Archive for January, 2008

comic relief

Posted in Prosage on January 30, 2008 by Mike Rosales

man goes to the doctor.

“doctor,” he says, “my friend thinks he is a chicken.”

“really?” says the doctor. “then you must get him to come and see me immediately!”

“i can’t,” says the man.

“why not?”

“we need the eggs.”



Posted in Prosage on January 26, 2008 by Mike Rosales

to hate a word is nonsense but to regret it is conscious, and i regret buxom.

but you were. beautiful, too.

later you would scream in your boyfriend’s face, telling him he was nothing, a fucking waste, and that he was the most amazing person you had ever met, but a fucking failure because of your own expectations, you who are happy to sit and smile and watch the planets, a fucking failure.

torn between two, you relayed the details of a friend’s wedding, a confusion of priorities, one half of the service riddled with conflict–pagan misnomer. you are perfect in many ways, contradiction though that is. without denomination, dominated by love and empathy you survive through the warmth of strangers.

lower case revolution?

Posted in Poemage on January 23, 2008 by Mike Rosales

we are the acoustic petite
sounding out the small things
while others bring home
a working day’s wage.

tv drama

sad, moving television
your grandiosity is known
to be a hum of red green blue.

death comes quick!
it says so here
in the guardian.

tangible variations

Posted in Prosage on January 20, 2008 by Mike Rosales

i throw paper onto flame by accident, not candle in plant pot but another one, i simply wasn’t paying attention. then looked to plant pot to see it on fire, wax had seeped into the soil and the wick had fallen, lighting and burning the plastic gently.

today is a recording of vitality, defiant living following notions that if something exists then nothing is an impossibility, thus hating quantative measurement and the ideal of “been done”. today is a precedent, an islanded precedent, a singular that seems all the more remarkable from my chair as i watch two vehicles nearly collide and the silent fury and relief within the respective vehicles. my interpretations allow. there are barely any marks on the road however, only me and those that saw, saw.

we as humans, are unique as humans.

next minute, taking stock of bed-linen and enjoying having something to look forward to, a confirmation of my independence, the rub of cotton and detergent against my thighs as tangible as the revolving record, always reassuring the linear crackle and muted static pop soundtrack, like a penance upon the music reminding me of material form. i like to see it spin and spin and spinning.

variations upon the horizon come quick now, not brought by the lunch-time traffic, but near enough. neither were present and then both were present, stalking my window and you have probably never seen purple like the purple in the creases in this evening’s sky. watching it feels like being present at the forming of words, not just their sound but the connection.

tape used as device

Posted in Prosage on January 16, 2008 by Mike Rosales

imagine an audio cassette tape.

after this are promises you made just to break. next comes a list of all the people you trusted and then hated. finally, the tape finishes with that secret, the one that you told to that single individual on that night beneath wretched stars and under a blanket of humidity and pollen.

you decide this tape is a bad idea. its presence, or rather your knowledge of its presence, starting to affect your health, you cannot sleep. you see your friends with decreasing frequency and enthusiasm, you spend too much money on too little. in a bid for lover’s empathy, you are closing doors. your relationships can be divided in two. your happiness depends on company.

you decide to destroy the tape. it is a matter of fidelity.

you should burn it but cannot, looking at fire hurts your eyes.

instead you unravel the tape from its spindle and great reams of shiny black tape pool around your feet as you frantically reach for every last inch of the offending material, purging the plastic case, cracking it in your endeavours to reduce and nullify.

it lies in layers of concentricity, the inside of a tree trunk, but gradually you are wearing it down, diminishing it. the tape cannot be played now, repairing its chronology is an impossibility. there are only the memories now, the remembrance of what has been said. the actions fade faster than the words.

and now you open the window and look down into the street where everyone is too busy to notice a man perched upon a broad white sill clutching at segmented fibres of a past life. you drop the sections of tape into the wind where they flutter before being hauled upwards and disseminated across the neighborhood.

a disposal of sorts, then.

there is no chance of retrieval, the tape has been altered and eliminated in a sense, but now, during walks around the suburb in the haze of an early spring afternoon with a weak pallid sun tenderly resting above the clouds, you begin to notice slivers of the tape in bushes, entwined in hedgerows and lining gutters. it becomes impossible to look anywhere without seeing a length of the tape, mute and stolen away by thermals. it begins to become caught in your shoelaces when you pause at street corners, and the tape even binds together your ankles when walking through long grass. the birds begin to build their nests from it.

yesterday i saw a ghost.

masterpiece for j

Posted in Prosage on January 14, 2008 by Mike Rosales

masterpiece is silence. masterpiece is distance. masterpiece is erratic music shuffle, filling melody quota whilst stealing songs from don’t-know-who and passing them off as my own turgid compositions. masterpiece is late night resin in dog-leg joint covering papery tear with grubby thumb, my hands are black from the cold. masterpiece is japanese film, hana-bi, firework, all stupid violence and serenity. masterpiece is david grubbs, max richter and loose fur. masterpiece is double-glazing with tempo change, a drop, opacity, gangs of thieves stealing cars left out with engines running. frosting the police call it.

masterpiece is maximo. masterpiece is vesuvius washing up rupture, just like jaw, fresh and raw, pile upon pile leave for someone else, caustic. masterpiece is 21 metronidazole tabs 200mg to be taken with water at regular intervals with food and complete the course. do not drink alcohol throughout the treatment.

masterpiece is i’ll treat you. masterpiece is soggy bonjela. masterpiece is matrespeice or metrapascie or mostierpooouce. masterpiece is you are holding fifty-five pounds worth of umbrella stand, you know, handle it with care or not at all–if you think you can take the pressure, then fine, but don’t say i didn’t, eh?, warn you. masterpiece is scholarly is academia is institution is regulation in modification is ramification is constriction is gleaming path full of translations and irrelevance. masterpiece is listening to tv whilst watching radio. masterpiece is mater’s piece. masterpiece is staring at sun and thinking that you own it, and only you. masterpiece is journalist for manila bulletin, top echelon of field of absorption and composition. masterpiece is getting up at 10:00 and not sitting to write till 12:17. masterpiece is all these dreams one every night, and no idea why, and the ability to replay, fulsome and cold while just waking. masterpiece is directions and map and background information but still feeling vomit at top of throat just before entering door. masterpiece is saying twenty instead of a thousand or a million. masterpiece is an overlapping of content and execution. masterpiece is hidden influence. masterpiece is a different balcony. masterpiece is eating fruit scrub for breakfast.

occupied post

Posted in Poemage on January 12, 2008 by Mike Rosales

i have been coloring my lies with particular care recently.
i have been fully aware of the lines, and kept within them,
moving the pen in only two directions,
neatly overlapped parallels at a degree.

this is how i got this job.