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/ 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
2003-07-14, 6:07 a.m.

riding the biorhythm's gentle increase like a rollercoaster; expectant and breathless, wishing. something.

��������� �����tones: black, sweeping sharpie against white paper, against yellow lined legal pad, against grass and sidewalk, fleshtones like overripe whitefaced peaches, skytones like cobalt and slate, mixed in - a pallette, a delicate sweep.

imagining her dancing in front of me, that sort of dance that is so effortless as to regard your very movement as irreverent, your breath as misplaced. you hush and quieten your lungs from functioning, and everything stills to that silent, crystallized authority... (i stopped along the way down the gravel, bare feet crunching on the loose pebbles, to swipe up a playingcard someone had dropped, flipped it over to see that it was the jackofhearts, surprise) - imagining the curve of hips and thigh in the wind's hand, you are a galaxy unto yourself.

papers are scattered around my room, marked indelibly with the slashings of the sharpie marker, where it's more like painting than it is writing, slash, angry and possessed, eyes feverish and music pulping in the background, bubbling. then a quiet stroke, a curve to complete the lowercase a, the stem to show the growth of the lowercase d. a rowboat gone adrift in maternal waters. deranged sketches of off-perspective humans, short limbs and agonized expressions, taunting and tattling around the page, circling around the words to clump them all together:

#1; i dream she lives on the cusp of my eyelid; giggling when i sleep, SIGHING when i am awake the sad eye that i learned how to draw effectively from mr. luis torres III in the ninth grade, resource room.

#2; the birds all fly to a focal point & vanish //// a spot of black ink; coagulation; the drink of her lip quivering, a finely balanced paradise, the scales are two flower petals:

#3; what you remember, the ocean surf & birds kissing awkwardly

#4; she tells me in no particular terms "once i was a bird" there is nothing else but a / peculiar blankness in her eyes - and the smell of seasalt

#5; trawl; treading water, the delicate vierge constant&beautiful, red fingertips and dark hair (she births a world with oceans and nothing else)

migrate to the pad.

page i: she achieves a personal rapport with the sunrise, tears like wishes creep near the rims of her eyes like expectant children (or maybe angels) she plants a kiss on her fingertips and lets it grow towards the horizon

page ii: she paints constellations on herself with the dew on the grass & hides between buildings in the big city, afraid of the wind. birds around her like thick black sumi-e eyelashes discarded by a japanese painter with a hyphenated name singing sad songs about a lotus blossom (of all things)

page iii: she plugs an ear and immediately goes deaf - a helen keller statue loses both questing plaster hands - clouds i can see in her eyes, saplings and her toes are greedily nibbled at by ocean waves

page iv: she (on her way to becoming someone else) stoops to pick up a playing card, knowing it will be a sign (jack hearts) plops a quarter in the payphone waiting for the inevitability of his answering machine. she hangs up & continues on toward moonrise

page v: a stroke of black ink for clouds & the evening stretches out like a cat whose shadow goes on forever. [on a dirt road somewhere in the South.] i watched her from underneath the ground. from here the dirt is / transparent / and their shadows can't be seen,

page vi: their faces always in darkness. /// MARGOT was suddenly what he named her, but only for the rhexis of that moment , // (a playing card goes lost as they two play cribbage)

expecting, somehow, to look in the mirror and see my face changed, twisted into uplifting happiness by this onrush, this flush into my cheeks of .. or maybe the vacuum left by the sorrow that departed in such a hurry. i feel like being grungy, like being sloppy. spilling papers around the room on purpose. piling books and boxes around only to delve into them like pirates into forgotten treasure chests. poetry, reams of forgotten poetry. clothes dripping over the rims of the tupperware bin. wrappers of since-eaten food twisted into vainglorious contemporary art somewhere on the other side of the room. wishing i had a charcoal stick, and some real drawing paper. i'd just waste it, but for awhile it might be nice to play at having real artistic sensibility. always go back to words, drilling, driving words that rush through, currents, torrents. longhand works well for me, and i never thought it would.

disappointed how easy 'konstantine' is to learn for piano. everything FBbF, backforth, back forth, vocals superimposed. i wish i could be published. have thought about submitting before, but never seriously, i guess. eyes drooping like old curtains. remembering scents and such. the medicine pantry back home. how mom washed my hair in the sink.

the reflection of my fingers typing in the backside of a blank CD-R. awaiting impression.

just like me. less concerned right now with a label to stick on my forehead. more concerned with who makes me feel like a person. more concerned with what validates me.

the sun rose, then vanished into another bank of clouds. my weather taskbar says "N/A" - god's taking a day off, i guess. feel like playing guitar, or piano. banging on the keys like i know what i'm doing. writing furiously like i know what i'm doing. sketching madly with charcoal or tempera like i know what i'm doing.

or tipping backwards in this chair over into sleep

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�SEH