12 Dec 2011

Monday Night - Ligthning Holes

Lightning they call this. Thunder. Rain. There's real danger in this. Lulls and pauses that dramatists are noting for malevolent pace. Never heard rain sound so frightened, so keen to get down; never seen a moon look so guilty for being a part of this ripping of paddock-size sheets into a night stripped back in a flash of cloud, made so white as to render it cloudless. I've opened the window: this eager spree of rain descending; a long dragged sheen of thunder splitting itself with electric glee, articulating mountainsides and the desert's long curiosities. Its creeping toward the city. In from over the island. And I with it wait wet for little spires to explode. Great storm. Reply to ventures up north. To holes in old ground big as storm clouds.

11 Dec 2011

Sunday - A Most Sunday

Knew a racing car driver. Believed in God. His faith had him comprehend what he was doing. He was racing for glory, to extend to his people the spirit of His beneficence, and to better become a man - a holy one. His belief shaped him; shaped his day, made comprehensible to himself and all others every act and thought that came through his life. His belief made sense of him. And it finally killed him. So strong was his belief, it left him no alternative. You can quit you know, a friend told him, No I can't he replied. His belief was like a train; like an unstopping rhythm. Far bigger than him. It made him. And it destroyed him. In flames at 320 km/h. I now ask do you risk a life of belief, knowing it will give your life it's perfect shape; knowing it will give meaning to every detail of your life, knowing when the story ends, when the conclusion comes, you're finished? Or, do you live empty, fragments, long? Do you live on the wheel, I ask?

8 Dec 2011

Thursday Night - What Curious Wednesday

It'll be the that which chisels your name into your concrete upright slab, upwards from your down there head. It is that which vibrates the white right now, out from this screen, sending with it all these words into your brain by eyes: yes, no, think, imagine, believe, wonder, what.... Curiosity will kill me: the screenwhite buzz of it, heading for the slab. Keep me alive all the way and then do me in. Slip right in and under my senses, corrode every reasoned rationale and rational reason, thought, belief, imagining. Curiosity. To it I a cat. Saying no, not that, could kill me, could kill him. And I'll believe it, after reasoning, after imagining.... Then I'll begin to walk in the act of this reasoned rationale, hard inside boots on solid floor, just as curiosity comes abuzzing; comes a white-buzz way through and on to that slab. Conjuring me from ways from waydowns below, to do this, or that, instead. See jobs drop away down there, and see people, friends; see countries and bank-accounts and too-too many mores to count all becoming fastly, thiss, and thats.... Curiosity kills me living, I that cat.

7 Dec 2011

Thursday Afternoon - For Wednesday

Right down. Plus one more right down more. Over the right down and one more a proscenium hovers. Each shadow casting a series of left down and down mores. Each each, an unsheltering color. All this Wednesday says. All this says, said.

6 Dec 2011

Tuesday Night - Under Moon

Today's lost control of itself again, and tomorrow's taking advantage of it, in the form of another tonight, pushing against all in it's path as it drags forth another morning. Pushing to the window the reflection of this room; pushing into the river ripples and a white moon-drag; pushing into these keys this moonroom mind. Wondering where it's going.

5 Dec 2011

Monday Night - Rain Bourbon

Window rattle: replaced with whistling under the door issuing from 3 echoes running the sides of the flat, out from tonight's lightening show, hurled across from an orchestral dusk that Webern would have struggled articulating - but Faulkner would have nailed it: a bourbon of cloud harassing a sun too round and sinking to care; a bourbon of cloud unwanted by a sky above, so it rained below itself tossing parrots and hurling crows; a bourbon of cloud drunk on the stench of rain from a summer blacktop, tinge pink under a greying lambast.

4 Dec 2011

Sunday Afternoon - Writing To Writing Not

Pulled through fingers, the writing stops at  keys - hit-hit - then timelessly becomes part of the screen. Or, pulled by fingers thoughts become writing that - hit-hit - timelessly, er, oh,...: writing. What is it I ask? Writing to friends perhaps.... One in  New York, one  Tokyo, one in Seoul. And one whose place he can't name.... But the hit-hit here is of a summer heat, spread  by a sky of Titian blue, making me damn sure I'm not in New York; is of a quietness that's pinned by a single bird-song outside, making me sure I'm not in Seoul; and by utter space - so no Tokyo. All writing me into this place, which is I guess, a name. A week, into a day, that's leaking yesterday, and shaping up tomorrow. All, writing.