Wednesday, February 27, 2002

selling the stars

backed up over there against the clovered bank. horizontal with brows barely visible. the scratched surface reveals itself from behind the barn, kittycorner to the branding palace. crystal clear and crystal light, cost of goods and costa mesa. the blanket above with no links to voices on the end of a black plastic clip-on phone attachement device. the evening error lends itself to passages and bags of leftover salad. blanket, rumpled and solo, i have gone to meet the maze man. not far from the sand bar or the chain or the barbed main office entrance. the amber glow from the neighbors pork bellied pot teaser distracts but only for a moment. a flash from the distance distracts. a brief moment of breath, circling around the granite weight of reality. then i resume and the stars consume and i wait for this passing phase to sink its teeth into the soft and fleshy remains of my last great hope.

Monday, February 25, 2002

georgian grave dreams

a plastic shower curtain wrapped around. they do not know today what they will someday. sounds from above and helicopters buzz. the frantic search for nothing less than something. it's the world of today. i'm glad i've gone away. what blatant disregard for the soul and the living. dig a hole and bury the buzzard.

Wednesday, February 13, 2002

bugs in my brain and salt on my skin

bugs in my brain and salt on my skin. toast tossed and kicked aside like some strange midnight timekeeper. standing on the banks of the swollen channel, i look west and north, refuse to look right. figs and follies aboard the passing ship. sin sailing away over there. peaches rolling against wet side boards and crusted hooks sunk into aging doorframes. beach grass bent. ancient signals sent. the glow of the summer sun and smiles and coolers and neon car spoilers and gritty flip flop walks to the late city bound bus. then, the couch, crackers and dreams of soft rocks and broken bits of candy corn. the glow fades to green and haze and good turns to bad and right turns to left. scratched skin and darkness packed into tight, shallow corners. three legged chairs and rope and breakfast tables with no edges and tilting bathroom sinks and cracked, rippled plastic countertops. the blur, bends aroung the missing key and the rack of lamb drops to the floor, the bubble in the level isn't there at all anymore. the confusion continues with the madness of a balding rooster mocking a proper stool pigeon. it all paralizes the wandering afterschool program director. then, the alarm sounds and the briefcase carries me to work.

Tuesday, February 05, 2002

underground navigation expert

he was accustomed to practicing what he preached. this time, however, he surrendered to the whims of the small round object. this time, he found himself running through the swollen corridors and past the bronze think tank below the campus center amusement booths. he laughed out loud...beneath his brethren but above his ancestors. his mind crowded with images of soft silver walls. water seeping through the ancient underground aquifer network and the orange glow of the gatekeepers lantern. iron crusted keys and vertical doors with no handles. side steps that lead to the next level filled with musty overgrowth, dried gardening utensils and pagers dropped through cement overflow grates. he retraced his steps every time. the only way to return to from where he came. darkness gave way to the passage of time. above and below. he could not escape the maze or the haze or the ways in which he lived his life. above it all now, he washed the object with a damp towel and collected his belongings. it was time to pack the jack and wrestle the tressle.

Monday, February 04, 2002

hilltop bag waggers

bag waggers on top of the hill. all aligned in staggered miltary rows. waving their bags and brandishing their stripped necklace strings. the wind just as you would imagine, strong and steady. the bag waggers stand bold and brazen against the strong arm of the wind. treetops bend but they do not cry. whistles whistle but they do not weep. planted, terra firma, with their scarves all eskew, the bag waggers evenly spread across the suburban skyline. water towers and pistol shops punctuate the blank horizon. the vegetable man and the county clerk wave goodbye for the day. bidding their bids while airing their airs and casting their shadows. hands in pockets to protect from the wind and the worry. crags and crops and soft, milky sapplings. paths, tread and worn like some out of focus, distant ancient slide show. water, pooled by the swollen depressionist collector, just over the grassy knob to the east. all the while, the bag waggers, in the distance, standing stupid and stubborn. all of this, classified as a fetish on someone's homepage. a standard drop down menu item on this unremarkable winter's eve.