Thursday, October 14, 2010

nocturnes / mikrokosmos / notapoems

i feel it is late.
not in terms of tonight, or morning
(which is a few limbs away still)
i feel it is late:
if life itself were time.


the things we learn and know,
do you ever stop to realize how
pointless it will be to you one day to
remember differentiating 'internal' from 'international'
genus's of armed conflict?


hi. i'm a
small, pale, shy
quiet story.
___(probably just need a tune


she sleeps before me.
always. __usually.
she purrs and turns.
i look up from my page.
she has the blanket between
her legs and a dream
between her eyes.
(celesta nocturne,
astrological carousel)
enough i say to the book,
who turns his cheek from me
and looks away.
and her sleep brushes aside
the blanket and lets me into
a new night, less dark,
less silent, less late
than mine.


a sleep with no dreams.
a sleep with no dreams.
a sleep with no dreams.
what are you writing? she asks
i say a sleep with no dreams.
she asks why?
sounds nice i say.


in ten years , or months , or something
will i have lost you to facebook?,
a name reminding me of Munich or
Chaucer or 2005 :: hollow ghosts
and precious feathers ; when it reminds
me it's your birthday i'll wear a grey suit
and spill wine on myself and ransack my
room hoping to find secret notes you left.


today i had a banana.
coffee. two half-pieces of gum.
three energy drinks.
my brain runs on solar energy.
my eyes on rain.
one night i'll get the urge to
climb into the garden.
drink evening's syrup.
wake a clown-shaped flower.
and dream only
_s _l _o _w


i spent 2 hours reading about chess grandmasters.
when i'm sad i listen to the Antlers.
refuse to sleep out of spite.
keep a tally of kisses you owe me.

one day i'll know how to say the rest.


a slowly disappearing font,
growing weaker with time,
distance, disappointment,
so that when it's most necessary
to speak your mind

____how strange empty rooms sound)

Friday, October 8, 2010

these words are not what i mean /\ i do not mean these words

untitled, heimdalsgate

these words never had any purpose , words in books and articles and published in the Paris Review stand proud , pretentious nose-uppity words those words have a place to go home to at night , rest in a comfortable bed and consort with their wives and with the eyes of soo many mistress's eyes , these words are vagabonds. a jumble rattle-bag of flotsam and jetsam leftover on the coffee-shop table train seat bus stop and soo left no one bothers to pick it up , these words are homeless with their hands in their pockets ideas in search of heads to live in and paper to live on and these words are miscast in the sentences they star in and the paragraphs are no better than our divorced and divorcing parents .

/ / / / / / / /____<-- this is to represent that it's raining right now
////// // / / //

if you were here i might kiss you . if for no other reason that to keep you from talking to me.

_*__ *__
/\___\\____ __<-- this is to represent two people leaning towards each other to kiss

i speak to a girl in a black dress who plays with her hair. i walk away, shout across a courtyard, when i turn i see my teacher who asks how i like assignments in equity, and i tell him about a competition, i unsuccessfully argued restitutio in integrum (he tells me i was right ,
____but now i'm jogging in the rain , my sweater is heavy , i feel gravity is flirting with me
___and what good is being right when you are old,
__(old and olding)
_before that i read.
before that i woke up sweaty from dreams i couldn't remember.

then it is evening.
but then, it is always evening.

what are you having for breakfast? he asks.
relief, when i rejoin air.
a banana. sometimes cereal.
highly caffeinated energy drinks and amphetamines.
either my hands shake, either that, or they can't be moved.

my essay has a name, all it needs now is a soul.
'Whose Invisible Hand Is it?: Ethical Taxation and the Price of Carbon'.
if i die before i wake,
carve it into my tombstone. _put QED under it. _if they cry remind them i was an asshole.

then it is evening.
i consider pills , decide instead on tuna. substance over form as they say. each day grows from the last. there are thursday's vines in my friday. wednesday's light is trapped under your eyelid. ssshhh, hear that? the thin buzzing is from tuesday. if you stand on one foot in the kitchen wearing a green shirt you can hear it really loudly.

these are the words i have that have no name. and which describe things that have no name. and which are about things that aren't ready to be confined to thoughts yet. passings and goings. throughing and throughings.

::____ _ _::
::____ _ _::_______<-- this is to represent the things we do not know.
::____ _ _::__________________(it is not to scale)

i don't know when things end anymore.
i'm concerned. my concern is that things never end.

1+2+3+ ... + ∞______<-- this is not to represent its true mathematical meaning, but rather: tick tock

the reason why this concerns me is in the box (see above)
i have knocked, but it has not granted me audience ,

when i look up it is the sort of 11pm that feels like 4am [or is that a metaphor for youth?]

but what do you write about? i am presently concerned with the conclusion of youth.
and what does that mean for you? (see above, box)

she plays with her hair, a thick bunch of it. twirls it. kinda rough.
i commend her for wearing a dress.
equitable assignments.
something or another about tax.
woke up sweaty , pills for breakfast , pills for lunch , insomnia for dinner
jogged in rain
but what do you write about? __[the end of things that do not

then it is evening.
but then, it is always evening.

Sunday, October 3, 2010




penny sparkle by Blonde Redhead

the tracks are out of order
so i listen from last to first
and consequently feel upside down,
walking backwards up a hill,

i read a few reviews, they
tell me the band's ruined,
all promises are spent .
couple pennies maybe left
for a jukebox tune, but who we were
mumbles the lead singer as she
walks home to type out a resume (
carrying a guitar case with her)

someone asks her if she's scared
she smiles, at 2am cowboy -
or if she feels like she failed
staring at her boots she says finally
you still listening to me?

i have a soft-spot for the unappreciated.
in other words you see ghosts? she asks, standing:
she stares at me over her shoulder making tea,

doing nothing much at 3 in the morning,
i drink the last sip, and wait for some something

she's singing, nothing in particular.

i take a few moments to acquaint myself with
this moment, doesn't see to be going anywhere.