Archive for June, 2007

sixty three

Posted in Prosage on June 28, 2007 by Mike Rosales

the aquarium sky has a qualitative tension not yet released by the end of the working day.

—-o—-oOo—-o—-

[notes on physical contact]

  1. a small man next to me keeps touching my inner thigh with his suitcase.
  2. an old lady opposite is breathing the same air as her friend; it is as though their lips are touching.
  3. a taller, gaunt man lets his hand linger upon that of a disconsolate office worker’s.
  4. without realizing, a sullen youth is probing an old man’s hair with his fingertips.
  5. i can’t stop staring at the folds of skin, just above the belt, of that lady.

—-o—-oOo—-o—-

but you are someone who made me cry by reminding me of someone who made me cry. you are the realization of loss, the progression through meaningless symptoms and into rallying surges of feeling, a pleasure unto the unknown, the beautiful distance so far ahead of itself that it no longer becomes a distance.

i think i love you and your drifting landmarks more than the world. i think.

Advertisements

today’s intoxicants

Posted in Prosage on June 27, 2007 by Mike Rosales
  1. fractured cobalt sky; a lot still to be done.
  2. our lives played out like nursery rhymes, read by all and full of dirty, laden symbols.
  3. conscious effort to not speak of it, to repress the thing (that is, to make the thing as quick as a word).
  4. regretful sex–none of it.
  5. quiet rage, building from the inside, destroying what we didn’t know.
  6. dissatisfaction with the reduction of emotion to clear and succinct phrases. despite the attempted periphrasis and coagulation of specifics, the meaning still presents itself to me as relevant and sharp-felt as a clot in a vessel.
  7. noisy neighbours, damn it.

cat got cream and tongue

Posted in Prosage on June 22, 2007 by Mike Rosales

call all the guards. potency is the regard of the dreamer these days.

under the weather

Posted in Prosage on June 19, 2007 by Mike Rosales

i am bound up with illness, there seems to be nothing wrong with this.

i have known illness previously, in times of lost sleep and broken thoughts, the cascade of disillusion where friends fall like dominos, one after the other. i have seen friends dragged into themselves by ambition and pursuit, falling through their own lives. relatives have flown away on wings of solitude and fanciful regrets, thinking that they are coming back when, in fact, every strained sinew drags them further into the skies. medical men wrap them in cures and acronyms, taping bandages to their eyes, the television sings of the modern way and no one likes to ask.

these are the times that, although we have a bed at home, we sleep in the park.

sunday morning

Posted in Prosage on June 17, 2007 by Mike Rosales

a relative drifts out of the frame, lines of the street. the week beginning is a week ending for me. these are my spaces, but too much space drowns the definition.

i haven’t slept in weeks, i’m so tired of sleeping.

let us apply, that is why we relate. relation leads to application, forge an iron bond and shape a direction. for both people in a relationship of human connection, we must look forward and back–a reservation and an allowance if you will. these must not be read as abstracts, vague as they are; they are both beautiful and concrete. and vague.

trust in this; there is no negativity.

the road outside sings, a bleached summer sky parades its apprehension, it forms an arch above the city, as though placed under tension at its invisible, impossible ends. the street dips away slightly, offering the privilege of green parkland, just for a second, until i look away and then i am back in the room (of course), the room with its natural associations. sounds from next-door, straining to hear stirs of a melody that don’t exist, chasing dreams from outlet to aspect. a radio in another room plays to itself, playing a song i know, necessarily. the radio always does. this is known as the art of conclusion.

a drift of conversation from the street, secured upon a thermal, enters my window. the words are broken and full of static and diesel. i want to hear them, i can’t, speak louder. i must hear you!

indecipherable overhearing! i shall construct what they were saying for myself, for that is what i would have done regardless: you must love the moment, not the person, because people change.

an elderly couple walk across the street. they look up and down the road, before crossing, not saying a word but united in movement and position, not saying a word. i cannot help but link them in my thoughts; they must exist for each other, surely? they are still not saying a word, not even looking at each other.

you must love the moment, not the person, because people change.

they really do.

postage and wastage

Posted in Prosage on June 9, 2007 by Mike Rosales

dry, caustic eyes like soda. fatigue overbears the bearer, even when the burden is his choice. there is much of interest circulating in the night, much to be conversed about. if only someone were here.

a list, inspired by someone who lives on a continent:

  • distant connection that makes heart flutter.
  • paying my way.
  • vocational antidotes in the form of the form.
  • intellect vs anger/sobriety vs passion.
  • the need to release meaning from life and let it fall like sandbags.
  • sixties lampshades.
  • exploded diagrams; i want to draw them for myself, of myself.
  • clacketty-clacketty-clack keyboard! wake the whole street won’t you?

what day is it tomorrow?

forecast

Posted in Poemage on June 6, 2007 by Mike Rosales

an event beyond.
the arid procrastinations of one
who is never in control
will become flooded by
actuality and disappointment.