Archive for January, 2007

removal

Posted in Prosage on January 29, 2007 by Mike Rosales

the possibility of negation requires the actuality of confirmation, and vice versa. if one cannot confirm, then the negation is false; if one cannot negate, then the confirmation is dangerous.

a lie is a lie is a big lie

Posted in Prosage on January 27, 2007 by Mike Rosales

whilst walking through the streets, i thought that i should take a shortcut across the inviting grass as it lazed unused under midday sun because i hate to see things without a purpose. so it became my purpose to walk upon this grass, just for a moment, and then the grass’ purpose to host this definite act, a charitable gift on my part, i feel.

i reckoned without the certainty of public ridicule however. i cannot leave the house without becoming the subject of public ridicule; it is a fate of sorts if such a foolish thing exists. ridicule has become my vocation.

and so of course, eighteen strides into my giving journey in which i donated a reason to this redundant patch of virgin green, i fell. not simply the gentle collapse of an ankle upon a misjudged curb, nor a cautious trip, but an acrobatic feat with pirouettes, falling sky and blood, a desperate trip full of sad lies, to an enraptured audience. as i shuffled into the shade and back onto the path, i noticed that my trousers were minutely torn and my leg was bleeding slightly, not a cut as such but an unnoticed, painless graze, which looked like paint.

inside was my sister who commented immediately on my torn trousers, and the shame and the embarrassment and the general irritation that accompanies the unfurling of events came into view and were laid before me.

so i lied.

“i fell on glass running from a large dog.”
“really?”
“yes.”

i don’t know why. she didn’t even believe me, just like you don’t.

not the largest falsity you’ve ever encountered (certainly not mine, i have heard i love you uttered urgently over sad lips) but enough. it was a construction, aimed at solving confusion, it was a little fabrication, some window-dressing to hide the embarrassment that had added rose to my palate. sprinkle some glass and a canine into the situation, and it makes the whole situation a lot easier to swallow because most people don’t have to put up with the same things i have to. most people can’t fall over nothing and cut themselves on fresh air. and i always like to make a story of things.

like the other day, when i was walking along the road, and i needed a coin for something but i didn’t have one, and then i saw one at the end of the road from quite a distance. as i approached i congratulated myself on my luck and eyesight when, from nowhere, a fat man with no shirt bolted from an alley way, looked furtively up and down the street, picked up the coin and ran off. i never told everyone about that.

it disappointed me. i felt as though, at the very least, if something that unnerving was going to happen, it (and i) deserved a better beginning and a better end, so i injected the story with glass and a dog. there is nothing bad about this, i simply hate missed potential, the situation had so much ambition and although my actions were strictly confined to the realms of ordinary, i made a lie that rose to the occasion.

and that’s all stories are, that’s all writing is–making lies that rise to the occasion, that perform on the big day, excel under pressure. and so perhaps the blander the event, the more inventive the lie, the better the writer.

i can now go to bed.

bed(room)

Posted in Poemage, Vintage on January 22, 2007 by Mike Rosales

all through the night,
they undid every knot,
every button on every shirt
unpopped.
they stood like flowers in plant pots with nothing
but goosebumps.
two human beings: bare-skinned,
threadbare, comfortable.
nothing was spoken but everything was cozy
reflecting the smiles off each other
until the sun shined into the window blinds.
it’s morning.

ballistics

Posted in Prosage on January 15, 2007 by Mike Rosales

i can’t find my pen.

and if i did find it the ink probably would have run out. and the paper that i went to write on would be all screwed up. no doubt that my hand is too shaky today. it would be illegible.

unlegible? illegible. i just have no grasp of the foundations of language.

there is no way into what i feel. what’s the word? what was i going to say? it’s on the tip of my tongue. there is no way into what i feel.

but there may be a way out.

at a distance greater than two feet: this is too far for either soot or burning propellant to travel, so the wound margins are clean, with neither fouling nor stippling. classically, the entrance wound has a rim of abrasion surrounding the wound, because the projectile drags the surrounding skin into the wound a bit, abrading it along the way. the exit wound lacks this abrasion, unless the victim was braced against a wall or other solid object that may secondarily abrade the margin of the exit wound as the projectile penetrates the skin and pushes it into the wall.

back to the wall then.

it was a nice night

Posted in Fictionage on January 13, 2007 by Mike Rosales

so, i was walking down the street and lots of people started running towards and then past me.

