/ new
/ old
/ book
/ email
/ aim
/ profile
/ host
/ poetry
/ zenbox
/ old drama
/ radiomigration

/ negating ouroboros

/ drivel .001

/ wasteland & further; waiting for a slaughter

/ november is a month of ghosts

a grey knive lurking on the corner of the bathroom counter, incongruously balanced on the edge - just about to fall - the light of day leaked into the room like dish detergent being squeezed gently out of a bottle, and over in the corner, rats rustled in a paper bag. he walked into the room to the sound of the ceiling fan slowly misunderstood. his left sneaker squeaked slightly. paper in his pocket crumpled up and a blue crayon behind one ear. a muddy cigarette in one hand and no lighter. his eyes are silently stained-glass windows inside a church with no congregation, waiting for the hollow bellpulls - the doorbell of the Almighty. he takes out a sharpie and marks an x on the wall. moments later a fly buzzes fatly in and lands on the ��������������������������������������������spot, preening and humming to itself. below, at the baseboard, an ant trundles in. he looks at the mirror. he looks away. outside, a bird hits the window, and all things still, in hushed������������������������������������������mourning. an ignorant cricket looses a selfish mating call and
2003-03-05, 4:01 p.m.

the failed alchemist of words

��������� �����rain. a sheathing sort of coldness that usurps things. imposing order on chaos. or chaos on order, i'm not sure which.

right now, the song of something new is definite. the harmonies and melody of it is unmistakeable - a sort of growth, a lancing upward of electric impetus - the future, the impending soon, the ...

doubt, and the pervading uncertainty that the stability of now is always mutable, malleable. that enough pounding on it with the hammer of analysis will shatter the fragility of the moment.

as though the mind is not labyrinthine enough. carefully manoeuvring around puddles and piles of melted/melting snow, the places where ice remains and pavement does not. a wild vibrato, the wind through the trees, the seasons shifting.

weather being the key component to my mood. begging for spring. mail from the north, that crazy wistful wind - in letter-form, in padded envelope form. it's amazing how verifying a letter can be - "look, she signed her name" - this person exists. these books were handled, gathering dust on her bookshelf, at one point in time. metempsychosis of words and paper from one country to another.

this entry is going nowhere.



prev / next

�SEH