Archive for December 2, 2007


Posted in Prosage on December 2, 2007 by Mike Rosales

the romantic drone of the day’s news. in another room and language, someone was rushed to a hospital in rome, but i can breathe and i can’t see the television in here. talk to friend on phone, supposed to work, then not, then asked to but couldn’t because convinced myself not, not amongst all this symmetry, these lines and the four corners, the wall and the computer.

i stand, walk to the table and light single one candle for use, its base buried into an old plant pot, some earth and a little dead plant, sexual bend to that candle, no doubt. can’t help thinking of all those figures i’d created when i look at the leaning, pages and pages, of books upon shelves.

i sit back in wooden chair, broken.

broken wooden chair, got no other, broken and stolen from some room of drinking establishment, smooth, dark walls and drapes with tiny peaks of light upon borrowed tables, but not there tonight, first evening in weeks feels like, supposed to work but not, sorry, already convinced myself not, not amongst those smooth, dark walls and borrowed tables, no thanks.