Youth?

why now? why the perpetual question in italics? perhaps the birthday season is upon me, and i'm even par for the front nine at Midland, I'm awash in the ponds of vainglorious delights that survive another year, in suffering in that way that most of us north americans would never admit too, in having nothing and everything at hand, the simultaneity of this wealthy and unwarranted paradox. a tree, a stretch of green grass, some fallen leaves, and an SUV, capiche?

so that book I mentioned in my last entry is by J.M. Coetzee, it was okay, okay --- maybe it was a little better than okay but it wasn't noble or novel that's for pretty sure. anyway, i've moved on to a Czech writer named Ivan Klima, and I must admit a lot more attachment to the characters' sentiments in this No Angels or Saints, even though they don't work for IBM or want to be famous poets. I think there is something in the slavic ethic that allures me... inures me? eludes me? denudes me? confuses me? J.

still injured, but should be able to run by saturday. still writing... see ;~]

WEAKNESS

my achilles heal is my achilles heal,
it stings in the morning and hurts when I run,
after twenty minutes the pain disappears,
or perhaps it migrates to another part of my body,


a work in progress - of course, like any marathon...
cheers, mika