Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Only Eating Cake!
I'm very excited to announce a sick day, mine. As I take a moment to reflect on the million tasks that my body has shirked through collapse, I wonder over the loosely proximate days before this, and all the doing I've done until my bones powdered– I find I can hardly remember what they were. Worse maybe, those things I can remember, are the pressing shames of my own undone effort, my incompletes.
While a vague sense of guilt and purposelessness has fogged in on my periphery– does this guilt come from within me? What am I meant to accomplish as ontological vocation and dream? Or, better yet, what actually needs to be done? Seemingly, it is me that feels the pressure to be doing, anything, just for a sense a purpose. Even if only through the imposed value of what purpose means, mine. I am one living thing that needs to do something? BAH!
Today my purpose will be yoga and smelling.
While a vague sense of guilt and purposelessness has fogged in on my periphery– does this guilt come from within me? What am I meant to accomplish as ontological vocation and dream? Or, better yet, what actually needs to be done? Seemingly, it is me that feels the pressure to be doing, anything, just for a sense a purpose. Even if only through the imposed value of what purpose means, mine. I am one living thing that needs to do something? BAH!
Today my purpose will be yoga and smelling.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
Digger
I think we can all identify with the second part of the film El Topo, when the lead protagonist and violent gunfighter called El Topo (The Mole), wakes up in a disturbing cave only to be make-up molested by the height-disabled. “I am so sorry for you people, eh. Please don’t worship me.”
Sadder still, and again something we can all relate to, he convinces the deformed people that he can free them from the cave– because somewhere on earth there will be a better life for them. Of course, as we have all been tricked into that hapless struggle, thanks Plato– for the hope and the burden of return, there absolutely is not.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Every day I wake up and put a suit on, myself, some kind of suit, adorned with all my particulars. Lisa, my almost friend gets some job, some extra job, and I have no job. I think, selfish Lisa. Lisa you should have passed that job prospect onto me. And Lisa, you didn’t. I can tell Lisa to fuck off or throw something in her face and storm out. I can tell Lisa good luck. And whatever I do will inevitably look exactly like something I would do. “Oh that sounds like something Mae would do.” Me and my particular way. The voice and the gestures, the period and the patterns. And listen to all of the things that I think I could be, like little raindrops. And on I think that worse and better, the other day drunk I thought, she is particularly burdensome, some days.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
sometimes when there was no one
Homewrecked Friends
I do not like how we will wait
Unpunished, waiting to be punished,
Our awful trailing homes
Freewheeling wreckage in flight
Behind our run.
We will go down, lumber
as drowned soggies.
Like them, those cookie bits that leaped.
We will mush and cluster.
Little light-bearers bearing,
rushing and falling.
Sometimes falling there, when there was
No one, when
Any kind of us could have done
or sparkled out ropes
of camaraderie-
we couldn't.
We bumbled with something uncivilized at the end of the day.
We tucked it under the table.
We congealed, husked words
and sipped.
It was something left for people,
like one damp thing,
Unarmed and shaggy in our layers.
But she, that lady bourgeois,
she gave a left-hand push out the door,
Then where we were,
Our gold polish rubbed,
Dispersed with a rotten time.
Worn, we went out,
Feeding on some
memorial hand that might
make patterns of our soft molds
into uncharged white dust,
Even unloosened by criteria-
The same that eats at you
and all your half-work for the day.
So that you'll feel, guess,
Be unkempt and lousy.
from my chapbook, Payments by Months
A small phase heavy on peanut butter and apples
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