Sensible Weather calls

for sensible shoes.

Sensible shoes

for Sensible Weather.

Cowdown

The cow is down, below the moon

hoping her lady will get here soon

bringing her dreams like breakfast in bed

crying her way through the night.

Now is the time for us to sleep,

consigning our souls to the deep.

Pull down the shades, put out the light.

Heaven is all in your head.

Ships Are Real

Now at last the ships are real,

Oblivion's shore slides under the sea.

For memory to be set free

To know must be more than to feel.

Everything

Everything you have can be taken away.

All that you love you will lose someday.

The Moon Rose

The moon rose, slender & pink
      in its clear vase of sky.

A rosy evening settled the west.
Destiny was manifest.

Songs About Death

Still
Burning
Music Hangs.
Someday,
We Dream.
 

The Stars, The Stars

last night i was looking at the stars before going to bed (as i always do, weather permitting). i started thinking about how we are apparently the only species on earth that bothered to look up at the stars and make up stories about them, catalog them, and ultimately figure out what they were. then i thought about what forms of life might exist out there, how radically different & perhaps to us unrecognizable they would be, and wondered if any of them had evolved that level of curiosity & wonder, and how many of them (however many years in the past or future, as light takes time to travel) were looking back at me.

Collapsing

Collapsing in a sea of grass
I lie beneath the braying sun
Which crushes me with brutal cheer
Until the grass & I are one.

Collapsing in a world of dew
I sit & watch the stars go by.
I would have climbed the highest tree
If just to hold the spinning sky.

Collapsing on a piece of toast
I spread myself, but much too thin
And fail to flavor any meal
The passersby are taking in.

I Write a Book - Chapter 3

Danka opened the door to find a world gone mad. Dolly was gone, the front steps were gone, the walk was gone, the street was gone. The world, in fact, was not gone mad. It was just gone. Danka fogged over like a mirror.

"Everything is gone," she noted cautiously. "But what is this in its place? And what is the place in which it could be said to be?"

Deep within the cauldrons of Danka's mind a primordial soup was roiling. Great quantities of hydrogen, methane, ammonia and carrots were bubbling in Danka's brain.

"And what am I that I can perceive nothing? Perhaps I am the one that has gone. Perhaps everything else is still here."

I Write a Book - Chapter 2

In Chapter 2 things begin to heat up. Molecules move faster. The air can hold more water. The melting of the polar ice caps accelerates.

Meanwhile, oblivious to all of this, Danka percolated in her armchair beside the window knitting a wallaby. The zoo wanted it done by Friday, and she was beastily behind. For the most part the work was coming along fine. But Danka wanted it perfect, and this was putting paste in her gearbox. She hadn't even downloaded the pattern for the tail yet, although she suspected it would all mash out fine in the end.

Just then she saw Dolly prigging up the walk. "Shit," she croaked mused philosophically. "A pretty end to any work today."

She put her knitting aside, and with a dry heave she stood up and made her way to the door, trying on a few grimaces in preparation.

"Ding Dong!" Dolly squirted as she reached the door. The bell was out of order, and this was a little joke of hers. But the bell had been fucked for years, and the joke had gone on so long that "Ding Dong" now sounded to Danka like a parody of a term of endearment.

At just the moment when Danka was throwing the bolt things began to heat up. Molecules moved faster. Clouds dissipated as the air was suddenly able to hold more water. And Danka was sure she could sense the melting of the polar ice caps accelerating. "A fine load of laundry, this," she foamed. "What next?"

(to be continued)

I Write a Book


Tonight's fortune cookie said, "You have a charming way with words and should write a book."

This is how the book begins. What sort of book is my book? A memoir? A novel? A work of criticism, whether informed or benighted?

Where does this beginning happen: At the time of my birth? At some pivotal event in the life of my fictional narrator? With some sort of thesis I set out to prove?

Stay tuned for Chapter 2...

(for zhenya)

In the temple of my heart
Your laughing song is sacred to me
And I kneel at the altar of your kindness.

Two Lines Today

two lines today,
this one and the one before it.

moonlight burning midnight ground
light a match and look around
find your secret yesterday
throw it away

Time to get back to this blog, mebbe

Hello? Hello? Wake up, Blog. You have been dormant for too too long.

Homage to Mapplethorpe

Snow

\* *\ ** * \* *. **. * _* .**. *._. * * -*_* *.** * ** \* *** *_** * .**_ ** * *.* * ** * ** \ \*.. ** **| *\** * ** !** *** **. *- ** \*\\* ** ** ** *\** * ** *.* ** ** *_ * ** *** ** **** ******." **_*_*** ** ****** .*****.-*_** * **"*******_* * **** ***_ * ***:*.**

snow... how does it feel.
not how does snow feel but
how does it feel
to snow.

** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** * *************************************************************************************

A Dull Thud coming to your town

A Dull Thud coming through the window. over the ocean.
throughout the windocean and thrown out over it. over it.
overthrone. throne overboard. a stone throne overboard.

windscreen.
today i windscree. yesterday i windscreed.
tomorrow i will have windscreen.
then i scried my eyes out. and all about.
over the windy ocean. the winedeep ocean.
Chicago is called the windy city,
although the roads there are as straight as they come.
as roads go, they are as straight as they come.

dull thud.