Archive for March, 2007


Posted in Prosage on March 31, 2007 by Mike Rosales

we are all ghostwriters.

  1. we familiarize ourselves with the other.
  2. we take its story.
  3. we offer a re-narration.
  1. language is the other. we explore its contours, slippages and limits with adolescent tirades, escape its enclosures with experimental purges and mask ourselves behind its quiet story with adaptation and assumption. it is the subject that we study within every second, but not just from afar as stifled voyeur but intimately, hand in hand, step in step. this occurs like the start of a universe; an explosion from nothing; once there it can only refer to itself and it begins in terms of itself. it is dwelling, it requires space, silence, nothing.
  2. the need for story rises, strong and keen, from this relationship. we house ourselves in the structures of accepted communication but find ourselves without purpose. the desire to tell, to relate strikes us as a dumb, mute urge propelling us towards direction and resolution. we are led, blind into the channels of history, a recognition of place and consequence and time.
  3. it opens. language and history, space and time, forge a mutual awareness in which neither can recognize the other as anything and cannot comprehend of a lack in other. they are drawn together through a nib in a pen, unified strands of experienced existence, the two understandables: space and time. temporal spatiality. both exist within, and with each other, and become manifest within the clutches of the word.

for this is word.

the word standing alone represents the two extendables of thought, the boundaries within which we may only, and forever will think. once beyond, then we are truly beyond and will not think of this infancy.

word does not stand alone. it is removed from its origins with each pen-stroke, but just as soon as it leaves, it returns, it is woven back into the space and history in the act of writing, mimicking itself, a parody reflected back into the glittering eyes of the spectre that released its cycles.

it is not his history, not his language, he is within both space and time and can only watch as into a snowstorm held in glass. he shakes the ornament as hard as he possibly can and watches with suspended satisfaction as the flakes return to the scene in the glass in his hand, and nothing has changed but everything has moved. the writer shakes the known with every black letter he carves out, but his duty is not in the revolution of the act, but the conformity of the return.


chalk circles

Posted in Prosage on March 28, 2007 by Mike Rosales

most of the words you have heard and doubted, many do not exist.

they all contain the notion of a shift, of that change so frequently mentioned (how can i escape these wretched words?) and adored, a change that is needed not inwardly but outwardly. i do not feel the need to use it, but the word feels the need to use me, to parallel and justify my current existence (one of changing addresses, cities, socialities). i am the pathetic fallacy of these words; i provide a glowering sky to backdrop the word’s potency.

so, on progression: one cannot speak of the movement without talking of the beginning and the end. there is an enclosure within the singularity of the word, a limitless enclosure. the sky extends forever, but i cannot see all of it, all the time. poems are indeed enclosures around the limitlessly wordless, chalk circles of designation and drawn by the sole ambition of he who holds the chalk, the writer.

question & answer

Posted in Prosage on March 26, 2007 by Mike Rosales

a definition of my affection as permanent as the darkness in which i love to write? a naming of parts?


Posted in Prosage on March 21, 2007 by Mike Rosales

today i deleted.

i don’t feel bad, and you should know that. it helps our fictitious relationship because you, dear reader, are not really there, and so won’t have noticed.

i told myself when beginning, that i should write unconditionally and without reprieve or remand; ie, no shame, awareness, and no [del].

but then i also told myself that i wouldn’t be self-referential, not through an avoidance of the first person (we are all that person), but through a blindness to the presence of the format, a willingness to circle the voice.

perhaps i have achieved that, not through discipline, but through some form of vagueness and an ambiguity that exposes these thoughts for the vessels they are.

kill me if i write, kill me if i don’t. the best thing is that i can’t see you.

a future will be, if a future will be

Posted in Poemage on March 17, 2007 by Mike Rosales

cigarette ash on my keyboard
i can barely write

it is overwhelming
the doubt of two forges the ideas of both
and they remain strong.
this is true of love and friendship, of which
there is more to be said

the absolute only exists, at the moment, through god
god only exists, at the moment, through humans
human only exist, for always, through language
once language is superseded,
through chromosome-based spirituality, god will die
but the absolute will prevail

contagious enlightenment

feel the space
just there, the space

it is there that we all dream of
beyond the world, then the word.
this is determined upon factors we cannot foresee

a future will be, if a future will be.

vote my soul

Posted in Poemage, Vintage on March 11, 2007 by Mike Rosales

i took saint jude
to have and hold
as my confirmation ranger
in a clapboard dusty pew church
i attended at parental gunpoint.

c’mon saint j,
i thought under wafer breath
as i slouched to the altar
so a bishop could lay fear
on my bald head
with egg white misery.

c’mon saint j,
patron of dump life
and safety pin girls.
don’t give me an empty wallet,
hip music parents,
some sign you sip my confessor’s cup.

i bent my head shy,
let god’s man brush my forehead
with heavy silver precision,
and i rose saved lashes
to see his distaste.

response to anything anyone asks ever

Posted in Prosage on March 10, 2007 by Mike Rosales

because it had to be. the things that don’t happen are always impossible.