Archive for May, 2007

stories we’ve told

Posted in Poemage on May 31, 2007 by Mike Rosales

they died through the telling of modern tales:
the long evenings of traffic
the forlorn curvature of the bus route
the happening at x of x
the workers strike strike striking
the development borne through consequence
the encyclopaedic decline of potent labors
the landlord not allowing animals
the spectral bond achieved with furnishings
the swollen pots and chequered rugs
the carpeted excuses
the literacy achieved without a phone
the disturbing regularity and frequency of the hour
the condescending tone of the ceiling
the noise at the back door
the arguments with the walls
the casual, doleful lounging at noon
the constructing of a silo for emotion
the trespass into a dream
the words of her
the devil’s version of events
the gravity of the situation
pulling water from the tap.


a token

Posted in Prosage on May 23, 2007 by Mike Rosales

caution would love to laugh at spontaneity, but is too afraid.

the evenings haul themselves over the city, summertime has almost ended and i have to suffer the great slumbering body of night, shifting its hulk over the horizon and flattening out the heavens, denying day, darkness removes warmth, though; foresight and hope are difficult to maintain in the heat. chin into clothing, hands into pockets and suddenly that sickening, fulsome feeling, like death but quicker, warms my insides and makes my heart nauseous, it is the remembrance of loss and the execution of will, the reminder that i control nothing and the choice was not, will never be mine, a splintering of facades and convenient lies, all the false dawns i have ever made from paper and sticks, all of them.

in my pocket, a letter.

return, enter

Posted in Prosage on May 18, 2007 by Mike Rosales

a restart of sorts: hours of cabling workmen, technical support, forced tears, restricted malice, ipconfig commands, microsoft networking solutions, have disk, compact flash error detected.

a restart of sorts: come and fix the windows and i still have work to do. fine. this one? that one. nine times out of ten that’s [pointing] the problem. well, is it? no, not really.

a restart of sorts: the information in this pack is correct at the time of going to press, but xxxxxx reserves the right to make subsequent changes to it and services may be modified, supplemented or withdrawn. this is a legally binding contract.

a restart of sorts: back to the feeling that i don’t exist, startled by mirrors and a distance between mind, emotional presence and social character. this is apparition. i am ghost. i feel spirit. my bed is still unmade.


blank page, no resistance. just more complexities without rhythm, blue skies above me, the weather in this sunny summer keeps turning on me, i am back in line at last. the horoscopes are as they should be.

the depth of field continues, creating patterns live/s. previously no means to express but now, glowing in a positive rejection of institutionalised creativity (and reeling from perpetual failed relationship) there is at last a feeling of full space.

there must be someone near. there is no one near.

surround myself with creativity, disregard blistered thoughts of obligation-fucking-obligation, dislocation, time spent, dust in throat and eyes, i remain remote, fluid and without emotive stance.

there is no catchment area for how i feel. the tradition is the platform. i cannot compete with your love for the world.

(sorry, it has been a while.)

idiot seeks idiot for fun and possibly romance

Posted in Prosage on May 11, 2007 by Mike Rosales

i chose to write poetry today but i was tired and the poems arrived slowly like bruises. i ironed them into prose until i coughed.

my negativity is nothing but an unwelcomed clamor for attention. i bore myself to death. the heart of literature has turned cold for me these last few months. i am beginning to wish for an escape, the one thing i hated and reviled. there should be nothing to escape from.

there should be no need but there is always a need.

social strata require it; we are the enveloped mass, willing and salacious, undercutting emotion and depth for our blessed survival.

ha! survival! we are threatened by nothing and yet survival is the priority. it mocks our libidos with an angular, asinine pose and stalks the development of feeling until love is no more than a hollow cascade of self-praise.

concurrent thoughts glide, silken, alongside my finger is a dotted line of thought, a clear plotted path that i choose to ignore. this is a heuristic dwelling.

i wish for a lover, a lover for all times. my bed and heart and fridge are empty.

[silent persuasions appear here as a bracketed postscript.]

culture shock

Posted in Poemage on May 8, 2007 by Mike Rosales

my constant rejection
of companionship probably
says more about me than
it does about the standard
of friendship round here.


Posted in Prosage on May 4, 2007 by Mike Rosales

i ghost through my own presence, needing others to sketch in outlines and fill in color. my own purposes and dwellings need a form of external confirmation, in the same way that i realise the window is a window from the tiny rivulets that navigate towards the sill.

the window is there, always. i know that. most days i simply look through it, rather than at it, but on days like this when the rain falls endlessly and conversations seem to drown in the heavy sky, i notice it before i notice the street outside.

people walk down below and i know none of them.

people are my rain; they shape my edges and justify my functions while bringing to light my finity. in this way, they pose questions and loosen tongues; they are givers of voice because voice is identity, and identity is always, necessarily formed.

i cannot see through myself, as i might on a day without rain, when the people are there. this is a conflict. people are definers, the me-and-them relationship draws out an elementary blueprint of need but for these plans to work there must be an element of transparency, a blue sky in the distance.

i need the rain to remind me that there is a window, but all the while that the rain blurs my perspective, there can be no vision, no perspective, no solace, no contentment, no happiness.

i need the rain to ease. i need a summer sky. i need a better forecast. i need a bright outlook. i need a positive summary. i need a seasonal change. i need no severe weather advice. i need a meteorological shift. i need an elemental progression. i need to lose my tenuous and painful grasp on allegory. that would suit everyone.

teenage dreams are hard to beat

Posted in Prosage on May 1, 2007 by Mike Rosales

an evening of denial and readjustment. the focus on without has led me to the inner, the isolated space where loss habitually finds its home. it is the only part of me that doesn’t feel a part of me. my personal connections mean nothing and social observations lack purpose.

the radio speaks the truth today, not through exclamations of legend, nor anecdote, nor flooding tribute but the fact that it sounds exactly the same. there is no change in programming today, save a few doleful moments of sobriety or even reminiscent jocularity, and it is this continuity that says the most. the radio speaks the truth today; it says nothing.

something is lost, something that gave voice to the wordless, and let it speak for itself, something that hated that truth-of-silence with more positivity, creativity and fervor that had ever been known and may not be known again.

i can hear your voice.