snippet of a moment

now rambling on, always weaving, the steady clicks of two long silver needles clacking against each other ringing through the silence of this deserted room, california sunshine drifting in through the windows located on two sides of my squarely defined space, seeing ghosts and laughing with them, they're a rowdy bunch.

riddle

these lyrics having been feasting on my brain for a very long time now and i can't figure them out.  they're awful words and i wish i had wrote them:

"I’m looking forward to  
a house, a wife and several children
I won’t let any of these pessimists cross my way.
I know money isn’t anything, 
that’s why I made a plan
For my life after work 
where I can recover…

The telephone is ringing, the telephone is ringing…

I meet my friends from the office
And we swim, play soccer, or golf.
Or I just stay home, 
And enjoy my family life.
And yes I care about nature,
That's why I write on recycled paper,
And I separate my trash,
One for food and one for the rest.


The telephone is ringing, the telephone is ringing… 

And I know about war and stuff, 
I watch it on CNN.
But I truly believe 
that the good ones will win at last.
What could I do about it anyway,

I concentrate on my self instead,
And I work as hard as I can 
to make the world a better place."

screaming into the chasm

hail caesar! we scream
from the land of the dead,
mocking the lives of
the saturnarian bred.

naturally we probe
with the bones of our
fingers like the dusty ashes
of maurovian whispers.

or, now, metonyms of hope
in the thoughts of a hamper,
a washer, a dryer, and
and a bushy-tailed scamper.

hail caesar! we whimper
from the land of the dead,
died of a seizure from
those things that we said.

mucus?

television's stream of consciousness like fragments

It’s going to show.  We’re walking up the stairs and we’re going to be interviewed.  I don’t want my life, which is affecting me, to affect my performance.  I am flipping out.  It’s Eve.  I love Eve.  I cannot even function.  So what was your inspiration for Fetish?  That is fantastic! Oh, you are so beautiful, you’re gorgeous.  So is it something that you’d say young people can wear?  That is really wonderful, I really like it.  You’ll kind of babble on for a little bit and you’ll develop a question.  So at any point in your career did you feel like you just couldn’t do it anymore?  Will you be having your own store?  I said . . . I was nervous, but once I started to ask the questions, the nervousness went away.  The winner of this challenge will actually get their interview played on E!  I knew going into this challenge that I needed to win it. 

It’s nerve-racking because now there’s seven girls left.  We’re all going to do our best to make sure this is a nice, clean environment.  We’re going to be dead?!  I don’t need to be dealing with death right now, I just don’t need this.  I’m sitting next to Kahlen and she immediately just folds over and begins sobbing.  It’s messed up.  Each and every one of you will have to portray one of these deadly sins at the bottom of this eight foot grave.  My mind is blank, I just completely go blank.

Is one with the stain remover.  New Schick Quatra for Women.  65% more, now that’s an impressive bargain.  Is proven to give ten years back to the look of your skin.  Start getting ten years back today.  We keep our promises.  Designed to dry a third faster than other towels, so they spend less time in the dryer.  Only at Wal-Mart.  Now you can get restaurant style pizza right from your oven.  Bruscetta pizza Moire, now that’s fresh.  They’re way less expensive and energy saving.  If you’re an inventor, we get you, and your passion.  We will handle your invention with care.  That’s why we’re America’s leading invention company.  Trust me. 

I’ve kind of suppressed it, and this morning it was just like bam!  And you have no choice but to address it.  What’s wrong, do you want to talk about it?  No.  Why don’t you take a break?  Ok.  So who are you?  I am sloth.  This is something that would appear in something like a high European fashion magazine.  We get caught up in all sorts of stuff that slows us down.  This . . . I get a sense of sloth.  Michelle is a little weird, so she was like this is cool, this is cool, which is weird.  This is going to be a lot easier than before.  Ok, Michelle, you’re proud, you’re pride.  Michelle came across as a beauty queen on acid.  This is a hard day for Kahlen.  I’m just heart broken.  Today, my sin will be greed.  I find this a little difficult to get into, because I’m not a greedy person.  I don’t want this to look like a circus.  I am the sin of lust.  And I have to be very sexual.  I feel like a beautiful girl, but I don’t feel like a very sexy girl.  Picture you’re body as a lust machine.  Ok, ten bucks, that’s a little cheap.  Oh yeah, there it is, right there.  This is the first day we actually got emotion out of Christina, but of course, it’s like pulling teeth.  So I tried not to think about it.  Wrath has to be anger, but I’m trying not to feel anything right now.  Every bit of might in your body, I want to see it.  Don’t act it, be it.  Like scream. 

a broad smile

Start with a platitude: The more you have, the more that has been taken from you. The equation is never balanced. This is particularly true with memories. The truth is in what is left unsaid. It rests in the double space between sentences, the single spaces between words, the sinewy voids between letters, the enclosed air of an e, or a d, or an a, or an o. U gently slopes up to guide the emptiness toward heaven, V’s broad angles shrapnel out and send the emptiness up to eat heaven alive.

He never went anywhere without at least three dollars in his pocket. This was security. One is vulnerable without at least three dollar’s in one’s pocket. To thee, with thee, for thee, and about thee, never thee unless with a tree, partee!

Vatalistic

Said vow I vant velieve vou vound ve van vat I vas vooking vor. Of vourse, vou never vee it voming unvil it's voo vate, vee?

