Thursday, January 31, 2002

east of the chippewa river

this is serious stuff the engineer shouted. a calm blue overcomes and the sorrow surrounds. steam all gone by now. nervous snickers, eleven cars back. the flume and the bloom. sudden jolts cause the doors to rock on their hinges and swing as if on a decline. a long decline. into the tunnel with no brakes. oh sugar sugar, don't look that way. i can't bear to see you not being able to bear to see the light at the end. the scarf covers the eyes of the lady at the bar. frozen like some sad modern day comic fair preacher barking at the top of his lungs to a crowd filled with people waiting in line for the port-o-potty. barking the legends of history and country weekend bazaar programs from memory. passed down from his mother's mother, the fairest one east of the chippewa river.

Monday, January 28, 2002

brad's bog house

we all used to go there on weekends. slothing throught the peaches and the pears and the lost math assignments. a great old delapitated shithole, tin roof rusted. rooms with nothing. rooms wth everything. beer and bottles and broken fishing line wrapped around the trees. the view, laden with sphagnum moss and stupid pet tricks. all around, the secrecy and solitude, the parting of the ways, the loosening of the leash. the introduction to our wild years filled with nasty wishes that never came true. folded and molded, things lay on tables with broken legs and soft corners that needed no sanding. a true dixie flap- jack, barnwood juke jive joint in the woods of western new york. a rusted row boat and one oar. we took it out and brought it back. silver fm radio hits and blind loose leaf kits. brooksie and jim bob and kate and carp. it wasn't there for long or was it there at all. doesn't matter much. it was then and then was when it was and that is all it could have been.

Wednesday, January 23, 2002

ash bucket back wash

the request was made. the duty will be done. here it is, the canvass, to be filled with broad strokes fueld by bored brain brackets and a forty five minute home stretch. a call to the taxi owner with five minutes to spare. begging with silence and a desperate plea for normal patio furniture replacements. catalogues all askew and plans on hold, the silver in her hair and the soft medallion chair. the package is filled with potential positivity and the sisters of mercy are scheduled to arrive before the drought takes the cake. they have been put on alert. they stand there with their heels all aligned and shined. he used to believe that there was beauty in waiting and wanting. however, they have been bedfellows, now, for much too long. they seem like stubbly chinned monsters glaring through the dim winter blaze of boredom. the druel dripping on his shoes, their breath more potent than the midnight tunnel vandals and the software slobs slumped in the breakroom. it's time for one of those small saviours to make their presence known. it's time now, for them to emerge from the ranks of the breadwinning "troupe de solitaire" and provide subsistance at a moments glance.

Monday, January 21, 2002

post mortal shuffle dance

standing there on the curb below the red plastic ventilation duct and the small fissure below the brace. he waved at the misinterpreted passing phase. yellow, fast and bustling, it was not what or who he thought. the occupation let him down. the operation turned him around. he was longer than his trenchcoat now. frayed, he swayed. touched the soft white gravel with the butts and the cuts and all the walked on passing lanes. not sure where he heard that sound, past the breakwall toward to pound. the automatic door used to be a novelty, now the warden spends his time backed up against the gift shop breezeway post.

Wednesday, January 16, 2002

cubical zarconia

strapped to the edges of the imaginary cubical, he wanders and wonders out loud. noone here around to hear. noone here around to fear. blasting the air horn and waiting for the catholic freaks to drop their gym bags and lift up their shades. getting paid for sitting. getting paid for spitting. getting paid for quitting. playing in the compost pile of machine makers and modern day machismo masters. going to school to become a shoulder campanion and instant assistant top soil replenisher. the glue drips off the edge of the table and lands on the paperclip wedged between the aging linoleum and the folded message regarding the shoe removal policy back in the 80s. filing cabinets store the stories of phone calls, invoices and misplaced check books and miscommunication and drop dates and delivery instructions. the chronological vertical boredom of decades and decades of victims misplaced by reality.

Tuesday, January 15, 2002

running on and on and on and on and on

the car was left running on and on and on and on. the motor turned over and over and over and over again. the key was left hanging in the swinging door. backwashed and mint filled, the bride walked over the bridge without a stepladder or a present to present to all her guests. stopped and bewildered, there she stood on the edge of the river. that pierced, whining-necklaced bobble-headed bitch. meaningless and stupid, stooped in the cabinet with the rest of the rejected implements and returned layaway items. nothing meant more to her than the sadness sealed from the modern made maple mad man. none more sorry than her no less. all this while the car rumbled and bucked like a rogue tossed from his 14th century stallion.

Monday, January 14, 2002

small saviors abound

small saviors stuck in between the shards of the broken butterdish kicked into the corner. small saviors wrapped around the litterbox, sandwich scraps, and rotten potato crisps. small saviors lodged into the back of the colonial nightwatchman's nightmare. small saviors walking in the crowd on the way to the crowd on the way to the line to get in. small saviors scattered amongst the pin prick salesman's desk trinkets and wrappers and invoices. small saviors hanging from the belt of the utility pole technician wannabe on leave from the salestroupe squadron parking practice.

Sunday, January 13, 2002

limo ride

i rode a limousine through a broken dream. sleet past my brain. grain down the drain. half full and bottles empty, stopped the car to break my back. stopped in to see the chicken shack. lost down the straight away with nothing left but the right of way. grabbed a bag of loot, strapped it on, bagged the cab for the second half. chased the choker from jersey way with a frozen fist and sandy clay. broke the woofer and the tweeter. couldn't find nothin sweeter. a limousine through a broken dream.

Friday, January 11, 2002

manifold attachment assessment

all beaten from the rusted shanks and shackles, his arms lay twisted in the corner behind his belly button pillow face. ragged and torn, the misty muffin little kitchen appliance helper was of no more use to the school children. in their infinite wisdom, they mentioned the loss of the prosthetic poster girl to their crossing guard. mrs. snyder was not her usual self. it's hard to cross all those kids when your knotty little knees won't strangle the torso tension bar like they used to. this will be her last week of work, she mumbled as ronald bragadaccio scurried by. like her last week last month and the month before that. she couldn't wait to watch the final episode on tv. it's the only time she laughed all day but she loves fly fishing and spring is just around the corner.

bullwhip central

castigated and castrated, the wet marshall walked a quiet mile. chin swinging from side to side he tightened his stride and held the leash a little tighter. visions of swerving cars and cellar doors opening fiercely to the wild wind. a prisoner to surprise and fear. the evening's quietest moment when the dark is consumed by flurry, chaos and then silence.

Saturday, January 05, 2002

braggadocio in a minor

barely visible with clothing on, he wandered through the shop keeper's estate sale. everything from small tahitian bread baskets and window accessories all the way to overstuffed russian hand puppets, whatever. nowhere for him to hide, he decided to buy a saucer and call it a day. bagging all the groceries in his mind, he stopped to test the water. he left it for someone else to fiddle with. over the cracks and past his trusted snack pack retail delivery friend's house. time to call it a day. all the sheep herded into the corral just west of his ad-infinitum arboretum.

Thursday, January 03, 2002

cornerstone motif #297

the writing tablet teaterered.