June 27, 2006

I think I [kind… of]
fell of the faceof the earth
and diedforawhile.
static distortions and tryingto
think. blackand white, noise, coming in small gaps with large
eyes and mouths.
try to [understand this phrase] that’s complicated
to get back up and try again.

drunken menagerie, fixating on smaller details and dragging out boxes of forgotten words and letters, written down in flaking ink, whose colour is so long forgotton. blue, I think, is the colour of the sky, which pushed through my pen.
it’s odd thinking about rocking chairs and knitting needles, glasses of lemonade sitting on the floor with books on the table to the left.
trying to write with a left hand, unsucceeded, out-done by the right.

a very quite place, indeed.


June 11, 2006

smatterings of mis-matched matchbooks
unread and burnt, candlewicks and rags of sick, clinging on spinning walls and distorted visions of mirrors and ceilings.
Somewhere along the line
she fell off and that simple one-handed grasp let go
on all her reality as it came crashing
through the ceiling with the bath tub.

Silver rings left on bedside tables and puddles in the basement
snippets and smiles and glances and scents
medley of simplistic joys;
reaching out on the porch steps, eyes closed in dreamless sleepless slumber
a cell phone rings and a car engine growls

door opens
arms close.