ne Tuesday O

I realized I didn't have one so I quickly bought one. This time, I bought a new one, even though the old one still works. The thing is, it just doesn't work as well as I think it should - no: actually, that's not true: it doesn't work as well as the one my mate bought last week. He has a brand new one, and an old one, and uses both but swears by the new one. He takes it everywhere. Brought it round yesterday and put it on the table, in the garden, on the dog, even put it on the roof and well, yes, I have to admit it worked well. Really well in fact.... I paid top-dollar for mine - I should have hired one I know but, well, there's nothing like actually owning your own one. Even though the hire-guy back in town said he'd do me a good deal. Given I hired a really good old one last summer. (Weird he remembers, but there you go.) Anyway, here it is: I got one. A brand new one. Just pulled the sticker off. Much better than my old one and I reckon, looking at it here on the table, after trying it on the roof, and the dog, it's better than my mate's

Mondaysuperwhite

I picked out the ice. I did. I was right here when I did it. I stood here, moving sparingly as possible and picked out the ice. Tiptoed, I picked it out with my outstretched fingers. But they say no: they say I wasn't here at all - you were over there they keep on saying. You were over there, and because of the way you waited, and because of the way you were standing, you forced our ice to give itself up to you. Me, they say. I did this. But I simply can't say: I have no bearings in here. This is their white-space. Uncornered, Unedged. Unhorizoned. I know none of the heights or any of the distances in here. I know it's cold, because my blood cells keep on telling me, as does the pale blue color under my skin. I don't even know why I'm here: I'm used to the corners and edges and shadows of the unwhite-space. So they might be right: maybe I did coerce their ice. It would, after all, make sense

Sunday's Chord

But. And you say Yes? And I repeat - stupid word - But. Yes you say again. But, I reply. Again. And then a pause. You look at me, and I look around, searching round inside - I look uncomfortable to you - for a better word; a word for this first conversation: Yes, you implore me; Yes you ask again - you repeat again, I hear tremor in your voice. But feebly I respond: I open my mouth, my eyes say differently but But comes out again. I try. I try. I look round for provocation; something to provoke the right word - I see a line of tall cypress trees, I see caravans of people creating dust-clouds heading west, I see plains full of herding buffalo and great Boeings roar overhead, but only But comes out: No you say finally to me. Yes, I reply

Sat'day Writ

trying to write what happened before. using words that are black, cut into a page, so both can shape a plane into a what happened before. and what happened before was, well, curious - full with blackless anger and dead-blood: an unsheathed thrust that alloyed things: a night of motorized street; sound of trucks screaming loads; and riots on corners of Saturday drunks. and my mouth full of metal-speak; my spine a hard rod fused to the wheel. but how to write what happens before, when such a pure and unassuming page deflects such deceit? how to cut into what gives itself so here and so pure, so brightly and so givingly, with a what happened before, stained with what's happened since? into a page that's here and now-bright: how to cut and make it bleed a black of all-gone; a black of conjure; a black of heresy to the sanctity of this? how to cut this skin soft white; this here of purer than sleep, with a blacklist of word that whispers, This doesn't exist? well:- review this page

Friday ShimmerShaft

I cast my shadow into ancient gold. I stood in one place for seasons watching it carve down deep into the world. and by this watching, and by this carving, all the sun's rays focused in and around me, and they solidified that shadow, fired and burnished it. my shadow made of gold now stands years tall, it cannot be buried, it is thin as I and offers one perfect echo to any ask.

Thursday's Hymna-Hiroshima

nothing compares to you sings Sinead. but what does she know? what about a great big train robbery? what about a 60-vulture circle of vulture-kings and queens circling high over a big hole in a sandy desert somewhere created by, er, the descendents of that guy who built that bomb that wrecked Hiroshima, the hole filled with body-parts and broken limbs and week-old indigestible blood? and what about, 300 double-decker buses staying end to end for a non-stop trip from, say, Paris, to Vladivostok, all passengers highly susceptible to travel sickness, heat and cold, and the color red? and how about Wagner squaring his ring cycle; JK Rowling using her clout to have the Wiggles perform Mein Kampf; or Metallica and The Queen doing a short series of cookery shows for HBC, from the bottom of that desert hole? from where I sit, whoever you are, you'd need to be pretty damn meta-physically incomparable. ahh you are

Wednesday Weaponless

my concerns. my needs. what I crave and what I want... my concerns get in the way; my concerns and my needs - what I want: these are my distraction. and my regrets, and my memories too: I contemplated a memory once and was lost for days. not to mention my ideas - my god: once I held an idea, shaped it with all type of thought for 3 months, and the little bugger had me lost for, I forget how many years; cost me untold dollars, wore out 4 pairs of shoes - dragged me through airports and countries along river and into hotel after hotel after hotel after hotel. but my clothes do not distract me - my shirt; my trousers; my shoes. and my desk too, my one chair. the path beneath my feet, when it holds, does not distract me. and when the sky stays in place, when it remembers for me, and thinks for me, and craves for me and wants for me; when it defends me from I for I is my greatest distraction.