Archive for October, 2007


Posted in Prosage on October 31, 2007 by Mike Rosales

the notebook is an improvement upon the art of living.

jorgen leth

the act of suspense and forced delay is the tangible endorsement of spontaneity: the silence before the scratch of the writer’s pen.

so now, having released the bonds of public affectation and settled into a consistent understanding of love and torpidity, i prepare to board a plane and take myself to a parallel. i go to visit a lover, to make a new person old.

but it is more than this. this is not so much running away, as running to a vantage point in order to photograph the old life.

(a point strikes home, and my focus wavers accordingly.)

so then, the madness returns! of course! (did it ever leave?) it returns, not as previously experienced, but rather folded and in the form of a plan. i feel its insistence upon my back, but i am a translator for its intentions. i tell it not of what i speak, and instead exorcise its energies into pursuits of the mind. madness is a flight and i can’t stop thinking of unfamiliar streets. very soon i will be there, and very soon i will be back.

my notebook shall be full, i promise. just like the last time i went mad.


bright outlook

Posted in Poemage on October 29, 2007 by Mike Rosales

will occur alongside literature’s

endless self-investigation and removal,
with further removal and change because silence
is the sound of existence
is the nothingness of potentially creative negation.

the rain is set to clear overnight
but will resume again tomorrow, heavier,
like a millstone around our necks that weighs
us down into being, into a reminder
of the very impossibility of emerging
from existence; the reminder
that death is the impossibility of dying,
and that the rain continues, always.

communism and others

Posted in Poemage on October 26, 2007 by Mike Rosales

despite years of formal education
conversations into the small hours
research beyond my means
a critically aware mind
and an astute sense of proportion

communism remains beyond my reach
it appears to have something to do with cheap housing.

to be from a different city
you just have to smoke and talk a lot
like they do in those foreign films.


apres midi

Posted in Prosage on October 22, 2007 by Mike Rosales

ambition is its own sword, its own fall. a rejection seen in the steam upon the window, and the gentle sway of curtain in rising radiator heat. traffic moves, moves me, and i rise and breathe and eat and work, all for the chance to say, “i had my time and now it is gone.

it is brief, but better than none. i demand from myself a return to punctuality, consistency and that anaesthetizing dribble of prose that i sometimes call home.

women in this country are going crazy

Posted in Prosage on October 16, 2007 by Mike Rosales

this morning, i tapped one on the shoulder to ask for directions, she bent her legs down low and dashed quickly out of my view.

this afternoon at the office cafeteria, it was cluttered with angry killing faces. ladies were fighting like chimps over a certain type of tampon, i was lucky to get out of there alive.

and tonight, on my way back home, i saw a woman in the nude putting out her rubbish, she stopped still when she noticed me and politely smiled. she looked straight into me without hindrance, merely embarrassed and didn’t cover herself. surprised, like a baby seal when released from a shark’s jaw, i rushed the rest of the way home.

what’s going on?

police accident

Posted in Poemage on October 14, 2007 by Mike Rosales

they all waited for the ambulance

to retrieve the body we hadn’t seen
while petulant traffic ran as rainwater
into sideroads and people gathered at
front doors & bay windows like condensation
trying to deduce guilt
a measure of the order of things
the way it happened
but the faces held other stories
which we should never have guessed at.

Posted in Poemage on October 13, 2007 by Mike Rosales

those symbols are the momentary absence of words
so–unable to look at their empty meaning directly–
i must view them through bended light
resting upon the precarious balance of distance.

the omission of language for that instant
periodically apparent on the page, causes thoughts
to collapse into the singularity of three points;
a person is unable to stop moving
into the future, and nothing else after
the event horizon of our gentle connection
can return to what came before,
so it follows that we will never see the end,
just everything collapsing, slower and slower still,
never reaching nothing but rather a point of no return
from which are unable to see our origins.