Archive for February, 2007

the comfortable shoe drama special

Posted in Poemage, Vintage on February 27, 2007 by Mike Rosales

must get more shoes
and polish the ones that i have,
where the ocean meets the razor.
i can’t argue with what i know
and therefore am blindfolded
by standard competition ratios

ah, like you said, you get eyes,

and that’s something–

but i
must
have
more
shoes.

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the day said nothing in my arms

Posted in Prosage on February 25, 2007 by Mike Rosales

punctuated silence: the urgent commas of passing freight (which seem louder than usual–are the goods larger, or does sound carry further in the february heat?), the definite full-stop of an unspecified scream from the street, hyphens of conversation (they get closer to my bed), an open bracket (i am, of course, waiting for something as usual, like ellipses, as these are the thoughts i cannot rid).

for a moment, a mistaken interruption, the day must be reinforced with communication, but it eases its way in, an exchange, a duty. i amble into another fatigue though, the drag of unsubstantiated processes. there are things to be written.

i know of these things now. i saw them whilst reading kafka. it is ideas for the novel, the novel that we do not talk about, the not-novel, the anything but. it must not know of its own intentions, of its forecoming and pre-influence. it is the beyond, the movement-that-is-future, but given half a chance it will fill the space it tears with anomalies and reversals, denial and self-rejection. it has been said once and will repeat to fade (although nothing disappears), stating over and over that self-awareness is both death and beauty.

a threat

Posted in Prosage on February 23, 2007 by Mike Rosales

i will hold these things in my hands, i said, they are mine. but then i remembered that to achieve, i must ask all the questions, and i then saw all the hopeless, blunted shame that arises from an unwilling audience, and i sank again.

time will tell, but only of what concerns it. i will tell, but only of what concerns you.

dreary weathered directionless comment

Posted in Prosage on February 22, 2007 by Mike Rosales

never write novels about novelists, nor poems about poetry. never think about thinking or ask about asking. self-reflection is the death of being, and all that is lost is always lost, except when it is found.

an alarm sounds. a compact disc burns. the book lied. you lied.

may i go to sleep?

no, not yet.

liberation through housework

Posted in Poemage, Vintage on February 21, 2007 by Mike Rosales

the floor is a canvas. the broom, a brush.
and i,
the consummate artist,
am sweeping up a masterpiece.
cleaning the toilet as it should be cleaned–
equal amounts of pride and care added to the soap–
is a task of holy and heroic proportions.
scrub brush in hand,
i stand kissing the lips of god.

emotional flu

Posted in Prosage on February 19, 2007 by Mike Rosales

i have a heavy cold and it makes my head feel like an anvil. i am bursting with happiness inside though, which is strange. i went to write a poem, the best poem i have ever written, all the ideas were there. then i remembered i must clean the car. i went outside and a man in a black car asked me for directions twice, once on the way outside, and again as i walked back. i think he was lost. i said, “that way, i think.” the second time i said, “try down there.” there was lots of rubbish on the floor outside my house so i picked it up and put it in the bin. i felt no better physically, but maybe a little better socially. the happiness is still there, it’s still there, just there. i would shout it from the rooftops but it might hurt my throat, or i might spill my hot coffee, or might get dizzy and fall off. tried to write the best poem i have ever written, but i couldn’t. i think i’ll go to bed for a bit. see if i feel better when i wake up.

third

Posted in Poemage on February 17, 2007 by Mike Rosales

for the lonesome ego must evade the muse
and the confident actor must hunt the lie.

we are ready to go.

and so what if i scream at mirrors?
seeing how i have accomplished
the art of reaching out to people so effectively,
i decide that i can.
(irony is the refuge of the educated man who is out of his depth.)

after the blow, a wreath languishes
amongst the chained angles and cheated compliments.
this is pure attention–the refugee’s love.
this is best for intellectual permutations.

life is a commentary.
people deny that they love
or have ever loved
the mute attraction of order.

i, however, simply toss chalky glances
at starry-eyed verbs,
hoping they will burst.

i talk to myself in the third person
hoping they will burst.