and yet I was wont, as was my wont, to relegate what was to be a jotting down to a thought dismissed. The nature of illusion fascinated me. Not the kind of illusion that magicians do. Not the illusion of something not being there that is there, but the illusion of something being there that isn't there. But how could one use words about something that really isn't there?

So my pencil stayed in its place and the white sheet of paper that I had taken from the notebook by my bed remained unchanged save for any microscopic draft that assailed it. I was unaware of any movement by the paper, which surprised me because the small window in my apartment was opened and I was certain that there was enough air out there in this big world, and that air was most likely moving in a manner that would exploit the smallest of creases let alone an opened window, however small, that was larger than a small crease.

So I sat and waited, deciding not to move until I saw the paper move. I didn't have to wait long because a few moments later as I was thinking about the motorcycle that I heard roaring by below my window, the left corner of the paper rose slightly before falling back into place.

I no longer sat in the chair and I wondered for a moment what consequences, if any, I would suffer. I moved closer to the window where I didn't see the motorcycle, which by now, had probably turned one of the corners, right or left, of the road that intersected the busy road upon which the building I lived in stood. Disappeared. Vanished. And it occurred to me that people who ride motorcycles are from the future and that if I were to encapsulate this new hypothesis into a few understandable words, that I would be doing a great service, not only to mankind, but to the future beings who existed now as well. It would remain only a hypothesis though, and never become a theory as I was frightened of theory, not because I wasn't a courageous man, but because others were so easily fooled by the mere mention of the word theory when accompanied by any number greater than five. I only theorized while I was on vacation and at a great distance from people.

I stood at my window looking at the balloon, pondering conversational devices that would make it possible to communicate with inanimate objects when another motorcycle roared by. There were many of them, I thought, and they circled the block of this busy neighborhood, which was a good thing really because I didn't have any clocks in my room, and therefore found it impossible to be certain of the time that most people use to reference points of the day. I knew now that it was three fifteen and forty-two forty-three forty-four seconds. Forty-seven. Forty-eight. Forty-nine. And although people who ride motorcycles were from the future, I considered them not contrary to the ways of those living in the present and of a benevolent nature.

The blue balloon seemed to peer at me, which made me cast my eyes down. When I did I saw a fly crawling in my window and I was afraid for it because my window, when opened, had a tendency to slip. It usually slipped slowly until it reached a certain point then slammed to its base. I had invested much time in certain fathomable aspects of fly-life and conjectured with infallible logic that the fly would consider me a prophet if I could communicate with it. If the fly lived for only one month and I knew with certainty that my window would slide down and kill it, I could save the fly's life by telling it one minute before it died, which would probably seem like someone telling a human something a few days or weeks before something happened to them. Of course my window slipped much faster than that and I was never certain when it would, so I could only shoo the fly away and leave it perplexed in whatever way flies are perplexed, as to the nature of the force that acted upon it. It might consider me a god, and yet, I was no god. If I were a god I would quiet the neighbor's children in the apartment below.

I retrieved my notebook and pencil and thought to capture the vision of that balloon in the window with words like blue, balloon, window, untouched, float, but when I looked up from my notebook I saw that the blind was being pulled down. That's when everything around me went dark and I disappeared.