Archive for September 22, 2007


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.