divine intermission

Posted in Prosage on February 11, 2008 by Mike Rosales

a slide toward antagonizing, upon reception of a distended joke, nobody was laughing. the argument had rounded on itself, inquisitive blurs of movement and cigarette smoke, as though a theatrical backdrop.

casual talk, always the dawn of an argument, began with tellings of leisurely infatuations. removal of person was crucial, allow for specifics but distance one’s self from the inflammation of direction. the direction of inflammation, perhaps.

a perversion is a dirty secret. a perversion is an acceptable fantasy. only if they remain.

the promises held a recognition, pointers to what we had read earlier. wordy resolutions blossomed, an easy escape, sourcing fact and judgment, the organic referrals to something we all knew, and then god entered the room from the mouth up.

heart of the matter

Posted in Prosage on February 10, 2008 by Mike Rosales

holding a book with a beautiful pale green cover, i am gone.

i am holding colonial secrets, reminding me of the time i flew over santa monica with no windshield and a faulty regulator, but this book is all about the police and the corruption, and the hot lazy weather that conceals the movement of the hours. the lions upon the verandas keep you alert, and if you close your eyes for a moment there is only scrubland, as far as you can bear to see, squinting against the midday’s ferocity, while jeeps kick up great mountains of dust just above the desert bed.

under the overhang of a grey plant-covered rock, that has points that jut like a blacksmith’s anvil but as tall as a three-storey house is the depths of a plunge pool. entirely shaded and unfeasibly cool, we would swim there in the late afternoon having slept at our typewriters, the flies clouding the horizon, shirts hanging slack in the still air.

all of which is quite ridiculous in this particular wretched dry heat. it remains though, a product of thermostat and so i rise to take liquids and open a window, the air is scratching at my throat. there is a conundrum here; a night of fresh air, or an early morning awakening, up with the non-rush hour.

i take lengthy strokes in the pool, hauling myself forward in great sweeping glides, kicking out with strong legs, occasionally sinking just beneath the surface and holding my breath.

far away knowing

Posted in Prosage on February 7, 2008 by Mike Rosales

you stepped out from behind the dog-leg bar, shelves of obscured bottles of beer, hungry faces muted in drink. the jukebox drew on soft tones, clouds of smoke circling, rotating in shifts near ducts, ordered cyclones near unreachable beams.

we struck out at an inadequacy with dirty, fallow words, the five of us; two pairs and a one. we spoke of the struggle as if it were a struggle, and factories fought with ponies in a vilification of imagined oppressors and none of it mattered very much, but we felt it, dwelling.

class definition, class defiance, class dismissed.

there was age behind those eyes, slow canopies of thought; what price the growing between twenty and thirty and forty? they all end in stories, these lives. that is all that is known; debts and stories, and nobody likes a debt.

(end on a question.)


Posted in Prosage on February 5, 2008 by Mike Rosales

reflection of car in window.

you claim things that are not true, and i grow bored, wearing channels into the bedroom carpet. i have rearranged everything again, turned furniture upon angles, just in case anyone thought to map upon entering the room. i am confounder.

in distance, person crosses road.

pillar to post, the heady rise of expectation, this neutrality of commitance. we build upon fallacies you and i, developers of beautiful lies. no one knows your name. if only you knew, if only they knew.

you are taken as an abstract, a quaint unknown but i know you too well. we were perfect.

red sided truck, incomprehensible foot-high letters.

i shall distract them with bouts of illness, and stories of foreign beds, i shall even try extinction and marriage as smokescreens. they are rendered laughable by the wednesday afternoon, a fully bright grey.

the job is a waiting. the friends are occupied. the pen is laid, half crooked, propped against the yellowing novel, the novel that i had promised great things to.

last night’s table, tomorrow’s intoxicant, this writing is like dead water and the closest you and i come to talking is an apology.

sleep insobriety rides away

Posted in Prosage on February 3, 2008 by Mike Rosales

only now, upon this time while eating toast, do i realize. the whine of a northern hemisphere voice, gently enveloped in the afternoon drizzle, and i am performing these functions for the first time.

weeks of phone-call wake-ups, the sustained evenings denying the roll into morning, squinting to avoid the light. and the not eating, too, placating the nervous hunger with meals stolen from an officemate’s table. i haven’t bought a newspaper for a month.

earlier, i thought a microwave oven was a man, a man was a sideboard and a joke was an insult. so i made someone go and stand outside in the rain without a jacket and locked the door until i could think again.

so only now, as i rise at seven in the morning, do i realize that i’m sleeping again.

not at this exact instant obviously.

nourish me

Posted in Prosage on February 2, 2008 by Mike Rosales

i think about the grieving lecturer (the figure that appears in my dreams) now and i think of the deception employed by dreams, a hood of ignorance. dreaming stimulates a yearning almost like attraction but not. it is more sullen, deeper, and more consolidation than uprising. can’t help but think of their nature, the nature of dreams, and not so much think but appreciate because there can never be answers, just my pretty little appraisal and desire to re-enact, though the cautious play of living is my dream, depressing as this is.

i am i, cooking by gas and become distracted, although i shouldn’t i do; i am not good with fire. it is hard not to become endeared to the hob though, cooking upon the amorous blue flame which nibbles tenderly at the edges of the pan, within which circles form, invisible then visible, as i hold the cup and wait for coffee.

now and now, dredging the minutes for distractions, valuable resonance, a memory, or rather something to remember but there is nothing here but here, and i suppose that we all understand ourselves better at the quiet times, not doing being as important as doing because the purpose is always hidden.

comic relief

Posted in Prosage on January 30, 2008 by Mike Rosales

man goes to the doctor.

“doctor,” he says, “my friend thinks he is a chicken.”

“really?” says the doctor. “then you must get him to come and see me immediately!”

“i can’t,” says the man.

“why not?”

“we need the eggs.”


Posted in Prosage on January 26, 2008 by Mike Rosales

to hate a word is nonsense but to regret it is conscious, and i regret buxom.

but you were. beautiful, too.

later you would scream in your boyfriend’s face, telling him he was nothing, a fucking waste, and that he was the most amazing person you had ever met, but a fucking failure because of your own expectations, you who are happy to sit and smile and watch the planets, a fucking failure.

torn between two, you relayed the details of a friend’s wedding, a confusion of priorities, one half of the service riddled with conflict–pagan misnomer. you are perfect in many ways, contradiction though that is. without denomination, dominated by love and empathy you survive through the warmth of strangers.