“where are you running?” i said to one of them, a short man carrying a carrier bag. “there’s been a fight.” he said, glad to get his breath. “and some fella’s just killed the other guy. i’m going to have a look, see what i can see.”

“right.” i said.

i hadn’t hit him hard, just a wayward swing that had had caught him off balance, and then he stumbled a little and fell. i turned away at that point, and i only heard his head split, i didn’t see it or anything.

i walked away, through the closing circle of breathy onlookers, no one taking any notice and thought it best if i went home and went to bed.

it was at this point i saw the people running and it never even occurred to me that they were running for me, or even past me, i just asked the question and carried on home.

it was a nice night, an early evening with no insects.

i continued walking up the street and looked in at the closed shop windows, sometimes seeing my reflection, but always trying to look like i wasn’t looking. the drain set into the gutter at the side of the road, was clogged with leaves and held a small pool of stagnant, dirty water. so, i continued to walk thinking about how tall i was and whether the birds in the cities actually roosted and where, and all other things in a lovely way.

the street stretched away round the corner, but i turned left into a little parade of shops, all closed until the morning rush, and there was no one here, just lines of brown brick planters with overgrown, dull plants draping urgently over the sides like people abandoning a sinking ship. the path underfoot was laid like herringbone.

the trees on the far side just beyond the railway line spoke in hushed tones, the tracks below gleaming in the city light but they did not quiver and shake as during the day. in fact, a stillness approached the scene that held it, not like an oil painting or watercolor which has fluency and movement, but like a planned photograph that doesn’t capture the gravity of the situation. nothing looked as though it has any weight or depth, but it, of course, seemed real enough, and i began to regret not wearing a jacket and quickened my pace.

the bus shelter stood, only housing a tired looking cat that barely raised its head as i passed, and my eyes nearly closed for a second and i mumbled nearly home now. i’m not even sure if they were words but they seemed like they came from inside.

i passed the precinct with its semi-circles of colored bricks all laid out and thought that bricklaying must be a profitable business, and then i passed the church with its hopeful recruiting message outside (i don’t remember what it said) and i thought how lucky, how lucky to have something. like robert frost said, it just goes on.

i turned into the street and rows of vehicles, mainly family cars, lined the edges of the cracked pavements with nippy, early morning roofs. i looked for my watch but i couldn’t see it, and then i looked for the house and i couldn’t see that either, so i thought that i must be in the wrong street. the wind stopped and a fragment of a human voice seemed to drop, but then the wind blew again and it was lost, and i think i thought that i was lost, and then, and only then, did i notice that my breath was coming hard and fast, with a white outline and that my hand was bleeding.

i am not sure if things can be the same

Posted in Poemage on January 12, 2007 by Mike Rosales

i have been away.
i have learned from the words
and worlds of others.
i am back. i am back.

the language of relationships
is not in words but
meanings, it is a single soul
dwelling in two bodies,
it is the golden thread
that ties the heart of all the world

i have never quite felt like this.
the days to come may provide elucidations.

conversation

Posted in Poemage on January 10, 2007 by Mike Rosales

“why are you looking at me like that?”
“like what?”
“like that.”
“i’m not looking at you like that.”
“you are.”
“i’m not.”
“what is it?”
“what is what?”
“what is up? why are you looking at me as though we have done something?”
“can’t you tell?”
“sorry, but no.”
“my eyes, honey, can’t you read my eyes?”
“no, i can’t.”
“did you not see the look on my face?”
“no, sorry. i must have been looking the other way.”
“sometimes i wonder if you know me at all, if you’ve ever really held me, if we suffer the same purpose?”
“–”
“you’re saying you really can’t tell?”
“no, honestly, i can’t.”
“you know, sometimes i think ‘what’s the point?’ i really do.”

me, too.