Dreams

Dreams I thought I had

turned into dreams of their own

And tossing half-conscious between

warm morning sheets

shrouded in cold, winter morning light

Lost in the poltergeists of a night

wrought in polished silver shackles

felt so soothing and inviting

in those dreams I thought I had

This strange oneiristic obsession with

fading light,

sunsets and flickering candles

shelters crumbling overhead

& old friends I thought I had lost

Cradling their aphotic forms, slipping

through arms like prison window bars

I knew, I knew, I knew I knew them then

because the way people are in your

dreams

are the way they really are,

Stripped of the facade of cold winter-

morning light, their bodies just

impressions of an unconscious mind,

editing its hallucinations

of

superfluities.

And Last December . . .

Conor, I got it. An overcast sky on a warm day in December, the grey billows overhead floating like glaciers across a sea of thought, a faint breeze moving you towards the blinking lights of tomorrow's beacons that always give you a dreamlike form. Time's no longer caught in the circles that turn like gears on the clocks and seasons, just a steady impetus flowing past unpredictable sights in a land simultaneously recognizable and alien. My hands have been reminding me of continuity, the thread that holds each moment together on the bracelet looped around my ankle. This moment is coming together, a darting finch, wings cutting through air, a definitive train of thought, the emissions trailing away behind, the past lying beneath the surface like the previous coat of paint, the present cracking with every additional layer, yesterday's colors gaze like eyes through a fissure in the fence, they watch you. There's a tree in my mind, bony arms stripped and reaching for the sun, an intrinsic awareness that life flows through light, I'm the wispy consciousness wrapped around a tree of the mind's eye, giving it the pain of thought. Logic. Logic. Logic. Logic. It's all too sterile. Pull out a pack of cigarettes, place one in you mouth, and take it out again. Stare at the tree. Wrap it in the tendrils of thought. Then put the cigarette back in your mouth, taste the touch of saliva that rested on your tongue moments ago, notice that it has changed, it's tepid now from its affair with the external. Logic. Crack flint with the flick of a metallic gear, hear the click resonate, see the flame, hold it to the tip of your cigarette and breathe in, taste the all too familiar rush of smoke, at once new and old, time on a series of circles, but you draw the circles, don't look at the clock, forget what you know about seasons, a warm day in December . . . December . . . you're on THEIR circle. Logic. It's the past sleeping atop the present, my hands still remind me of continuity, I'm the thread that holds the moments together, wrapped around the tree that I haven't taken my mind off of, a finch singing from within the tangle of arms that reach toward the obscured.

Summer in a Briefcase and Point

And now lost, thinking maybe all he ever had was nothing compared to the farther he walked now wanting less than more, a little scared, profane, or to be called profane, vulgar, unpolished, everything that reeked of rough edges, splintery surfaces, the sun baking nothing beneath it until the nights (now colder) dawn next to the void they imitate.  

Or to sit down with a pen, as he did, smearing words across a page dotted made nine he couldn’t tell that a year was leaking into an ink splotch around the eyes he drew to resemble caves he fled.   Of course, he always opened his eyes to the moment once the moment opened its eyes to him and they had this staring match going until he saw the moment as a mirror . . . a staring match against  ?

Narc

. . . penning notes on the back of a pamphlet he had picked up from the sidewalk of the bus stop.  The pamphlet was from the Department of Motor Vehicles and it described the new security measures that the latest identification card exhibited and he scrawled his thoughts over their words so that his words sat atop their linear logic like a superimposed chaos . . . and his words rambled as his thoughts lacked the cogency he imagined them having while they existed solely in his head and he sighed and looked out the window of the bus at the passing sights provided by the cityscape . . . and she looked across the aisle at him and he saw her head move in his periphery so he glanced over at her and their eyes met for a split second before she averted her gaze and he followed suit, turning his attention back to the window, the images floating linearly across its monitor . . . and when he got off at his stop, the bus groaned and moved off down the street.  The evening sky was almost dark now, faded to a deep blue and the street lights were lit and the chill of the autumn air crept over him and he zipped up his coat and stuffed his hands into his pockets as he headed down the street.  A man approached from further up the sidewalk and he experienced the feeling he always had of being watched as he forced into the proximity another person for no other reason than having to share the same physical plane and so he pretended to be interested in a tree that rose from the ground in a square of soil off to the right of the sidewalk and he thought about how November had stripped it of leaves so that it looked like a skeleton of an irretrievable time.  When he judged he was near enough, he looked the approaching man in the face and gave a nod of his head but the man didn’t return the greeting and instead squinted back at him as they passed each other . . .

Self Portrait

Love in the Time of Microwaves

Henry scooped the wheat flakes of his cereal slowly into his mouth as he read the morning edition.  His wife Beatrice was sitting across the room, watching the morning news on the television as she munched through a buttered English muffin.

"Beatrice," called Henry from the kitchen table, "Have they said anything about Senator O'Nielson?"

"No," yelled Beatrice in reply, "They're just giving the traffic report."

"Huh," Henry nearly screamed across the room, "I'm reading here that O'Nielson was pulled over with a dead child, three pounds of various illicit drugs, and ten thousand dollars in cash . . . all stashed in his trunk."

"Oh my," yelled Beatrice, "That would ruin your day."

"No doubt, no doubt," Henry loudly agreed.  "Let me know if they mention it."

"Sure thing, honey!"  They both resumed their respective breakfasts.