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Jun. 5th, 2008

Destination 1111

Mille feuilles

I've peeled the skin off my
shoulder and wrist
and thighs,
searching.

A walking 
mille feuilles
that's been scratching at the
cream and cake
for sweetness.


I'm getting nervous.
I have found nothing inside.
The ingredients are pure;
what's amiss?


I look into the sea of eyes,
brown and blue and green
holding a form of me
and wondering if it's
their astigmatisms
that have got it wrong.


Before I can look deep;
they are pinwheels,
closing,
trapping yet another layer of me 
inside the retina.

And that's one less
to peel back
and examine myself;
let them have it -
judge it, try it on for size.





Nov. 16th, 2007

Destination 1111

Jacket

It isn't the Weather Channel or the Times that tells me of things that I should know by derma
it is the little pin-pricks of follicles & closing the window to change your clothes
Listening to that one album several times or so,
we are in jacket-as-a-necessity times
I have my little things in storage, waiting for a thaw
I am still adjusting to this new form of wear,
figuring out that this was bound to happen,
that things were planned this way.
I turn the news down, I don't want to hear about snow
it does not fall clean anymore, car-exhaust coloured
something to pull your stole around.

Nov. 14th, 2007

Destination 1111

I'd rather watch sports, & that's saying somethin'

I dislike you, wide-screen-plasma-television-stuck-on-24-hr-news, you who loom over me everyday, over the bar.
 My distain is rooted in this: you are not informing, because I see the eyes of those who watch you
& they do not have their no vacancy sign lit up, if you know what I mean, you panasonic piece of shit...

malibu is burning,
the newsrooms don't know
if they should cover blackwater
or the fire- 'water or fire?!'
Norman Mailer & Vonnegut underground
& the presidential race is beginning to smoulder
But Rupert Murdoch is seemingly immortal
there is no balance for water, fire, dirt & smoke
on blotted ink pages anymore.

Oct. 24th, 2007

Destination 1111

I Was Here, part 1

I was there when you declined a drink from me a year and a half ago at a concert. Sure, it was a dingy place, maybe they had S&M on the weekends (Though it is most likely only a lecherous thought of a dead man who dreams) with ball gags & chains. Or perhaps it was the way you slyly looked at me with closed eyelids rimmed with ochre and burnt cherub liner & flatly told me, "No, I would not like a drink."

But I think you did, back then. Or maybe you didn't but would now, but these wonderings are for the fishes, I got tanked on rejection & drove home drunk to watch pornos on my laptop while jerking off. It was uneventuful; I did not think of you with my hand around my nethers. I thought of you once, a few months after you slayed me with rejection as I sat looking at an autumnal leaf that had just falled in a pool of water standing in the gutter, waiting for a gust of window to blow it down a drain somehwhere. It was the colours that rippled out from the centre of the pool, around the jagged edges of the fiery foliage, the colour of your makeup you caked on so ceremoniously hours before the show, hoping to catch the attention of the man you went with (Not myself, it could have been so easily myself!).

It was when I was buttering toast eight months ago when I saw with my mental/occular fantasies your long blonde hair with slight curls draping over my left shoulder. I did not hesitate; I swiped the tresses away, but as I did, just as I was sure that you had faded from hallucianation, a single strand fell onto the melting butter on my overly cooked whole wheat. Plucking it up, making it real, I felt a tingle in my chest. I fell to my knees adjacent to the breakfast nook & took a final bow, blinking & tearing at the tearing light that cascades out from behind the curtain when we make the nudge into Backstage.

But I was here, I was there, I am still here...remember when I was still here?

Oct. 21st, 2007

Destination 1111

Wound Licking

(A work in progress, editing, revision & additions to come.)

I have entered the evening of this light
I can still see all the peripheries
& long lost social alimonies
But I can't keep their words down
I've laid long enough on this patch of ground
to see enough shoes & gum stains
to sustain me for a life
lived shortly at others feet.

Yet I've stumbled to a crawl
Pick yourself up, I can hear them say
so they can lift me up high enough
to let me  break on the way down
driving me out to another part of town
to lick my wounds in solitude.

Oct. 19th, 2007

Destination 1111

Moonwalk

I have a head full of feathers
I'm trying to keep things light & easy
Leaving shoeboxes of reminisces
Right under the bedpost where they belong

Thoughts are lucky & free,
I'm dying for filling in new spaces
with names & faces & times
Dinners & rivers & changes

I keep working on this moonwalk mentality
where things heavy drop lightly
moving at a predictable pace
Experiments in moderation.

Oct. 12th, 2007

Destination 1111

Syrup

I am in the back room alone,
weeping over coagulated home-crafted
maple syrup (it reminds me of him) over waffles.
I want to save it in toilet paper,
to have him taste it off the end of my finger
& feel him move lightly between the bedsheets.
If only I had moved quicker with my words,
but I am the gelling syrup,
moving to much at my own pace,
a thing that he will not taste,
no matter how delicious.

Oct. 7th, 2007

Destination 1111

To Do Lists

My mind races with to do lists 
(Which nothing ever is crossed out upon)
Here, there, everywhere
I have something that I know must be done
be it painting Twain's fence
or marching down a canary coloured concrete
to my little pool of lilly pads
in which I soak my wearied feet
& pray that Ophelia does not return too soon.

Sep. 23rd, 2007

Destination 1111

(no subject)

 Who has my little bird?,
ransom me, don't break it's innocent neck
An empty cage is all I have, freedom not included,
an uncaged bird, I'll have set you free
to deliver you into the arms of attacking angels.

Sep. 18th, 2007

Destination 1111

(no subject)

 I was resting earlier on a copy of a Christopher Moore novel,
wondering where all the joy had gone for the evening,
& I saw alittle robin, not yet migrated for the season,
"There it is, " I said to my cat, who had murderous thoughts.
I admit I've been shut off to the world,
using the internet & NPR as a rough guide
but I need no saving, I need no public humiliation,
I just need my record collection, a cup of tea, & my
feisty kitten.

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