29 Jul 2012

Under Monday


Into the sunrise the sun rises, rises over a hill’s hilling, beyond a river simply rivering, for a time that clocks. All this hushed by the fate of a mute morning cloud; all this crowned in black by fingers typed.

27 Jul 2012

Friday Uncut

She said words. She said words are the stars in a galaxy of stars. Stars. I tried to think. I sat to try. I stood. I walked around her; I walked passed and around her for a year. I drew a million circles and gave them all to her. I walked the circles too so I might be understood. But all she said was stars. Spinning circles of stars. Star-circles replacing the one's I'd drawn with words.

26 Jul 2012

Thursday Undergraph

Well here; I am. Now, together: Well I am here; Well here I am; I am well here; Here, well I am! I was well here! He was well here.... I was well here? You were. I was; I am well here? You are not well: you are not here. I am. No, you are. I am? You were. I was? No - you are, was. I were was? Yes. But I am! You were am, but now you are were. Oh yes.

25 Jul 2012

Ghoster Wednesday

The want to write a million words; the want to fill with a carved-kind of constant falling a million perfect pages: perfect color and smell and perfect font. The perfect book. The want to fill the words with a pull and momentum that steers eyes down and across; that prompts fingers to be licked unthinkingly, pleasurably, sent to the page bottom-corner and into a lashing sound, turning the page over, to reveal a beginning more. All this want for words, perfected by a page, in a book, found in a word.

24 Jul 2012

Anti-Tuesday

Down here on the floor the words press against my spine and push along the carpet before up through my neck they coagulate into my brain then pas-de-deux with a few memories and desires; a few word and images, before becoming neck leaks that become shoulder leaks that become arm leaks then finger leaks then little bash-bash-bashs on the keyboard and then this here in your eyes that will, if you're lying down too soon be released by your spine, into the carpet, particles-de-dust.

23 Jul 2012

Will Tuesday

I walk with my feet, and then again.  I walk with my feet, again. Again, my feet, and I walk, a road beneath, then the pavement, soft, softer, until I walk with my feet, again. This, the empathetic road-hum.

Monday UnSunday

There is. There was. And a wall between. This is the setting: is-wall-was. A triangle if you like. Draped across by a loosely woven Mexican day, the apex of which - atop our wall - was a view of Alamos. Which flowed down each side, to the is and to the was, to become two rough and low, unlit points, one too new to type, the other too old for typing. Such is the Mexican day.