that phukker in 6-0-7!

Turn down your $@#$ music!!!!!

this is a poem (not peom), off the cuff :)

Amid the wavering providence a better sense of an autumnal breeze,
a wish for the aching sidewalk, for the ropes that dangle along the edges
of an austere building... Who climbs here?
Concrete? Young girls scarcely aware of their adolescence,
boys with flowered shirts, black boots, hanging out at school doors,
or is it that groping actor pretending the show must always go on?
It's teaching now, September: light (emaciated) descends,
the rope swings out of necessity, out of respite for commercial-like gurus,
mentors, and therapists who lock and unlock the discarded spirit,
the import of cold unadvertised sex... Perhaps it is only those
who dream of hot rain, an open forest or a discrete library desk,
who know the wind can be framed like the painted tips
of a terraced sun. I remember a place not far from here,
a meeting was arranged then, and she said within the silence that engulfed us,
there is no theatre among the clouds. She didn't pause to look at the sky...
The motioning of her hands, first there around the knee, moved upwards,
like a spine perpetually awake, then twirling idly amongst the sutures of the skull.
I remember nothing that happened next, not even the sharp utterings of a name.
Maybe syllables, nor the combination of letters S and Z,
are not part of a dream. To think of her now
is to pass through an open window onto the tops of a tree,
onto a limb of whitewashed gargoyles soaring from a newly restored church,
a bicycle ride going from sunshine to snow, flakes filling the canals,
the human body casting itself endlessly onward,
intricate colours staked out in skin and hair, in eyes that bloom and blink...
What happens here when ropes are no longer climbed,
when there's no building to hide behind? Who will watch that cherished
adolescent flesh, that goddess in the window who doesn't need a plastic sheen?

Within me, (like fate lacking in temperature), the vision is a perpetual display,
a sign without time or place. And it arises again, with a little sound,
haze of noise and isolation, how long ago did she leave, did the empty chaos
bring me back to years that digest the soul? I've heard introductions before,
phrases that do not last, rumours: the oh-my-gods
of adolescence that everyone desires because nothing is better
than rising from the dead. Everything else, like a mountain or affection,
has an ebb greater than knowledge, a vast plucking we cannot disturb.
Yet I'm only one in a contingent of disappointed men,
a perverted involuntary group that cannot leave the hammers and scaffolds
of this old church. I only whisper to a gathering wind, years are balloons you cannot burst.
From time to time, as she would say, there is only the option of floating away,
the nudity of air and a differing false sense: a star that hangs beneath a fountain
like a goddess understanding the breadth of her own fleece. Another day has passed,
has grown within the doldrums of that same ancient myth. Another night ascends,
and somewhere, (perhaps the other side of this world), the child in her womb
is as withered as skin devoid of a dream, my face a futile sleep.


*** -- poem in progress, please return as it grows, changes, morphs -- ***
*** -- D U N perhaps? not quite as cheerful as my original intent --- ***

woman in heels, a car.

It happens so fast... morning becomes morning, then another... people turn from stone to styrofoam, the door, the floor, and the window blinds become as plain as a swishing of gravel on a country road. Somewhere the sun is also rising (Hemingway?)... and not settling on a busy urban road, a woman in a blue dress, light blue heels, jumping between two bikes into the centre lane. A woman rushing for a streetcar that has already gone by... a woman who doesn't know how close she has come to my cars' dark blue hood, its first scratch?

No idea what she was thinking, but for the second time in a week I've had someone run out in front of me forcing me to be quick with the brake... I spose it's good for both of them that I no longer drive like a teenager (did I ever?) and that I'm one of the better drivers on this planet, Malta and Poland included, lol!

That's it for today. Oh wait, almost forgot my great run workout... 6 x "the lake loop" (progressive, on varying rest, 2:05, 2:02, 2:00, 2:01, 1:58, 1:52 -- LAST ONE was a "race" with Rachael, I won, jk :) Bonsoir!

early riser... no reason for this, or any other title **he says, smirkingly**

Ha! For reasons of inexplicable affection, dreams of women in white dresses dancing on a sandy-brown arena floor, **Szia!!!** this morning amid humanity's austere reality, dark skies, floods, I've pushed away all sense of despondency... I've stepped into the black tuxedo. Does this mean happiness is an eager addition to the usual morning whirrs?

Hmmmmm.... truthfully, I'm trying to avoid the seasonal affectations that follow Labour Day? Why is there such a lack of energy here, then, now? It seems the same contemplations (regressions) rise like holiday gas prices every year at this time... you'd think I'd be shrewd enough to encourage a different feeling (feelings) *lowers his eyes briefly, but refuses to shrug the shoulders*, to sing a more ebuillent tune. And you'd think **rolling eyes severly** that the fragments of the past couldn't coalesce into a barrier that hinders light from the future, light, salience... Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, maybe I awoke too early this morning... before the end of that dream, the glorious sunrise.

* happy ending *

perhaps there's no way to deviate from lifes' normal conclusions.
nothing interesting has happened recently... a walk in the woods
is more peaceful than a television reporter repeating blurbs as stagnant
as water in New Orleans old town. what a mess this is?

what morbid aversions? I see the happy ending is only a vague myth
recounted with impractical myrth... how blissful the sides of a sandy hill
that lead to a clear unknowable lake, invisible rest... time to cease
this terminal post.

good weekend, **shrugs** (not really that bad of a mood?)