Archive for September, 2007

i like you

Posted in Prosage on September 30, 2007 by Mike Rosales

but don’t get me wrong, i don’t need you.

and at times i even feel slightly weakened by you, but i don’t need you and this journey isn’t too bad.

i think of someone again and again, even while i’m thinking of you, dear travelling companion. i even talk to that someone, as if that isn’t enough.

those words again: i like you.


suicide bodies go missing

Posted in Poemage on September 25, 2007 by Mike Rosales

the first time,
i went skydiving,
and deliberately never pulled the
red parachute cord
as i was falling,
the startling birds were migrating and
all i could think is how they made it splendid.

the second time,
i shot a bullet through my skull
in a classy designer-store.
later, i found they’d picked my pocket, and
paid for the damage
to the garments that my blood
and brains had splattered upon.

the third time,
i guzzled a new form of liquor
until i turned egg yolk.
motor oil’s all the same color when it’s mixed
with saliva
pouring down a clasped throat.

i hit the cement with a thunk,
but no one came running,
and that’s when i decided to get back up.


Posted in Prosage on September 22, 2007 by Mike Rosales

part of it still rests within me, because i wanted it so much. i put it down hours ago, it calls from within the bag, it shouts from upon the shelf.

i love it and its blurred madness. a blunt consciousness wavering and threatening to blindly and beautifully savage its dislocations, all the time giving in to the veil of cluttered thought.

it is an unfolding; an unfolding, a destruction and a reassurance. there is no place for infancy, nor for mediocrity and balance; it throws malice at you and urges you to play with its delicate reams of hate. it has a lumbering precision and stumbling agility, argumentative and contradictory, it does not let me rest.


aquarium logic

Posted in Fictionage on September 20, 2007 by Mike Rosales

we all want progress, but if you’re on the wrong road, progress means doing an about-turn and walking back to the right road; in that case, the man who turns back soonest is the most progressive.

c s lewis

all our progress is an unfolding, like the vegetable bud, you have first an instinct, then an opinion, then a knowledge, as the plant has root, bud and fruit. Trust the instinct to the end, though you can render no reason.

ralph waldo emerson

the only real progress lies in learning to be wrong all alone.

albert camus

a child and a man stand next to the large glass screen of a viewing aquarium. in the aquarium are hundreds of types of fish, but only one catches the attention of the child.
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today in six parts

Posted in Poemage on September 15, 2007 by Mike Rosales

the beginning of a day.
i feel as full as a coffin.

the writing began (none too quick)
reassessing its position within
the relationship of the day.

moving now, corporeal surprise inflected
beyond the formation and towards austere radiance.
(my words mean nothing. this is a joke.)

the time of repeat and crescendo
suits a minor key and the unreadable scrawl of melody,
note and resonance, all lined with heart
and embittered like the layered perfection
of attraction held between the notes
of a perilous symphony.

i dream of me, aching
for the urgent futures
which fade into silence
with every succinct vibration.

draw perspective from plans and hours and the day.

slip of the tongue

Posted in Prosage on September 13, 2007 by Mike Rosales

in this city, the streets are constantly damp. heavy, heavy rain was forecast, but only by me. the ferocity of my predictions enhance the truth of the subject, but not the realism. the obvious conclusion is that nothing is true.

the pavements feel dry underfoot. i might fall.


Posted in Poemage on September 12, 2007 by Mike Rosales

the page has opened, a tear in monotony.


stolen passion with fluttering breath sees
eyelids firmed shut, but urgent wanting
drowns vision ahead of physical forms.

i can’t stop touching you:
collarbone, shoulder blade, ribcage,
hipbone, femur, ankle.

you speak of torn dreams of intimacy
in mysterious vowels, whispered,
i don’t understand ich liebe.

drift, drift my sweet
we are both safe
in our own languages


i look into your eyes and see
myself exploding through reduction
reducing the everything

the vessel extricates itself from its own implication
opens up, posing as nothing
it is everything, every thought is a removal.


the page has closed, a suspension of routine,
but i’ll see you again.